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Only You | Clark Kent / Superman x Best Friend ! Reader

Clark Kent / Superman x F! Best Friend ! Reader

Summary: After seeing Superman in action earlier that day, you’re still reeling, heart racing, thoughts spinning. You unload all your unhinged thoughts about Superman to your best friend, Clark Kent—how hot Superman is, the things you’d do if given the chance. You don’t hold back. What you don’t realize? You’re saying it all to the man himself. And what he doesn’t know? Your real feelings aren’t for Superman at all—they’re for Clark.

Word: 8281 

Warning: Suggestive Dialogue

Author's Note: I am a Marvel girie, but if the DC cinematic universe is gonna be like Superman, I will be SAT. Obessed with the Superman movie as of current and David Corenswet. (another man to add to my very long celeb crush list lol). I've seen it three times. The kitchen scene and the floating scene had lover girl me in SHAMBLES. The way clark smiles into the kisses...GAGGED. Anyway this fic is inspired by all the unhinged things you say about your celeb crush or fictional chracters to your besties but in reality you're all talk and selfaware that it will never ever happen in a million years. Enjoy - Ryn.

“It was amazing, Clark!” you gush, practically glowing as you pace across your living room, your hands animated with every word.

Clark Kent, your best friend, stands in your kitchen, stirring the pasta sauce on the stove. The spaghetti’s almost done—soon dinner for the both of you, but his eyes keep drifting your way, a small smile tugging at his lips. You’re practically bouncing with excitement as you tell him about seeing Superman today.

“That bus thing? Earlier today?” you continue breathlessly. “I was there. Like—literally right there.”

You’re too wrapped up in the memory to notice how Clark stills, shoulders tensing. The wooden spoon in his hand hovers mid-stir, suddenly forgotten.

He sets it down slowly, turning to face you with an unreadable expression. “You were there?” he asks, voice a little tighter than before.

“Yeah! I was heading to the bakery on Fifth for those stupid little croissants I like, and then suddenly people started screaming and running, and the city bus came tearing down the street with no brakes. I thought it was gonna crash straight into traffic.”

Clark nods absently, but something in his eyes flickers. “Right. I… I saw it on the news. It looked intense.”

“It was insane,” you say, wide-eyed, completely unaware of the way his jaw clenches, or the quiet dread beginning to twist in his chest.

“I was so close, Clark. Like… a few feet away. The wind knocked my hair back when Superman landed. And—okay, don’t laugh—but someone bumped into me in the chaos and I fell. Like, full-on hit the pavement. Scraped my hands and everything.”

He still goes. Not just physically, but something inside him freezes.

“You fell?” he repeats, his voice low, a little hoarse. “Are you okay?”

He leaves his spot at the stove and walks over to where you’re standing in his living room, 

“Yeah, just some scrapes, but nothing serious” you laugh, holding up your hands to show the faint red marks. 

He reaches out, gently taking your hands in his. His brows furrow with concern as he studies the faint red marks. Slowly, carefully, he runs his thumb over the scrapes, as if wanting to soothe away the pain.

You’d been there. In the middle of it. And he hadn’t known. He should have known.

He’s always been able to sense you, your heartbeat, the rhythm of your breath, the warmth of your presence. But today, in the rush and chaos of everything, he’d missed you. And if something had happened…

You finally catch the look on his face creased with concern, like he’s trying to keep it together but losing that battle by the second. You mistake it for Clark just being Clark, sweet, soft, a little overly protective.

But for him, it’s more than that. You were that close. And he didn’t even see you.

“Anyway it was a total mess. Got up just in time to see him stop the bus—with his bare hands. He was incredible.”

“Do you need anything? For these?” he asks softly, holding your hands palm-up gently in his.

“No, I’m okay,” you say, trying to sound casual, but your eyes meet his concerned gaze. He gently flips your hand over, and his thumbs begin tracing soft, slow circles over your knuckles—the way he always does when he holds your hand. It’s a small, quiet gesture. 

You don’t think he even realizes he does it.

But you do.

And you love it.

The gentle, steady touch lingers. It’s like a quiet reminder that he’s there—silent but present—and that makes you feel seen and safe.

“You sure?” His eyes search yours, not quite ready to let it go.

“Mhm. I promise.” You offer him a small smile.

He nods slowly, his worry easing just a bit. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He heads back toward the kitchen but glances over his shoulder. “That must have been scary.”

Yet you don’t seem shaken at all. “Everyone was okay thanks to Superman.” You pause for a beat, then shake your head slightly, almost in disbelief. “Honestly, I don’t think any photo or video could ever capture what it’s like to see him in person. Clark, he’s… just so handsome. Like, seriously—God.”

He clears his throat, trying to sound casual as he leans against the counter. “You really like the guy, huh?”

“He’s one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” you gush, flopping back dramatically onto your couch.

Clark chuckles. “Yeah, I guess he’s pretty good looking.”

You sit up quickly “You’ve gotta let me meet him!”

Clark turns, brow raised. “Meet him?”

“Yeah,” you say eagerly. “Introduce me to Superman! You’re friends, right? You’ve interviewed him, like, a dozen times for the Daily Planet!”

“You want me to introduce you… to Superman?” He goes to the stove, picking up the wooden spoon again, his eyes fixed on you with a sly, knowing look.

“Duh,” you grin. “Come on, Clark. You’ve got the hookup.”

He furrows his eyebrows “I can’t just call him up and be like, ‘Hey, my best friend has a big fat crush on you—mind flying by to say hi?’”

“But you could,” you shoot back, wiggling your eyebrows at him.

Clark sighs, stirring the sauce slowly. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“It’s a great idea!” you declare, springing up from the couch like you’ve just had a genius revelation. “You introduce me to Superman, we fall madly in love, and I’ll have you…my sweet, loyal best friend Clark Kent to thank.”

You stride into the kitchen, still riding the high of the idea, and hop up onto the counter top beside the stove like it’s your throne. 

He laughs under his breath, “Right. And what happens if he’s not into giddy humans with no filter and a flair for dramatics? What if this fantasy doesn’t pan out the way you plan and you don’t fall in love?”

“Wow. Way to crush dreams, Clark.” You say flatly 

“I’m not trying to crush anything,” he says, holding up his hands. “Just being realistic. He’s a superhero—saving the world twenty-four seven, dealing with nonstop chaos, and let’s be honest… probably swimming in attention from women.”

You perk up, eyes flashing. “I can fight.”

Clark blinks. “What?”

You nod, dead serious. “I said I can fight. If I have to throw hands with a few thirsty admirers to win Superman’s heart, so be it.”

He stares at you for a second, then snorts. “You’re unbelievable.” He laughs, shaking his head at your unexpected declaration. "You can fight? And what, you're going to fight all the other women after him? That's your strategy here?"

He's finding this whole situation more amusing by the second, watching your determination to win over Superman, clearly entertained by your boldness.

He leaves the stove, makes his way to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and leans back against the counter—his eyes never leaving you.

“I never said it was a smart plan.”

He snorts. “No kidding.”

You glance off with a shrug. “I mean, the guy had a whole secret harem situation going on. I’d settle for a spot in the rotation.”

Clark chokes on his water, coughing violently as his eyes go wide.

“W-what?!” he gasps, clutching his chest like the words physically hit him.

“If I had one night with him…let’s just say I’d climb him like a tree” You just laugh, swinging your legs casually from the counter.

Clark’s still coughing, eyes watering now as he points an accusatory finger at you. “You—You can’t just say things like that!” he says between fits of coughing, voice hoarse.

His face is bright red, and you laugh even harder, thinking it’s from nearly dying on water.

But it’s not. It’s from you. From the words you just said. From the image he can’t now un-hear.

And from the fact that you have no idea the man you join a harem for… want to climb like a tree…is him.

You tilt your head innocently. “Why not? It’s true.”

“That’s not the point!” he wheezes, finally managing to catch his breath. 

“You—you’re insane.” He just blinks at you. “Are you absolutely out of your mind?! You know the secret harem wasn’t real!”

He knows you never believed in that nonsense. Back when the conspiracy started swirling—wild headlines, paranoia, accusations—you were the one rolling your eyes, defending Superman when most people didn’t. Yet here you are, joking like it was his true plan.

You roll your eyes playfully as you hop off the counter and move to stand in front of the stove.

“Of course I know that,” you say, grabbing the spoon and giving the pasta sauce a stir. “I never believed he was out there saving the world just to build some secret harem. That’s ridiculous.”

You taste the sauce, tilting your head thoughtfully. It needs something. You reach for the spice rack, adding a pinch of salt and a shake of oregano before stirring again.

“But I’m just saying—” you glance over your shoulder at Clark, your tone light but far too confident, “if he did start one…”

You let it hang, smug as ever, like your logic is completely sound.

Clark rubs a hand over his face and lets out a long sigh. “You need help.” 

“I need Superman,” you quip.

“No. No you don't!" He shakes his head, firm. His water hits the counter with a soft thud as he moves past you, opening the bottom cabinet and pulling out a colander.

He sets it in the sink, then turns off part of the stove before carefully dumping the steaming pot of pasta into the colander.

You shrug, giving the sauce one last stir as you lower the heat. “I’m just saying, I’d bring value.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, wiping his hands on a dish towel as you reach up to grab two bowls from the cabinet. Then you pull two forks and the ladle from the drawer, still grinning like you’re perfectly serious.

He groans. “You definitely hit your head when you fell. Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He takes two bowls from your hands, shaking his head. “You’re seriously saying you’d be okay with sharing him? Even with his other… admirers? You’d be fine just lining up with the rest of them?”

He fills the bowls with spaghetti pasta from the colander. You take the bowls back from him and ladle sauce on top, keeping your expression completely straight. Then, you stick a fork into each bowl before handing one back to him.

You sigh dramatically, “Okay, I’d want him to myself. But if it comes down to it, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Clark shakes his head, watching you with open amusement. You stand there, completely unashamed of your desires, and he laughs—soft, disbelieving—as his eyes widen. You’re wild, almost feral, and it throws him off.

And you still have no idea you’re saying all of this to Superman.

The two of you sit at his island table, pulling out the stools and settling in next to each other. You angle your stool slightly toward him as you eat together.

“You’re incredibly upfront about all this,” he says as he moves pasta around in his bowl. “Most people would be a little more… discreet about their crushes. But not you. You just throw all your cards on the table.”

You twirl your fork, unfazed, then take a bite like this is just another normal dinner.

But for Clark, it isn’t just a casual conversation. It’s brutal. Because you don’t see him. You don’t see what’s right in front of you.

You talk about Superman all the time with Clark. Grinning when his name came up, sighing dramatically after watching a news clip, tossing out little compliments like confetti. “He’s just so… strong,” you’d murmur absently, eyes lingering on the front page of the Daily Planet. Or, “Okay, but did you see his jawline in that interview?” you’d tease, nudging Clark like it was nothing.

Casual. Harmless. Just a silly little crush.

At least, that’s what Clark kept telling himself.

Because even if it was only in passing, even if you didn’t mean anything by it… he remembered every word. Every offhand compliment, every breathless sigh. He remembered how your eyes sparkled when you said, “Honestly? He’s kind of dreamy.”

Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Nothing he should let bother him.

But he loves you.

And he’s jealous.

Jealous of himself—of Superman.

Which is ridiculous. He knows that. It’s him. You’re talking about him.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

You’re not looking at Clark.

Clark is the guy who knows how you take your coffee, who listens when you ramble, who laughs at your awful impressions and lends you his hoodie when you’re cold. He’s awkward, nerdy, a farmer boy from Kansas.

But that quiet, everyday version of him isn’t the one who leaves you dazed, clutching a pillow like your heart might fall out of your chest. He’s not the one you talk about with that dreamy, far-off look.

And still, Clark wants to believe that version of him matters. That he matters.

Not the cape. Not the spectacle. Just the man standing in front of you. Awkward, ordinary, and hopelessly in love.

Clark just nods, offering a quiet hum. Because what else can he do?

Take off the glasses? Tell you the truth? It’s me. I’m the one you’re talking about.

No.

No matter how close he sits, no matter how much he listens, he’s just your best friend and nothing more. 

So he bites his tongue and lets you believe in the fantasy because at least that version of him makes you light up.

“You know, most people keep their delusional crush rants to themselves—or better yet, take them to the grave,” he says lightly, twirling a forkful of spaghetti before taking a bite. “But sure—why not unload them on your best friend instead? Totally normal.”

You smile, shrugging “That’s what best friends are for. I know I can tell you anything. Even the stupid stuff, especially the stupid stuff. You’ve never judged me. You just listen. You make it easy.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “And come on, I’m joking about all the Superman stuff… mostly.”

“You know,” Clark says, shooting you a look over the rim of his glasses, “if you’re gonna meet Superman, you should probably dial it down a bit…more like a lot. I’m scared for him If I’m being honest…”

You gasp dramatically, setting your fork down with a clatter. “Wait—are you serious? You’re going to introduce me?!”

Clark laughs, the sound low and warm in his chest. He leans back against the stool’s backrest. “I didn’t say that—I’m not making any promises. I can see what I can do, but he’s busy and—oof!”

You launch yourself at him with a triumphant squeal, arms flung around his neck in an excited hug that makes him rock back slightly on the stool.

“Hey—whoa—easy!” he laughs, instinctively catching you with strong arms, one hand splayed across your back to keep you from falling. 

“Thanks Clark” you pull aways from him.

His curls are messy on his forehead, his glasses crooked as he pushes them up the bridge of his nose. His dimples peek out, softening his expression in a way that makes your heart skip.

Clark swallows hard.

But he only smiles faintly and says, “Yeah, well… don’t get your hopes up.”

And if Superman is what you wanted…Then Superman is what you'd get.

—-

Dinner was done. The plates were scraped, the leftover spaghetti put away, and the lingering heat from the oven still warmed the kitchen.

You stood at the sink with your hands in soapy water, absentmindedly scrubbing a plate as the last threads of conversation faded into a comfortable quiet. The topic of Superman had come and gone.

From the living room came the soft shuffle of records as Clark thumbed through your vinyl collection, sleeves sliding against each other in a quiet, steady rhythm. 

“How about The Mighty Crab Joyssss!” he called, dragging out the name dramatically. He held their record up to show you. 

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head fondly. “The Mighty Crab Joys at this hour?” 

“Oh, come on,” he called back, clearly grinning.

 “It’s late. Punk Rock is not the vibe of the night”

He groaned dramatically. “Blasphemy. They’re always the vibe.” 

He examined the sleeve, flipping it over to read the track list. “I didn’t know you had this,” he said, chuckling. “You hate The Mighty Crab Joys.”

You shrugged, feigning indifference. “It was in the clearance bin.”

But the truth was, you bought it because Clark loves them. Not because you suddenly appreciated screechy vocals, but because they mattered to him. And maybe, in some quiet way, owning that record felt like holding a small piece of him, too.

He tilted his head, still looking down at the record like he was trying to figure something out. “Clearance bin, huh?”

You nodded.

Clark didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he gave a small smile and gently slid the record back into the pile

Clark was crouched by the shelves, glasses slipping a little down his nose, a flannel shirt bunching at the elbows. There was a curl falling against his forehead, loose and soft, and he kept brushing it away with the back of his wrist. He was humming under his breath now, something tuneless and happy.

You leaned against the counter for a second, dish towel hanging limp in your hands as you watch him.

Clark was real. Tangible. Messy and warm and familiar. He was late-night talks and quiet support. He remembered the little things. He laughed at your dumb jokes. He made you feel like you mattered—even on the days you didn’t feel like much.

And somewhere along the way, you fell for him. Not in a loud, dramatic way—but deeply. Completely. The kind of love that crept in slowly and stayed.

He doesn’t know. You never told him.

You had no idea the man you loved and the metahuman you couldn’t stop fangirling over were the same person. 

You were fascinated by Superman. Of course you were. He was extraordinary. But no part of you ever confused admiration with love.

That belonged to Clark. It always had. And it always would.

And then came the music.

Slow. Dreamy. Romantic.

I Only Have Eyes for You.

Clark didn’t look at you. He just stood there, arms crossed loosely, watching the record spin.

It was one of your favorite songs. 

And something about hearing it now here, with him made your chest ache a little.

The room was quiet, except for the soft crackle of the vinyl and the crooning harmonies floating through the air. You waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.

You stepped away from the counter, drying your hands on the dish towel as the music played on, low and dreamy.

“Dance with me?”

You crossed into the living room, eyes on him.

Clark blinked, caught mid-step. “What? I—don’t know how to dance.”

You gave him a look. “Lucky for you, I do.”

He laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, but he didn’t argue. When you held out your hand, he took it.

At first, it was all fumbles and stumbles. He stepped on your toes almost immediately.

“Ow,” you said, grinning.

“Sorry! That was—okay, that was bad.”

You giggled and nudged him. “You’re fine. Just… loosen up.”

He tried. You guided him through a few awkward steps, then spun away with a dramatic flair, only to twirl right back into his arms. You both laughed—loud and unfiltered—as he caught you with both hands, steadying you.

“You’re showing off,” he teased.

“Maybe a little.”

The two of you kept it up for a bit spinning, laughing, bumping into furniture and each other, Without really thinking, your movements softened. The space between you disappeared.

His hands shifted at your waist. Yours slid naturally up to his shoulders. The two of you, swaying, content in the soft glow of the living room lamp, the Flamingos crooning dreamily in the background.

You let yourself drift a little closer, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, calm and grounding. Familiar.

He didn’t say anything, just held you a little tighter, like maybe he didn’t want the song to end either. His thumb traced slow, steady circles over your knuckles.

You closed your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

His chin dipped slightly, resting against the top of your head. You could feel the warmth of his breath in your hair, the soft rise and fall of his chest with each inhale. Neither of you moved to speak. The moment felt too fragile for words, too perfect to break.

You are here and so am I. Maybe millions of people go by, but they all disappear from view and I only have eyes….—he dipped you low, holding you effortlessly— …for you.

He pulled you up slowly, close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

For a second, just one, you thought he was going to kiss you.

His gaze flicked to your lips.

Yours to his.

But then he blinked, pulling back just enough to break the spell. His hand slid from your waist, suddenly hesitant.

The record crackled softly, the needle reaching the edge with a gentle hiss. But neither of you moved. Neither of you let go.

Your breath mingled with his. The silence between you was thick with everything unspoken.

“I should probably head home,” he said quickly, the words breaking the moment like a snapped thread.

“You could crash here… it’s late, and walking alone isn’t great.”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got some editing to do… and an important interview tomorrow.”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Right. Okay.”

He grabbed his bag and headed for the door, you close behind.

Before stepping outside, he paused and looked back with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I’ll see what I can do about Superman.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “It’s fine, Clark. It was all talk.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling with something unspoken. “Well, you never know.”

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, caught between goodbye and something else, something neither of you quite named.

The night air drifted in as the faint hum of the city settled around you.

Finally, he gave a small shake of his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Clark.”

The door closed softly behind him, but the warmth of the moment stayed with you long after.

—-

It’s Saturday afternoon in Metropolis, the sun dipping low behind the skyline and casting long golden shadows across the pavement. The usual foot traffic has thinned, the streets quieter now. 

You haven’t heard from Clark in a couple days.

Not that it’s unusual, exactly. He gets busy. Deadlines, interviews, chasing leads. You know how it is.

Still… you notice the silence. The space he usually fills without even trying.

You were a mess. Struggling to carry multiple heavy brown grocery bags, your purse slipping off your shoulder with every other step, trying desperately to balance it all as you made your way home.

And then, of course, one of the bags split.

A can hit the pavement clattering loudly as it rolls down the sidewalk. You groaned, dropping to your knees as the rest of the groceries spilled out onto the ground.

Perfect. Just perfect.

You groan and set everything down, dropping to your knees as you start gathering the fallen groceries, trying to shove them into the remaining bags before anything else rolls away.

“Here, let me give you a hand—”

“Thank you! The brown grocery bags are so paper thin these days, I swea—” You look up mid-sentence, and the words die in your throat.

Standing in front of you is him. The iconic red and blue suit. The unmistakable “S” on his chest. His cape shifts gently behind him, catching the breeze from somewhere you can’t even feel.

You freeze, staring, mouth slightly open. Completely stunned.

Superman.

He kneels down in front of you, as casual as if this were the most normal thing in the world, and begins helping you pick up your scattered groceries.

 You're just still kneeling, still holding a can in your hand like you’ve forgotten how basic motor function works. Speechless. Starstruck.

He rises to his full height as he extends his hand to you.

You stare at it for a second—his hand, steady and open, waiting. You take his hand in yours. His touch feels almost…familiar. 

He helps you up gently, his grip firm but careful, He towers over you, easily 6’4”, broad and solid in a way that makes the world feel smaller around him. He gives you a small, gentle smile one that reaches his eyes and those familiar dimples appear. 

Get it together. Say something.

Realizing you’ve been staring at him in stunned silence, you suddenly become aware that you’ve let go of his hand. Clutching the can tightly against your chest as if it holds the secrets of the universe, you clear your throat awkwardly.

Clark had never seen you this quiet before. You were usually talking his ear off—jokes, questions, wild theories—your thoughts spilling out faster than you could catch them, always filling the space between you. He’d honestly braced himself for a tidal wave of chatter the moment you met Superman.

But instead, nothing. You froze.

Not a word. Not a sound.

It wasn’t like you. And that silence? It threw him off more than anything else.

“Hello.” He greets

“H-hi” you stammer. 

He lifts a brow. “Do you need help carrying those?”

“S-sure,” you manage, nodding.

Without hesitation, he steps forward and crouches down, scooping up the three heavy grocery bags in one arm like they weigh nothing.

Then, gently, he takes the can from your hand, places it into one of the bags, and reaches for your purse. He holds it out to you.

You take it, clutching it to your chest—tight, like you did with the can earlier. As if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Your breaths come a little quicker, each one shallow and unsteady as the world blurs at the edges.

“Where are you headed?” he asks softly, his voice breaking through the fog.

“Home,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Lead the way,” he replies with a small smile, eyes warm and patient.

But you just stand there, rooted to the spot, staring.

“Miss, are you okay?” His brow furrows in concern, voice gentle but insistent.

“Y-Yeah. Yes. I’m fine, just…” You cut yourself off, turning away before your voice cracks. “Follow me.”

You move past him quickly, shoulders tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze refusing to look at him.

You knew Superman was kind. Gentle, even. But right now, with him standing so close. You were nervous, intimidated. 

Clark found it kind of funny, in a quiet, bittersweet way. Just a few nights ago, you were talking big, bold declarations about what you’d do if you ever met Superman.

And now? Here you were. With Superman.

You’d clam up. 

Silent. Stiff. Not meeting his eyes.

He didn’t laugh. Not really. But the irony wasn’t lost on him.

“What’s your name?” He walks beside you, the groceries balanced effortlessly in his strong arms. The quiet rhythm of your footsteps fills the space between you both.

You hesitate, then answer quietly. 

“Do you happen to be friends with Clark Kent? The reporter from the Daily Planet?”

“Y-Yes,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s my best friend.”

Superman’s face lights up with recognition. “Ah! That’s why your name sounded so familiar. I know Clark, he’s interviewed me a few times. Actually…” He tilts his head, thoughtful. “You came up in our conversation the other day. When he was interviewing me.”

Your heart skips a beat. He talked about me? A thrill shoots through you—followed by cold horror.

Wait… did Clark tell him? All the ridiculous things you said—how you’d “climb Superman like a tree,” or how you’d “join his harem”? No. No, Clark wouldn’t. He was your best friend. He’d never actually repeat the unhinged stuff you said when you were messing around… right?

You swallow hard. “He… he talked about me?” Trying to mask your panic, you force a shaky laugh. “So… what did he say?”

Superman nods with a small smile. “Yeah. He said you were smart, kind… ”

He watches you for a moment, like he’s trying not to laugh. “That you’re... expressive. Talkative.” He says it like it’s a compliment, but the glint in his eye makes you feel like you’ve just been caught with your hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.

Your face burns. Expressive? That’s definitely code for unhinged. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands.

You try to play it cool, but your voice comes out thin. “So… that’s all he said?”

Superman shrugs casually. “Pretty much. Oh and that you talk a lot about me, apparently.”

You wince. “Oh no…”

He chuckles. “Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad thing. It was kind of flattering. Mostly

Mostly? Your stomach lurches.

You stare at him. “He didn’t, like… quote me, did he?”

Superman’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Not directly. Clark might’ve paraphrased. Something about you having very… passionate thoughts”

You make a noise. Somewhere between a gasp and a dying animal, and bury your face in your hand as your other arm still crutches the purse. 

“Please tell me he didn’t say what those thoughts were,” you groan, voice muffled.

Superman doesn’t answer right away. You peek out warily to find him grinning, arms crossed, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“He might’ve… hinted,” he says, dragging out the words like he’s savoring them.

“Honestly, I think he was just trying to give me a heads-up.”

You look at him, horrified. “A heads-up?”

He nods, straight-faced. “In case you tried to climb me like a tree.”

You let out a strangled noise and spin halfway around like you might actually walk away—just bolt and never look back.

“I was joking!” you blurt out, hands flailing slightly in the air. “It was a joke! I swear I’m not—” You cut yourself off before you say unhinged, because honestly, that might not help your case.

You groan and press your purse to your face. “Oh my god.”

There is a long pause. You can feel him watching you, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d laughed out loud.

“I mean,” he says slowly, “Clark did say you had a good sense of humor.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “I’m going to kill him.”

He chuckles. “Don’t be too hard on him. He just thought we’d get along.”

You squint at him. “Was that before or after he relayed my…passionate thoughts?”

He pretends to consider it. “Hard to say. Time’s a blur when someone’s calling you ‘a national threat to self-control.’”

Your eyes widen in horror. “He did not.”

Superman lifts his hands, palms out. “Okay, maybe I embellished that part.”

You stare at him, unsure if you want to disappear… or punch him gently in the arm. 

“Look I admire you–”

“Admire me yet you say those kinds of things?”

You blink, caught off guard by his smirk. “Well, yeah, but—”

He holds up a hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “No need to explain. I’m just saying, you’ve got an... interesting way of showing it.”

Your cheeks heat up, and you shuffle your feet like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I wasn’t planning to actually climb you. That was just—”

“Imaginary tree climbing,” he finishes for you, grinning wider.

You clear your throat. “Exactly. Totally hypothetical.”

“Look, I just have a crush on you okay?” You were gonna regret this but you had to get yourself out of this hole. 

“I wasn’t expecting Clark to tell you things…but I don’t mean them, maybe a tiny part of me, but mainly it's just me joking around. Like I know we’re not gonna happen you know, the whole world loves you. I’m not the only one that does” 

“And besides… I’m in love with—”

You stop, the name just a breath away. Your chest tightens.

Saying it to Superman?

You hesitate. He’s carrying the weight of the world—he doesn’t need to hear about your feelings, especially not for someone sorta he knows. Someone he most likely will talk to again. What if he says something? What if Clark finds out and things get… weird?

You exhale softly, a small laugh slipping out as you shake your head.

“Never mind. It’s just… complicated.”

Beside you, Superman tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to you with something.

“…With who?” he asks quietly.

You stop just outside the lobby doors of your apartment building , meeting his gaze with steady eyes.

“This is me.”

“Let me walk these up to your apartment—” he gestures to the groceries in his arms, still perfectly balanced despite the awkward bags.

“Oh, no, that’s okay. You really don’t— I’m sure you have better things to do—”

“No, I insist,” he says, brushing past you with that signature confidence, like helping you is the most important thing on his list today. He pulls the door open for you with ease.

As soon as you step inside, heads turn.

People stop mid-conversation. A few gasps. Someone drops their iced coffee. Phones come out in an instant—screens lighting up as they catch sight of Superman, casually walking beside you with grocery bags in hand like this is something he does every Saturday.

Inside, you press the button for floor 5.

Clark steps in beside you, but his mind is somewhere else entirely.

Trapped in this confined space with you, he can’t stop turning it over in his head—trying to figure out who it could be.

Someone you’re in love with.

The two of you walk the short hallway to your apartment, the soft thud of your footsteps the only sound between you. He helps you carry the bags inside, setting them gently on the kitchen counter. 

The two of you drift back toward the front door.

You stand in the doorway, fingers curled loosely around the edge of the frame.

“Thank you for the help, Superman,” you say, voice a little steadier now.

He gives you a small smile, warm and genuine. “Yeah, it’s no problem. It was nice meeting you.”

He reaches out and takes your hand in his to shake.

As his palm closes around yours, his thumb begins to rub slow, light circles over your knuckles an unconscious habit only one person you know has. The touch is familiar. Comforting. It makes your breath hitch before you can stop it.

It grounds you. Like a tether in a storm. Like home.

You glance up, heart skipping a beat as his eyes meet yours—steady, kind, and impossibly familiar.

The world tilts. Just slightly.

You stare at him, and suddenly, you realize: this isn’t the first time you’ve stood face to face with Superman.

You’ve seen that face a thousand times. But never like this.

No glasses. And his usually unruly curls are tamed—slicked back, styled to perfection, with a single curl falling artfully across his forehead.

You don’t see the suit or the legend.

You see Clark Kent staring back at you.

And in an instant, everything clicks into place.

Clark.

Your Clark. 

Your chest tightens, recognition blooming deep and sudden like a spark catching flame.

He smiles, soft, easy, unaware, while inside you, everything shifts.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

It’s really him.

“Have a good night,” he says gently.

And before you can speak, before you can ask, before you can say Clark, he turns, and he’s gone—disappearing down the hallway. 

—-

Clark was Superman.

Superman was Clark.

The realization crashes over you like a wave, cold, dizzying, unstoppable.

The man you’re hopelessly in love with, your sweet, nerdy farm boy from Kansas is the same superhero you’ve shamelessly, repeatedly, said absolutely unhinged things about. Loudly. Passionately. With absolutely no idea he was standing right there. 

You feel a whirlwind of emotions, embarrassment, anger, happiness, confusion. All tangled together, twisting inside you like a storm.

And to make it worse… he just teased you, as Superman, about all the wild things you said.

That mischievous glint in his eyes, that quiet laugh—you realize he’s been holding back, playing with you, knowing every word you ever blurted out about him.

Your cheeks burn hotter than ever.

You want to crawl into a hole. 

Without thinking twice, you drop everything and rush toward Clark’s apartment, not bothering to call first. Your heart pounds too loudly for any caution.

Is he even going to be there?

Did some emergency come up after helping with your groceries?

Questions flood your mind, but none of it slows your feet. You just have to see him. Right now.

You race across the city, your breath quick and uneven, heart hammering against your ribs like a desperate drum.

When you reach Clark’s door, you pound on it like your life depends on it fast, loud, relentless. Each knock echoes down the quiet hallway, sharp and demanding, fueled by a whirlwind of emotions you can barely contain.

The door swung open with a startled creak.

Clark stood there, no longer in the suit. His damp curls clung to his forehead, glasses perched on his nose, dressed in a plain white shirt and worn sweats.

“Hey—” he began, voice soft and cautious, but you didn’t give him the chance to finish.

“Are you kidding me?!” you exploded, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and barreling into him with zero hesitation.

Clark stumbled backward, off-balance, nearly tripping over the threshold as you stormed into his apartment hot on his heels. His socks slid slightly on the hardwood as he tried to catch himself.

“Whoa—what the—ow! Stop hitting me!” he yelped, arms flailing as you started smacking his shoulder, then his chest, each blow a punctuation mark to your fury.

“You let me say that?!” you shouted, eyes blazing.

He twisted away from your reach, arms flying up like he was under attack—which, technically, he was.

“What did I do?! What are you even talking about?!” he yelped, already backpedaling into the living room, knocking into a lamp as he went. It wobbled dangerously before righting itself.

“You know exactly what!” you snapped, cutting around the couch as he scrambled the other way.

It was like a ridiculous, high-stakes game of tag as you chased him around, fury giving your movements speed and purpose while he tried to keep the furniture between you. Clark ducked, dodged, and pivoted like his life depended on it—because in that moment, it kind of did.

“What is even happening?!—Ouch! Will you stop that?” he yelped again as you hurled a throw pillow at him. It caught him square in the chest before bouncing to the floor.

“You knew!” you shouted, relentless now, charging around the couch. “You let me say all that stuff about Superman! How gorgeous I think he is! Fighting other women for him! Joining the harem! Climbing him like a damn tree!”

Clark froze mid-step, blinking rapidly, his back nearly pressed to the far wall of the room. His cheeks went bright pink, jaw slack with shock. 

“And you just stood there!” you jabbed your finger into his chest, each word sharper than the last. He winced but didn’t move, pinned in place by your fury. “You let me say all that stuff about you! And you have the audacity to tease me like 20 minutes ago—as Superman—about the things I said about you?”

“Me?!” he echoed, scandalized, pointing a frantic finger at himself like you had to be mistaken. “You were talking about Superman!”

“Quit the act, Clark!” 

“You can’t possibly think I’m—”

“Think?!” you screeched, cutting him off. Arms flung high in disbelief, you stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Clark, I know!”

He froze completely.

No breath. No movement. Not even a blink. Like someone had hit pause on him.

“Superman rubbed my knuckles when he held my hand,” you say, voice trembling with emotion, the words tumbling out before you can second-guess them. “The only person I know who does that… is you.”

He did do that. Without thinking. A quiet, comforting gesture—muscle memory. A force of habit. His habit. 

You take a slow step forward. Then another.

He doesn’t move.

Your hands lift toward his face, hesitating just inches away. You reach for his glasses.

He catches your wrists gently, fingers wrapping around them, stopping you.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The air between you is too still. Too heavy.

But you don’t back down.

You look him in the eye and slowly, deliberately, you pull your hands free.

Then, with trembling fingers, you remove his glasses.

And just like that, there’s no hiding left.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whisper, handing his glasses back as your eyes search his face. His eyes.

The same eyes you’ve trusted for years.

“You just… let me humiliate and embarrass myself, saying all those godly unhinged things, when it was you the whole entire time,” you say, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

Mortification floods through you. You groan and cover your face with your hands, burying it against his chest.

He’s still Superman. Broad. Solid. Steady.

But he’s also Clark. Your best friend.

And you’d said so much. All those late-night confessions, the dramatic rants, the dreamy what-ifs.

Superman was your best friend.

And you hadn’t even known.

“Why did you tease me while you were Superman?” you ask, voice trembling.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “I’m not gonna lie—it was kind of funny. Some of the things you said… well, they were ridiculous. I just wanted to see what would happen if you knew that Superman knew.”

“Clark,” you mumble, your face pressed lightly against his chest, the warmth of him somehow both infuriating and comforting. “Do you know how humiliating this whole thing is?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he says, his tone softening instantly.

His hands move to your arms and shoulders, rubbing in slow, soothing strokes. There’s intention in every pass—steady, careful, familiar. He’s trying to calm you. 

“Hey…” he says softly, eyes searching yours, voice thick with something that sounds a lot like regret. “I didn’t mean to lie. I just…”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re Superman?” you ask, voice barely steady, every word pulled from the tangle of emotion tightening in your chest. “Do… Do you not trust me?”

You finally look at him since everything shifted. Your eyes meet his, searching, aching. You’re still embarrassed, cheeks flushed with the memory of every ridiculous, unfiltered thing you ever said about Superman—right in front of Clark.

But the question weighs heavier than your pride.

Because beneath the shock and the awkwardness, what hurts most… is the thought that he didn’t trust you.

His eyes widened. “No, gosh no. It’s not that. Of course I trust you. It’s just… There were a lot of reasons. Factors I had to consider.”

You shake your head, not buying it. “That doesn’t really explain why you never told me.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking very human. I'm very tired.

“Okay. For starters… the main reason is to keep you safe,” he says. “If I told you who I was, and someone found out, they could use you against me. That risk—it’s not something I could ever take lightly.”

His voice softens. “I can’t have you getting hurt because of me. And now that you do know… I’m going to be even more worried than I already was.”

“There’s something else,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

You look at him. He’s hesitant. You’re waiting.

“I was jealous of him,” he admits. “Of Superman.”

Your brows knit. “Jealous? But… that’s you. Why would you be jealous of yourself?”

 he says softly. “But he had your attention. Not me.”

He swallows hard, his voice rough with vulnerability. “You just—you light up when you talk about him. Stars in your eyes. Like he’s everything. And I know that sounds stupid, I know he’s me, but…” He trails off, shaking his head. “You love the idea of Superman. And I guess I thought if I told you the truth… you wouldn’t feel the same about me.”

“I love you, but you love him,” Clark says, his voice barely holding together. “I felt like I wouldn’t be enough. That Clark Kent wouldn’t be enough. I didn’t think I was enough without the cape. But now… you—you’re... you said you're in love with some other guy?” His voice cracked, gutted, every word heavy with disbelief. Hearing that you, say to Superman, were in love with someone else felt like a punch to the chest.

“You… love me?” you ask, a little breathless, a little swoony. Your voice lifts with quiet wonder, like you’re scared to break the moment.

Clark blinks, startled by your reaction. His mouth opens, then closes again, like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but it was already too late to take back.

“Yeah,” he breathes, finally. “I do.”

Slowly, you reach up and take his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the edge of his jaw.

His eyes search yours, still wide, still uncertain like he’s afraid to believe you might really mean it.

“Clark,” you whisper, “I don’t love Superman… I mean, obviously I do—I know that’s you now. But that’s a crush. I admired him.”

His eyes stay fixed on yours, wide and uncertain, like he’s still not sure he deserves this.

“But the one who has my whole heart—completely, utterly, forever—that’s you, Clark Kent. You’re the guy I’m in love with. You’re the guy I briefly mentioned to Superman,” you continue, voice steady and sure.

“Me?” His eyes widen, disbelief and awe mingling.

“Yes,” you giggle softly. “You and only you… I’ve always seen you. And you’ve always been enough.

He just stares at you for a beat, stunned, overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know how to hold all that love in his hands.

“You don’t have to fly or wear a cape for me to love you,” you say, your voice low but certain. “I don’t love you because you save the world. I love you because of who you are when no one’s looking.”

His brow furrows slightly, like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how.

“I love how kind you are, how thoughtful. You’re so humble, Clark. And yeah, you’re a total nerd,” you add with a fond little laugh, “but in the best way.”

He huffs a quiet breath, eyes softening, and you keep going because it’s all true and he needs to hear it.

“You care so much too much sometimes. And it’s not the powers that make you special. It’s you.”

You let your hands slide from his cheeks to his chest, anchoring there.

“You let me yap your ear off and rant about the most ridiculous things without ever making me feel small,” you chuckle. 

 “Half the time, you probably don’t even know what I’m talking about, but you still listen. You make me feel like what I say matters. Like I matter. You notice the little things about me—the way I tuck my hair behind my ear when I’m nervous, the dumb way I hum when I think no one’s listening, the silly jokes I make that no one else gets.”

You pause, brushing your thumbs lightly over the warmth of his chest. “That’s who I fell in love with. Not Superman. Not anyone else. Just… you.”

​​Clark gives you a shy smile, his dimples deepening in a way that makes your heart flutter. His eyes, soft and hopeful, hold a quiet warmth that draws you in. Without thinking, your hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. Slowly, his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you gently closer.

​​“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, full of hope and vulnerability.

You nod, breath catching in your throat as he leans in. His lips meet yours in a tender, gentle kiss that sends a rush of warmth flooding through you. You smile softly against his mouth, then can’t help but let out a small, light laugh.

He pulls back slightly, his brow furrowing in curiosity. “What? Why are you laughing?”

You grin, your eyes sparkling with playful mischief. “I’m lucky… getting two for the price of one.”

Clark’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, but his smile only widens, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “Two for the price of one?” he repeats, amusement threading through his tone.

You smirk, your fingers tracing small, lazy circles on his back as you savor the closeness. “Yeah, you, Clark and Superman. It’s like having the best of both worlds.”

His smile softens, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip. “The whole world and I love Superman,” you say quietly, voice low and certain, “but you Clark Kent, you are mine and mine only.”

[boqvistsbabe]

EXCLUSiVE.

𝒮 YNOPS𝑖S,ㅤㅤclark kent has a talent for getting exclusive interviews.

❪ 𝗦𝗨𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗡 ❫ ᡴꪫ clark kent & wayne!reader 4,3k fluff    ｡    cw. not-proofread.

The Wayne family was hard to miss.

This was not only due to the sensationalist newspaper headlines about the family, but also because of their wealth and influence, which had been built up over generations. And of course, because of their tragedies too.

Even so, despite your fame because of your surname, you, Bruce Wayne's younger sister, certainly weren't one for being in the spotlight. You only appeared in public at Wayne Enterprises meetings and charity gala balls. In fact, you were even more reclusive than your brother.

But Bruce had his reasons. Every night, he would leave the mansion in his vigilante costume to fight crime and try to make Gotham a safer place. Your motives weren't as heroic as your brother's, though. The truth is that you always felt uncomfortable in the public eye, and you actually preferred your solitude. There was something about being alone and not having to perform for others all the time. It was peaceful. So you made sure that you didn't have to leave your comfort zone by focusing on your work at Wayne Enterprises and your hobbies far away from the spotlight.

And life is not a bed of roses. And unfortunately, you couldn't always escape the spotlight.

“Thank you for coming with me today,” said Bruce, who was sitting next to you in the back seat of the car. “I know you're not usually interested in events like this.”

Saying that you weren't interested was the mildest thing that could be said about your view of events like that. If it was a charity gala, for example, you'd have no problem going — after all, it was an event with a purpose, and a good purpose. But a millionaire's birthday party where you didn't even know what his face looked like? Those were events you didn't even make an effort to attend.

The problem was that Bruce had practically begged you to go with him, and as usual, you couldn't bring yourself to say no to your brother. After all, he was already having a hard time as a masked vigilante. You couldn't let him almost die of boredom at that boring event.

Not to mention that you didn't travel often. Much as you liked staying at the mansion, Gotham sometimes seemed to suffocate you, and escaping was the best option.

Metropolis always caught your eye. Not because of the alien attacks or Superman (the symbol of peace and hope) but because, despite the chaos, it seemed like a calm place where you could walk the streets without cameras pointing in your direction and recording your every move. In a sense, it was liberating.

Also because, deep down, you wanted to spend more time with your brother without talking about the company or his Batman business.

“It's all right. As Alfie says, sometimes I need to go out and see the sunlight.”

“It's good to see you out of the house.”

“Just don't get used to it,” you said, giving a sideways smile that made Bruce laugh.

It didn't take long to arrive at the party venue. As soon as the driver parked in front of the entrance, you and Bruce were met by a sea of flashlights. There were photographers and onlookers everywhere, and you soon realised that not all of them were there on business. You noticed a few fan signs indicating that the birthday boy had invited a lot of famous people.

The hall was decorated in white and gold with a minimalist aesthetic, which felt very predictable. There was also a huge screen showing various photos of the birthday boy — he certainly had a lot of self-love!

You and Bruce greeted the birthday boy, who you discovered was called Robert. It didn't take long for others to greet him too, which gave you and your brother the cue to wander around the room. There were people you knew, as well as people you had never seen before. Some greeted your brother and walked straight past you, for which you were grateful, while others noticed your presence and recognised you. Some even mistook you for Bruce's girlfriend, which made the atmosphere unpleasant when your brother had to explain that you were actually siblings.

You were sitting next to Bruce in a conversation circle, but the subject was work — just what you didn't want to talk about at that moment. You remained silent, only speaking when addressed. But your mind was elsewhere. You wondered whether it was too early to leave, what would be served at the buffet and how much better it would be to be in your hotel room, watching the city. There were so many things you'd rather be doing than being there.

When the presence of the people around you became unbearable, you left Bruce's side without saying a word, looking for some fresh air. You didn't need to warn your brother to where you were going, after all. He knew you well enough to know where you might be (not to mention he was a great detective).

After wandering around for a while, you noticed a small garden at the back. In the centre was a round, two-storey fountain with water gushing out of the top. It was surrounded by a circular area of well-kept grass and gray bricks. There were wooden benches and peony bushes surrounding it as well.

You were so focused on the flowers that you barely realised there was anyone else in the garden. It was only when your body collided with a stranger's that you came back to reality.

“Forgive me,” you said. “I was distracted.”

“It's OK.” He smiled awkwardly and adjusted his suit, which was slightly too big for him. “I wasn't paying attention either.”

“Are you a journalist?” you asked, noticing the man's ID badge around his neck. There was a photo of him smiling, along with the name Clark Kent.

“Yes!” he said, smiling and extending his hand towards you. You slowly shook his hand, feeling a shock run through your body at the contact. “I’m Clark Kent, a journalist for the Daily Planet.”

“I've heard of you,” you said, letting go of his hand.

“You heard about me?” Clark looked at you in surprise, the tips of his ears reddening slightly.

“Yes, you're the journalist who always manages to interview Superman.”

Although it wasn't in your nature to read newspapers or articles unrelated to the business affairs, you still found it hard to resist the occasional superhero headline, such as those about Superman and Batman. Well, it was also important to stay informed about global events.

“Well, I'd say it's just luck being in the right place at the right time,” Clark said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “And what's your name?”

When you said your name, Kent just stared at you in silence, his eyes wide, as if you had said the most shocking and surprising thing in the world. After a few seconds, he opened and closed his mouth as if he didn't know what to say. Finally, he broke the awkward silence.

“Wayne... Like Bruce Wayne's sister?’

“Yes, is there a problem with that?” You asked, walking over to one of the wooden benches and sitting down.

“Problem?” He looked at you, dumbfounded. “No! No! Why would I have a problem with that?” He sighed and adjusted the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “It's just… I never imagined I'd meet you like this.”

You nodded with your head to indicate that you understood what he meant. After all, it wasn't every day that the reclusive billionaire heiress, who rarely left Gotham, attended a birthday party in Metropolis. Clark was certainly always in the right place at the right time.

“Ah... Uh... Wow,” Clark repeated your name, as if he was still trying to take in what was happening. The journalist then sat down at the other end of the wooden bench, fixing his gaze on the water fountain. “Wow, this is incredible...” Clark muttered to himself, but you heard him.

“What?” You turned to him, curiosity piqued.

“That just sounds like a dream.” Kent laughed and turned towards you, smiling broadly. “How has your stay in Metropolis been? Are you enjoying the city?”

You were taken by surprise by his question. You had expected him to ask you about your family, the company or your future work and investment plans. You never thought that the first question the journalist Clark Kent from the Daily Planet would ask you would be how you feel about being in the city. He was certainly something different from this world.

“Well, there haven't been any alien attacks so far, so I guess everything's going well.” You said this jokingly, which made Kent chuckle.

“I’m sure that if something like that happened, Superman would turn up.”

“You sound like a fan.”

“Well...” Clark swallowed at your statement. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“He seems to be from your interviews.” You commented, looking away from him. “And I don't doubt that you are too. After all, you're the only person he gives interviews to, so I suppose you're similar. Morally, I mean.”

“I'm just trying my best.” Clark smiled, his cheeks reddening.

“That sounds like enough to me.”

Then, a silence fell between them. It wasn't an awkward silence, though. It was quite the opposite. There was a certain comfort in it. While you enjoyed it, Clark's mind was a whirlwind of questions. He wanted to ask you everything, from your favourite colour to the charities you support. But he didn't have the courage. He didn't want to ruin the moment. You seemed so serene and relaxed that it would have been a sin to interrupt.

“I have to go.” you said, finally breaking the silence that had lasted for a few minutes. You got up from the bench and Clark followed your lead, albeit a little awkwardly.

The journalist followed your gaze and spotted a man standing at the entrance to the garden. He realised that it was indeed Bruce Wayne. Without further ado, Kent gently grabbed your wrist, drawing your attention back to him. Clark felt a shiver run down his spine when your eyes met.

It was now or never!

“Would you mind giving me the opportunity to interview you?” Clark asked, slowly releasing your wrist.

“An interview?” you asked in surprise.

“Yes, I’d really like to ask you a few questions, especially about your charity work.”

“Well, you can call me and I'll think about the interview.” You then said goodbye to Clark and set off to see your brother.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. You enjoyed dinner and dessert while Mr Smith, the host, gave a long speech of thanks and talked about his future work that you really didn't bother listening to. Once you finally returned to the hotel and changed out of your heels and long dress, you threw yourself onto the bed and stared at the white ceiling of the dark room.

You finally felt free. In that hotel room, at least, you could breathe easily, safe in the knowledge that no one was looking at you funny or expecting anything from you.

You were simply yourself.

Suddenly, however, the peace disappeared when memories of your eyes meeting Clark's flashed through your mind like a film reel. Even when you closed your eyes tightly and tried to think of nothing, the image of his unruly curls, bent glasses and adorable dimples came back to haunt you.

Clark Kent's oddly charming demeanor had made quite an impression.

When you returned, Gotham was still the same. It felt like the complete opposite of Metropolis, and for a moment, you missed its warmth and welcoming atmosphere. Nevertheless, you always found something comforting about Gotham's bad weather; it felt familiar even if it was sad.

You sighed as you looked out of the window of your office at Wayne Enterprises. It was a cloudy, grey day. People were hurrying down the street and cars were honking their horns non-stop. At the company, employees were busy with their job responsibilities. The world kept turning, yet ever since you returned from Metropolis, you had felt like you were stagnating. You started to miss something you had never even had.

Suddenly, the landline phone on your desk rang.

“Yes?” you said as soon as you put the object to your ear.

“Miss Wayne,” said Cerise, your secretary. “There's a journalist from the Daily Planet who wants to speak to you.”

A journalist from the Daily Planet…

Clark Kent.

You met the young journalist at the birthday party of a millionaire whose name you couldn't remember. The most memorable part of the evening had perhaps been your encounter with the awkward man who looked like he'd stepped out of a book. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when you looked at Gotham through your brother's technological contact lenses — especially when you couldn't sleep — you found yourself wondering if you had invented Clark Kent. After all, he was too perfect and too kind to be human. But that phone call was proof that the night had indeed happened.

You were surprised for a moment. You hadn't expected him to contact you so soon after returning to Gotham. In fact, you hadn't thought he would have the courage to do so, or even remember what you had told him.

Well, you can call me and I'll think about the interview.

The truth was that you were trying not to think about the interview or seeing Clark again. However, your mind betrayed you, making your thoughts turn to the man's curly, messy hair and adorable dimples.

Apparently, he was determined to secure the interview. Sometimes it didn't seem like such a bad idea. After all, Kent didn't seem like a sensationalist journalist intent on twisting your words to fit a media-fuelled narrative. He seemed decent.

“Tell him to come to Wayne Manor at four o'clock this Friday afternoon.” You said, hoping that you wouldn't regret this crazy idea.

“Is there anything else, Miss Wayne?”

“Just that. Thank you, Cerise.”

Friday came around sooner than you had hoped, and with every passing hour, you could feel your anxiety slowly eating away at you. It was as if it were savoring your desperation.

Although Bruce took a neutral stance when you warned him about your appointment with the journalist, you couldn't help but notice a file in the Batcave with Clark's name printed on the front. You had to stop yourself from looking at it. On the other hand, Alfred had been responsible for reassuring you. He always said that this was a big step you had taken and that he would be there if you needed him. And, of course, he made it clear that he was proud to see you stepping out of your comfort zone.

But still, nothing could stop you from freaking out a little. You changed your clothes every two minutes, unsure of which outfit would be best for the situation. You had already walked around the entire mansion, trying to clear your head and drink a couple of cups of camomile tea, but to no avail. You could still feel the lingering regret. However, when the doorbell rang, you realised that there was no turning back. You couldn't back down in front of Clark, especially since he had made the effort to travel all the way to your house just for an interview. You couldn't back down when he had been nothing but polite and kind to you. After all, you could have refused the interview, but you didn't. And Clark was just doing his job.

You were sitting in an armchair in the living room of the mansion when Clark entered, followed by Alfred. He stood with a slightly shy posture, as if embarrassed to be there, but his eyes still wandered to every corner of the room. He seemed enchanted by the building's gothic, medieval, and colonial style, with modern touches. The Wayne Manor never failed to impress its guests.

“Madam, your guest has arrived.” Alfred said before leaving the room.

“Miss Wayne!” Clark exclaimed excitedly when your eyes met.

“Mr Kent.” You greeted him with the same formality.

“Oh, please, you can just call me Clark," he said, dismissing the formality, though you noticed the tip of his ears turning pink.

“Alright, Clark,” you said, emphasising his name. You pointed to the spot on the sofa in front of you, inviting the journalist to sit down.

He looked the same as when you last saw him. He wore a slightly oversized suit, and it looked like Clark had tried to tame his curls, but they were still messy and fell over his forehead in an angelic way. His eyes were still the same beautiful shade of blue, framed by his glasses.

“So...” Clark looked at you and you could have sworn you saw a hint of curiosity in his eyes. His body language suggested that he was excited, even though he seemed slightly embarrassed to be standing there in front of you. “How are you doing?”

“I'm doing fine.” You said vaguely, not wanting to admit that you were extremely nervous about what was about to happen. “You?”

“I’m great.” Kent smiled slightly. “Thank you so much for accepting my invitation! It’s an honour to be the first journalist to interview you!”

“And how do you usually do that?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

“Before we begin, I want to say that if you feel uncomfortable or want to end the interview at any point, I won't mind,” said Clark. Always so attentive. “I don't want you to feel pressured to do this.”

“It's OK. I agreed to this interview,” you said, trying to convince both your guest and yourself.

“Would you mind if I recorded the interview?” Clark asked, pulling a notepad and a recorder from his briefcase.

“What?” You asked, confused by his request.

“Well, since this is your first interview, I thought you might feel more comfortable if we had more of a conversation. And I would like to record the conversation so that I don't forget your answers.”

“Is that how you do it when you interview Superman?”

“Ah... yes!” Clark replied, blushing.

“Okay then, you can record it.”

“I promise I'll only use it to transcribe the interview, and then I'll delete it.”

You nodded, and the journalist quickly started recording.

“So, Miss Wayne,” said Clark, glancing briefly at his notepad before beginning the interview. “What motivates you to get personally involved in Wayne Enterprises’ social projects, when you’re not someone who’s always in the spotlight?”

“I don't particularly understand what one thing has to do with the other.” You sighed. “Wayne Enterprises' social projects are extremely important to my brother and me. They're our way of helping the city we grew up in and trying to make it a better place, even though it's taken important things away from us. Honestly, I just want people to have the chance of a decent life, and to avoid going through what my brother and I went through as children. These projects aren't for me; they're for Gotham's citizens and children, so I don't see why I should be in the spotlight.”

Clark looked at you with what seemed to be a compassionate expression, and you felt a weight lift from your heart. You had only told Alfred about it, and for a moment you felt good knowing that you had been heard.

“What are the biggest challenges you face in balancing your personal life with your work at Wayne Enterprises?” After scratching his throat, the journalist returned to his question.

“My personal life isn't very hectic, if that's what you mean. I spend most of my time working because it's the only way I know to keep busy.”

“You only work?” Clark asked in a worried tone.

“What? No! I have my hobbies and things I like to do when I'm not working. I just don't like going out to crowded places and things like that.”

“Well, the mansion's pretty big. You should have plenty to do here,” Clark said with a closed smile.

“Well, you haven't seen the library yet.” You replied, adjusting your posture in the armchair. This moment was becoming increasingly comfortable.

“You have a library?” The man in front of you asked in astonishment.

“I can show you after we’ve finished the interview,” you said indifferently, but your heart fluttered at Clark’s excitement about the library — something so simple.

“I'd love to!”

And so you returned to the interview.

“Gotham is often seen as a chaotic and dangerous city. What makes you want to stay here instead of moving somewhere safer?”

“My parents did everything they could to help this city. Bruce and I are their legacy. I can't just abandon Gotham, it's become too familiar to me. When I was younger, I promised myself that I would do everything I could to make Gotham a safer place. A place where people feel at home and aren't afraid for their lives. I know it's a long way off, but I won't give up.”

“You're really different from how the media portrays you.”

“Well, it's just speculation. They do not know me” You gave a small smile.

“While we're on the subject of security, what do you think about Batman? Is he a threat or an ally to Gotham?”

You knew that question would come at some point. Even though it was Clark conducting the interview, you knew he wouldn't miss the chance to ask about Batman. Everyone was curious about the city's vigilante. Sometimes, at social events, people would ask you about him and usually, you would simply ignore the questions. After all, you knew who Batman was, and you were well aware of the motivations behind the mask. You knew that Bruce was Gotham's greatest ally, and that you both shared the dream of making Gotham a better place. You just used different methods to achieve your goals.

“Batman is not a threat to the city. He's just someone who has been victimised by the system and is trying to help Gotham thrive and stop these 'villains' from making crime worse.”

“You sound like a fan.” Clark's words took you by surprise. It was the same thing you had said to him when he had complimented Superman at your first meeting. You thought it was just a coincidence, but the smile on Clark's face suggested otherwise.

“Maybe. After all, he's the hero of my city, just like Superman is of yours.” You said, smiling slightly.

“So you like him?”

“I never said that.” You replied quickly, suppressing a laugh.

“So... Superman or Batman?” Clark squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, eager to hear your opinion.

“Are you serious?” You looked at him in surprise.

“That's the most serious question I've asked so far!”

“The truth is,” you said, biting your lip thoughtfully, “I think they're both great, and they'd make a great pair of allies. I don't see any reason for the two of them to be rivals when they're on the same side.”

“Wow,” said Clark, looking at you with his lips parted. “So you have no preference among the heroes?”

“No,” you replied with a smile.

Clark asked you more questions, and as time went on, the interview gradually became more like a conversation between two friends than something that would end up on the front page of the Metropolis newspaper. The atmosphere in the room was relaxed, and you felt that you were enjoying each other's company. You both smiled easily. You chatted about mundane matters, your likes and interests, and the things you didn't like. You also shared embarrassing stories that made you laugh for minutes on end.

Clark always seemed to have something interesting to share. He wasn't being snobbish or making it about himself; quite the opposite. He shared things because he thought they were interesting stories that might make you smile. And your interest in the journalist only grew.

When you offered to show Kent the library, he almost jumped for joy, which made you laugh. As you watched him talking about the books he had seen there — the ones he had already read and the ones he wanted to read — you realised that accepting the interview had not been a bad idea, and that if you were to give any other interview, it would definitely be to him, without a shadow of a doubt.

As night approached and the sky began to darken, Clark told you that he had to leave; after all, he lived in Metropolis and had an article (about you) to write. Of course, though, you made him stay for a few minutes to enjoy the biscuits Alfred had made with you while you drank tea.

“See you soon, Clark,” you said, smiling slightly as you said goodbye to the journalist.

“See you soon?” He turned around so quickly that you thought he might break his neck. He looked in your direction, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses and a toothy grin spreading across his face, revealing his dimples.

“Yeah...” you said, feigning disinterest. “If you don't get too excited.”

In a matter of seconds, he straightened his posture and tried to look serious, as if he wasn't excited at all about seeing you again. However, he still found it hard to hide the smile and the excitement in his voice.

“Well, see you soon, Miss Wayne,” he said, surrendering and smiling openly in your direction.

You couldn't help but smile discreetly in return.

Yeah, Clark Kent really did have a talent for getting exclusive interviews.

a/n.: clark spent a long time writing the interview because he kept listening to the recording repeatedly just to hear your voice and laughter.

© seonghrtz, 2025. all rights reserved, please do not copy / steal / translate / modify any of my works!

[boqvistsbabe]

do you pronounce the 2nd “T” in “Toronto”?

[boqvistsbabe]

you haven’t even begun to breach the depth of my ability to say things that don’t matter at all

[boqvistsbabe]

08.21.25

[boqvistsbabe]

[boqvistsbabe]

Squidward clocking out of the Krusty Krab and heading to the nearest gay after hours event 

[boqvistsbabe]

erm…

[boqvistsbabe]

big grin wsh and meeplin celebrini

[boqvistsbabe]

[boqvistsbabe]

the love theory

Before he was your boyfriend, Clark Kent was just another face on the subway.

A kind and handsome stranger who helps in a moment of need — and has you questioning just how fast you’re allowed to move from breakups. A stranger that you just keep running into by chance - until he isn’t really a stranger anymore.

If only he’d ask you out.

Or: Before the list, comes the theory.

prequel to the love list - not required to read this, but there are some references! 11k, intended nd!reader, strangers to lovers, no spoilers

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You first meet Clark Kent on a Tuesday.

It's a foggy one, a blanket of mist draped across Metropolis, and you're frazzled because you're late.

You're not exactly in your right mind when you're late.

It's a sort of fight or flight mode - though you're definitely preferential to flight. You really hate being late. But as you walk as fast as you can, a speedy sort of half-jog, it's not even your lateness you're fixated on.

It's the goddamn tag in your shirt.

You can feel it, itchy and pressed against the back of your neck. It scratches with every step. Your hands flex. Every cell in your body wants to stop, find somewhere to pause, and fix your shirt.

You're far too late to even entertain the idea.

This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.

In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.

When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.

Today, your mistake is your excitement.

A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.

Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.

If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.

You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.

You huff loudly, regaining your balance.

The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.

But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.

And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.

Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.

You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.

No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.

You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—

Someone sees you coming and holds the door.

There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.

This day is miserable, you decide.

The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.

You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.

The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.

You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.

"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."

The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.

"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."

He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.

The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.

Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.

The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.

One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.

Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.

The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.

Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.

The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.

If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.

Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.

It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.

"Are you alright?"

Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.

"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.

Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.

You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."

It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.

The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.

The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.

He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"

It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.

"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."

He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.

You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.

"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.

It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.

Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.

You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.

You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.

One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.

"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.

The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.

People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.

"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."

You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.

The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.

Another four stops. You have time.

"Okay, hold still."

The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.

You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.

Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.

"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.

You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.

There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.

"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."

The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.

Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.

He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.

Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.

Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.

Another shared look.

Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.

Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.

Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.

According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?

You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.

The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.

"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."

You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.

Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.

Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.

The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.

Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.

You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.

The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.

Huh.

The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.

Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.

It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.

This is why you like Friday's the least.

Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.

Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.

A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.

It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.

Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.

It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.

You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.

A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.

The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.

"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.

It's Lois Lane.

"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"

Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.

After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."

Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.

There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.

She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.

At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.

"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"

You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.

"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."

Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.

"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."

Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.

You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."

She lights up. "So you'll come?"

It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.

"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"

The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.

"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.

"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"

She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.

She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.

You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."

Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"

"My ex-boyfriend."

The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.

Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.

"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"

"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.

You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.

You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.

Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.

You've resolved to just not really think about it.

Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.

You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.

But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.

Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.

You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.

Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.

Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.

And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.

"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.

Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.

It's the handsome stranger.

What had she said his name was? Clark.

You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.

Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.

Which… feels concerning. You think?

You just hadn't expected you would see him again.

Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.

Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.

But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.

So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?

There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.

You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.

It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.

"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."

The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.

Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.

His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.

"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."

She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.

"You want anything? On me."

You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"

Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"

You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.

You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.

"Would you like to sit?"

It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.

You sit, but don't take off your coat.

"Hi." You say.

"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."

"Wait, again?"

A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.

Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"

Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."

"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.

Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.

Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.

"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."

"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.

Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."

"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.

"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.

"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.

"Thank you." You take a sip.

"Not a drinker?"

It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.

You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.

When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.

"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."

For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.

Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."

"You think so?"

"I really do."

His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.

It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.

You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.

"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.

"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"

Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.

You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.

"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."

Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."

"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.

You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.

It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.

And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.

It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.

You swallow heavily at the thought.

You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.

You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"

Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"

When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.

“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"

A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."

The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.

"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."

At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.

You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.

Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.

"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."

You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.

The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.

Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.

You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.

But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.

Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.

What you mean is, you like Clark.

He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.

The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.

It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.

You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.

Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.

Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.

The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.

Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.

Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.

"I have to go now."

The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.

"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."

Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.

It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.

Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.

You shake your head, "No. Thank you."

Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.

Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.

You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."

"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."

Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.

You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.

Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.

"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."

Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.

Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.

Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.

You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.

As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.

You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.

It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.

It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.

The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.

The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.

There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.

The west is where the produce is.

Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.

The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.

You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.

This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.

You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.

You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.

The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.

Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.

You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.

The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.

You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.

It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.

Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?

You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.

But, no. It's definitely Clark.

He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.

His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.

You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.

He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.

He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.

He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.

Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.

You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.

Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.

But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.

And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.

5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.

You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.

You walk over before you can change your mind.

"Hi."

Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"

His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.

"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.

Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.

When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."

You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.

You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"

Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."

That makes you smile.

He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.

He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."

You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.

To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.

"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.

Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.

Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.

"I like your wagon."

For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.

He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."

You frown, "Of course."

You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.

Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.

Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"

You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.

Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.

"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.

He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."

You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"

"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."

He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.

"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"

You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.

"Both. I came to get—"

There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"

What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.

A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.

You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."

He nods to the bags over your shoulder.

"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."

"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"

"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."

It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.

If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.

You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.

"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"

Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.

"I would love the company."

He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."

Together, you walk and you talk.

Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.

The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.

And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.

You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.

When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.

It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.

The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.

"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"

You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.

Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.

"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."

You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.

He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.

You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.

You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.

He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"

"A reason?"

You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.

But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.

You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.

"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."

You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.

You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"

That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."

You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.

Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.

Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.

You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.

"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."

Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.

You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.

It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,

"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"

Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.

Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."

You blink.

Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?

You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.

What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.

You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.

Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.

"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.

Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."

It is what you want—to see him again.

Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.

"I would like that."

Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.

You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.

When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.

And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.

Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.

He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.

Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.

And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.

Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.

As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.

It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.

He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.

You do that around him, but not around everyone.

He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.

You don't do that with anyone else either.

He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.

Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.

But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.

This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.

It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.

Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.

Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.

Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.

He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.

The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.

But you had turned him down.

Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.

This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.

Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.

Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.

Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.

The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.

There is where the embarrassing part comes in.

Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.

To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.

Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.

If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.

He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.

All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.

He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.

But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.

Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.

He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.

You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.

It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.

(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)

At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.

He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"

And you do, literally.

Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.

He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.

You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"

Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.

Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.

But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.

To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.

Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.

His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.

His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.

"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"

Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?

A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.

Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.

Why is he asking now? What changed?

You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.

Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.

Then you swallow the thought away.

Clark wouldn't.

You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.

"Yes. I would like that."

Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.

You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.

"Great," Clark says breathily.

He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.

"Great." You echo.

Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.

A beat passes.

The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.

"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."

Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.

He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.

"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"

"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.

"At the bar?"

Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.

He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.

"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.

He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.

You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —

—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.

It's… the tag from your shirt.

The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.

He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.

For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.

From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.

You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.

Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.

There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.

You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.

To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"

Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.

"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."

You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.

Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.

"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.

"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.

Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.

"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."

You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.

Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.

He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.

"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.

Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.

Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.

You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"

There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.

Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.

The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.

"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D

otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)

@spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[boqvistsbabe]

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

edit: now with a prequel, but read in either order <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[boqvistsbabe]

I don’t hate my life I just hate the feelings I get after 6pm

[boqvistsbabe]

yes, ma'am

clark kent x editor!reader

Summary: Clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.

Word Count: 12.1k

Content: 18+, smut, clark is a disaster and a yearner, reader is a little mean but clark is into it, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), clark whimpers, light angst, reader is described as having hair

To Read on AO3

Daily Planet, Metropolis - 9:47 AM

The hustle and bustle of the newsroom is already well underway by the time Clark Kent makes an appearance. The way-too-big gray suit that he wore at least once a week is crumpled, the coat nearly hanging off his shoulder as he tries to make sure he hasn’t lost any of the papers that are haphazardly hanging from his open bag while balancing a cup holder with four cups of coffee from the nice coffee shop down the road.

Other employees step around the frazzled man as he makes a beeline for his desk, flashing smiles and good mornings to everyone along the way. He’s stopped just shy of his destination as Lois Lane pops out in front of him, eyes heavy with exhaustion, as she eyes the paper cups before plucking the one with the most sugar listed on the order sticker. “Thanks,” she mumbles as she turns around, making her way back to her desk, muttering some stuff under her breath about having to rewrite the byline for her article again.

Clark barely has time to stutter out a ‘you’re welcome’ before he realizes the missing coffee cup has caused the cup holder to begin to tip sideways, the other three coffees teetering dangerously close to disaster. Clark can already see the next two seconds flashing before his eyes: spilled coffee and the exasperated look from everyone around him.

That is, until a perfectly manicured hand shoots out from behind him, deftly swiping the cup holder from him before all of the cups spill over. He follows the hand to its source, landing on your face… your very stern, eyebrow cocked in disbelief, face. “Seriously, Kent?” you ask with a scoff as you set down the holder onto his desk.

He feels the burn up the sides of his neck to his ears as he stammers, clamoring to put his bag down and straighten out his suit. You look nice today, he notes. You look nice every day, even as you stand before him, scowling. All he can think about is how pretty you look and how mesmerizing the red of your lipstick is.

“Y-yeah, sorry,” he finally apologizes, snapping to as he realizes you were waiting for him to respond. “The fight with Superman this morning ended up shutting down the A-Line, so I had to walk.”

You don’t even try to disguise the way your eyes roll at his excuse. “Superman, of course,” you mutter under your breath before raising the manila folder you were holding. “Here are the edits for the article you gave me yesterday, and remember, you still owe me the draft for the Crane case.”

“Geez, let the guy breathe for a second before jumping down his throat as soon as he gets in,” Jimmy Olsen comments with a grin as he saunters over, grabbing another cup from the holder on Clark’s desk. He pats Clark on the shoulder with a faint ‘thanks, man’ all the while pretending you’re not glaring daggers at him as he falls into his chair, sipping happily on his coffee.

You point the folder at Clark, who stands there awkwardly as you turn your fury to Jimmy. “He wouldn’t need a chance to breathe if he got here on time like the rest of us,” you fume. Jimmy holds his hands up in surrender, sending a sympathetic smile to Clark before ducking his head and turning back around to face his monitor. As much as Jimmy loves Clark, he was not going to put himself in front of your wrath for him.

When you turn back to Clark, he at least has the decency to look apologetic, hunched in a way to make himself appear smaller, and the corners of his lips pulled into a remorseful smile. You curse his dimples silently in your mind. “I was hoping getting you a coffee might soften the blow of me being late… again.”

You look down at the two remaining cups and see your name written in Clark’s chicken scratch handwriting with a wobbly smiley face drawn next to it. The sticker with the order on it displaying that he’d gotten you your favorite from the shop down the road that you loved to go to whenever you managed to pull yourself away from your desk for longer than ten minutes. That is to say that it is a luxury around here.

Your eyes narrow and lips purse for just a moment before you shove the folder into his chest, and he scrambles to catch it before it hits the ground. “I’m serious, you better have it to me by six P.M., Perry has been on my ass about it,” you assert before plucking your coffee from his desk and turning to walk back to the editor block, the click of your heels like a siren song that has his eyes following after you trailing up your form before settling on your plush backside before he realizes what he’s doing and looks away quickly, suddenly very interested in the broken ceiling tile above his desk.

He hears a snort of laughter and glances back over at Jimmy, who is not even attempting to hide his shit-eating grin. “What?” Clark asks.

Jimmy shakes his head in disbelief. “Dude, you have it so bad.” Clark dares to look confused as to what Jimmy is referring to. He motions to you and Clark can’t help but to sneak another peek at you as you’re stopped in the middle of the bullpen talking to one of the summer interns, the stern brow you’d had with him has softened as you’re inevitably explaining something you have already gone over at least twice with her before with far more patience than you ever afforded Clark.

Clark doesn’t even realize the dopey smile that works its way onto his face as he stares until Jimmy snaps his fingers. “Yeah, see! That!” He points at Clark’s face, which has now settled into what could only be described as a pout.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark insists.

Jimmy groans as he spins in his chair. “Just ask her out already, the worst thing she could say is ‘no’.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Actually, the worst thing she could say is ‘you’ll be hearing from HR’.”

Lois rolls out from behind her desk, looking a bit more chipper than five minutes prior, cup of coffee still securely in her hand. “Fired for sexual misconduct would look really bad with future employers,” she teases.

Clark gives her an exasperated look, and Jimmy waves his hand at both of them dismissively. “I’m telling you, there’s no way she’d say no or report you to HR.”

“Jimmy, I hate to break it to you, but she cannot stand Clark,” Lois informs.

“Yeah, she can’t—” He whirls around to look at Lois, a distraught look on his face. “What do you mean she can’t stand me?”

“Clark, you’re always submitting drafts to her late —” “Yeah, because I get really nervous and end up re-writing it like five times before I give it to her.” “— You’re also always showing up late for work—” “I can’t help if the city is attacked and an entire subway line gets shut down!”

Lois gives him a sharp look, and he swallows, something unspoken between them that Jimmy at least doesn’t pick up on.

“Listen, some women just aren’t impressed with the whole… naïve farm boy vibe you got going on,” Lois finishes with a shrug. “Don’t take it so personally.”

Clark looks to Jimmy for some backup, and luckily, the redhead takes pity on poor Clark, coming to his friend’s rescue. “Lois, I respect your opinion on this matter as a woman, but trust me, she may seem like she’s not impressed, but—”

“Oh, don’t even give me that she’s playing hard to get spiel,” Lois rolls her eyes with a disbelieving smile on her face.

“—But, I think she’s playing hard to get.”

“Oh my god, you’re both HR violations waiting to happen,” she chides before taking another sip of her coffee.

“Aw, c’mon, look, you made him sad.” Jimmy gestures to a very downtrodden Clark, who is simply staring in the general direction where you had disappeared back into the editor block with a visible frown on his face.

Guilt creeps up Lois’s spine, and she sighs. “Listen, if you really like her, then just ask her out already and spare us having to endure the puppy dog looks.”

“There ya have it,” Jimmy nods. “Lois Lane approved office romance.”

Lois lets out a bark of laughter as she and Jimmy dive into their own conversation, leaving Clark to his thoughts. He drops into his seat, starting to look over the edits you’d handed him. The amount of markups on the page doesn’t even surprise him. Bright blue ink scratches out entire segments of sentences, circling others, neat handwriting tucked into the margins explaining each cut and need for clarification.

The first article you edited for him had been even worse. There was more blue penned onto the page than black printed ink. You had torn his article into shreds, the one he had shyly placed into the tray on your desk after he had tried to email it to you, only to be told you only accepted printed copies of drafts, something none of the other editors requested.

(Lois would later tell him that you preferred having something physical in your hands when you edited, and she’d made the same mistake in her first week)

He had been so proud of that article when he’d handed it over. Less so when you’d given the folder back to him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow before walking back to your desk, it took all of five minutes before he’d shown up in front of you, the marked-up draft crinkled nervously between his hands, clearly upset by the sheer amount of edits.

You had stared at him, unblinking, as he stammered all over himself, waiting until he talked himself into an awkward silence before saying anything. Dealing with uppity journalists who took personal offense to edits was nothing new to you. “If you don’t make the edits, then I won’t approve it and it won’t go to print,” you’d said simply. “Unless you’d like to make an argument for the run-on sentences?”

There wasn’t any malice in your voice, and that was the moment Clark realized it wasn’t personal, it was just your job, and you were not just good, but great at your job. He must have been as red as a tomato by the time he turned and fled back to his desk with his tail tucked between his legs.

He made the edits, and when Perry walked by his desk the next day, he was complimented on the pacing and tone of the piece. It didn’t make the front page… not even second or third, but it was his first article in the Daily Planet.

You had even smiled at him and congratulated him on his first article when you were making your rounds that morning.

That was where this inconceivably tiny, bite-sized crush started.

Because even when you shredded his article into pieces, his heart sang at the tiny compliments left in the margins.

‘Good pacing here.’

‘This passage really shines.’

‘Beautiful.’

And of course, it doesn’t help that you are pretty. Walking around the office with your face done up and hair perfectly styled in outfits he doesn’t think he has seen a repeat of since starting here almost three years ago. He always feels like a mess in front of you, especially when he comes in late (which is often) and sees you standing there, arms crossed, looking like you want to go up one side of him and down the other (which you have before).

There is also the fact that you hate Superman.

Well, maybe hate isn’t the right word.

Strongly disapprove of?

He remembers the first time a clip of Superman played while you all had gathered in the newsroom. When everyone else was oohing and ahhing at Superman’s heroics (which Clark may or may not have been preening a bit at), you stood there, sipping at your overly expensive coffee with such an unimpressed look.

“Just what we need, another jackass in tights wandering around.”

Clark deflated at that.

While you never explicitly said you disliked his caped alter ego, you definitely never had anything kind to say either. The articles he submitted to you about Superman? If he had gotten those edits when he was a freshman in high school writing for the Smallville High newspaper, he would’ve never written another article again.

Entire paragraphs marked for deletion or simply ‘TONE’ in all caps next to specific passages. The worst had been when you crossed out a sentence and just put ‘No’ next to it in the margins.

“It’s a feature, not an op-ed, Kent.”

It was brutal. Even Lois couldn’t help the grimace whenever she happened to catch sight of those drafts, her and Jimmy saluting Clark when they knew he was walking over to the editor block to submit a Superman article to you.

Despite that, he looked forward to seeing you every day. You had become the person he looks for the moment he enters a room, without him even realizing it.

So much about you and the way you move through the world has been noted and categorized by Clark.

He loved the moments when he caught you while editing, two or three pens stuck in your up-do because you kept forgetting you’d placed them there and grabbed a new one each time, chewing on your bottom lip as you carefully marked up whatever draft you were working on.

He loved how you took care of the people around you in your own, sometimes standoffish, way.

“Have you eaten?” You’d asked him one day, his second year of working at the Planet. It was late, and it was just you two and a handful of others in the office working towards deadlines that were creeping far too close for comfort. He’d been having the hardest time with the beat Perry had assigned him and had worked through his lunch and any subsequent breaks.

“O-oh, I don’t really have money to order out right now,” he said, almost embarrassed. He’d just paid rent, which meant he would be living off of cup noodles and breakroom coffee until next week when his next paycheck hit.

You glanced up at him from your phone that you were tapping on. “I didn’t ask if you had money, I asked if you’d eaten,” you replied pointedly before returning your attention to your phone. “Beef and broccoli, yeah?” You confirmed, and he was a bit stunned but managed to nod in response. Warmth rolling through his chest that you remembered his food order. “I’ll get those eggrolls you like, too.”

“I can pay you back next week,” Clark offered, and you just waved your hand at him, not looking up from your phone.

“I’m not worried about it, Kent.” You walked off, calling out to the others in the office that you were ordering food, leaving Clark’s heart to simmer in your wake.

He loved how unafraid you were. How confident you were in your convictions. There weren’t many people at the Planet who would go to bat against Perry, but you did constantly. So many times, he’d walk into the newsroom to see you two having a screaming match about whether or not an article should go to print.

“We are not printing this!”

“Oh, come off it, Perry, if you want to play it safe, go work for Newstime Magazine!”

The article almost always went to print. Not without a lot of griping from Perry, and you never were smug about it. Satisfied, yes. But it was about journalistic integrity. It was about publishing articles that no other company would touch with a ten-foot pole due to the fear of backlash because no one else would do it. There were many other employees at the Planet who shared the sentiment, but you were consistently the one who fought for it, loudly.

So yeah, Clark Kent had a crush on you because why wouldn’t he? And maybe Jimmy was right, and he should ask you out.

(Or maybe he was wrong and Clark would be looking for a new job by Friday)

By the end of the day, he decides he will ask you out to dinner. Hyping himself up in the moment as he starts to finish the article that he has already rewritten twice now.

Except he doesn’t end up asking you out at all. Instead, it is five P.M., and he stands in front of your desk, freshly printed draft clutched in his hands as he watches you type away at something on your monitor.

You don’t even look up at him, and he knows that you know he is standing there.

Time stretches on for what he could only imagine to be an eternity, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he waits until, finally, you push back from your desk, turning to face him. “Is there something you need, Clark?” The eye contact you make sends his heart sputtering, but the way his name rolls off your lips has his knees so weak he almost falls against your desk in a heap. Your gaze flickers down to the papers in his hand. “Is that the Crane case draft?”

“O-oh! Yeah!” He says dumbly, and when he doesn’t do anything but continue to stand there, you blink, briefly wondering if he’d suffered some head injury in the last few hours.

“Can I… have it?” you question, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare up at him.

You watch a flush creep up his cheeks, and he practically slams the folder onto your desk. “Y-yeah, of course! I’m sorry it took so long to get to you, I was having some trouble with one of the sources and…”

“I’ll have the edits to you tomorrow morning,” you confirm. “Try to get here on time, Perry wants this to run for the evening issue.”

He nods, pushing up his glasses as they slide down his nose, and pretends not to notice as you follow the movement. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on time, I promise.” You stare at him for a pause before turning back to your computer, muttering something akin to ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ and Clark is struck by the way the setting sun backlights you, wisps of gold brushing against your profile. His heart his hammering in his chest as he tries to will himself to say something, anything else to you.

“Okay, bye.”

Not that.

“Have a good night,” you call out, not looking up from the screen.

Clark shuffles away, already mentally beating himself up as Jimmy appears behind him, bag swung over his shoulder. “That was rough to watch, buddy.”

“Shut up,” Clark groans as he grabs his things from his desk. “I don’t know why there’s such a disconnect between my brain and my mouth when I’m around her.”

“Hey, I get it, man,” Jimmy nods. “She is scary, but in a really hot way—” Clark’s head snaps up, and he gives Jimmy a sharp look because he knows Jimmy’s reputation. “Relax, relax. She’s all yours, I can assure you. I think she’d eat me alive.”

As Clark follows Jimmy to the elevator, he glances back over his shoulder, seeing you still sitting at your desk as everyone else has begun to pack up for the night. You give a smile and bid another editor goodnight as she tells you not to stay too late.

He knows you will anyway.

As they step into the elevator with a handful of their coworkers, all conversing about their plans for the rest of the night, Clark decides that tomorrow he will definitely ask you out.

He does not end up asking you out tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, as a matter of fact. Every single time he resolved himself to doing so, he felt the words turn to mush in his mouth the moment he saw you.

Once, because you had been standing with Lois in the breakroom, laughing in a way he’d never seen before, the snort of laughter so uncharacteristic and unexpected, he had walked straight into the mail cart, sending envelopes and parcels flying all over the place.

The second time, he had gone into the archives to grab some old records to reference for a story he’d been working on, and turned the corner to see you up on a stool, half bent as you tried to wrestle with a box buried on the shelf. Clark could only focus on the swell of your backside in the tight slacks you were wearing and didn’t even register that you had turned to him.

“Clark? Help, please?”

Whatever words that came out of his mouth were unintelligible as his body went into autopilot, grabbing the box you’d been battling with ease, nodding like an idiot as you thanked him before turning on his heel and walking out, completely forgetting about the entire reason he’d gone in there to begin with.

The third and final time, you weren’t even doing anything special, just sitting at your desk, humming along to the desk radio you had quietly going, sorting through papers. Clark was determined this time. He’d spent the entirety of last night rehearsing what he was going to say, all the while fighting an interdimensional creature that was terrorizing downtown.

He had approached you with confidence, and then you’d turn to face him, lips wrapped around a cherry lollipop that one of the secretaries had given out as extras from her daughter’s birthday party over the weekend.

Whatever confidence he had rapidly warped into panic as words fell out of his mouth in a jumble. Indiscernible and certainly not a sentence asking you to go to dinner with him. He stood there as you stared up at him, and he could see the stain of the lollipop on your lips and tongue.

“Clark, what?”

And then he made some sort of noise and, with haste, fled the vicinity, leaving you there blinking, wondering what just happened.

It is that afternoon that he hears you in a quiet conversation with Lois as he is once again unjamming Printer 4. You perch on her desk, leaning close to whisper to her, completely unaware that Clark can hear every single word you say.

“I think Clark has a concussion,” you inform with a solemn look on your face.

Lois almost laughs at that, but keeps her face trained in faux concern. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t think that man has said a coherent sentence to me this entire week,” you explain. “He’s basically resorted to communicating with me in grunts like a caveman.”

That has Lois snorting with laughter, trying to hide the smile with her coffee cup as she takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid that’s been sitting on her desk for the better part of the morning. “I can assure you he does not have a concussion.”

You give her a pursed look, clearly not believing her. “Then what is his deal?”

It is at this moment that Lois makes eye contact with Clark from across the newsroom. He feels the dread build up in him as a smirk tilts its way onto Lois’s face, and he can almost see the exact moment the thought formulates in her head.

And then the building shakes, lights flickering as a deafening ‘boom’ echoes from somewhere outside. Silence settles in place of panic, as everyone listens with bated breath, hoping it was nothing to be concerned about, perhaps just some construction down the road. Until the second explosion rocks the building, and then chaos erupts.

People are scrambling all over. Clark sees you grab Lois and push her towards the stairwell, yelling at the gaggle of people who are trying to file into the elevator. “Are you idiots? Use the stairs!” That gets them moving, and Clark is moving with everyone else.

As you all get to the ground floor, you can see the source of the explosions, Green Lantern, Mr. Terrific, and Hawkgirl are fighting some idiot on a hoverboard who keeps tossing explosives around like he’s giving out candy on Halloween. Another one detonates, and a building down the street crumbles from the explosion. Debris and dust are scattering through the streets as people run from the epicenter of the fight. Cops are trying to divert traffic away, and the wail of ambulances approaches.

It’s pandemonium.

“C’mon, Kent, move it!” There’s a hand on his arm, and he looks down to find you pulling him along. The crowd around you is a shifting sea, but you’re firm and steady beside him despite the chaos. He realizes he’s going away from where he needs to be, but he lets you pull him anyway.

And then an explosion hits from somewhere above, and suddenly the air is filled with dirt and smoke, and the crowds push forward even as people sputter and try to regain their bearings. You lose your grip on Clark after getting knocked around by the surge of people, and that’s when panic sets in for you as you stop amidst the mass of people, shouting for him. “Clark?” You don’t see his massive form in the crowd of people, and your throat constricts. “Clark?!”

Someone behind you pushes, and you keep moving because it’s either that or be crushed by the swath of people. There’s a barricade another block down, and by the time you make it there, the crowd has begun to disperse, and there’s still no sign of Clark Kent. You feel nauseous as you think of the plethora of things that could’ve happened to him, though the thought of him lying dead in the street with people rushing over him is at the forefront of your mind.

You ask people as they rush by you.

“Excuse me, have you seen a guy, about this tall?”

“A man, curly hair, and glasses?”

A sonic boom cuts through the chaos, and people cheer as Superman flies onto the scene. You don’t, though. Your phone is in your hand as you search for Clark’s number, which has been unused until now in your contact list. It rings once, twice, all the way until the voicemail picks up.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

You hang up and try again, ignoring the tightness in your throat when it goes to voicemail once more.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get—”

You feel your lip wobble. And again.

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message—”

With Superman coming to their aid, the heroes make quick work of the lone villain. You barely notice that the crowd has waned as the heroics come to an end. Instead, you’re pacing under the awning of a building, being met with Clark Kent’s voicemail message again and again each time you call him.

You had already called Jimmy and Lois, both of whom hadn’t seen their friend, though Lois tried to convince you that he was fine. You couldn’t help the worry that nagged at you.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” Someone asks from behind you.

You whirl around, pulling the phone from your ear, and you can’t even help the wide-eyed look that appears on your face. Superman himself stands before you, bathed in the light of the setting sun that creeps through the skyline of Metropolis behind him. He’s bigger in person, you realize. Broader than you thought he’d be.

“Ma’am?” There’s concern on his face when you don’t answer.

“Yes,” you reply quickly. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine.”

“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but—.”

You look back down at your phone and press the ‘end call’ button, biting your lip.

“I’m looking for Clark,” you tell him. “Clark Kent. You know him, he’s interviewed you before. He was beside me, and then an explosion hit above us, and I lost him in the chaos, and I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his phone—” Your voice cracks, and you don’t even notice the way Superman’s face crumples with it.

“Hey,” he calls out softly as he steps closer. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, and you look up, your eyes meeting an earthshattering shade of blue. “It’s alright,” he assures. “I’ll find him. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

You shake your head. “No, if something happened to him, I—”

“Nothing happened to him,” he promises. “I’ll find him, and when I do, I’ll make sure he calls you, how about that?”

You want to be stubborn. You want to tell Superman to shove off. But you’re tired, and there’s a burn in your lungs from all of the dust and smoke. Gripping your phone harder, you shove the edge of it into his chest, and he looks a bit surprised, if not a little amused by the action. “You make sure he calls me,” you order, and there’s a fragility in your voice that Clark doesn’t think he’s heard before, despite the way your jaw is set. You’re putting on a brave face.

A soft smile spreads on Superman’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”

An hour and a half later, just as you fit your key into the deadbolt of your door, your phone rings. The name ‘Clark Kent’ flashes across the screen, and pure relief floods you as you pick up on the second ring. “Clark?”

“H-hey,” his soft voice comes through the other end, and you never thought you would be so happy to hear that Kansan accent. “I’m so sorry, I left my phone at the office and I finally just went back to get it.”

“Are you okay?” you ask as you close your door behind you.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he replies.

There’s a pregnant pause between you two. You think you should say ‘okay’ and hang up, not draw out the conversation any longer than it needs to be. But you don’t. The bizarre want to hear his voice some more, tugging at you in a way you’ve never experienced before. “Don’t think you get to be late to work tomorrow just because a couple of buildings on our street exploded,” you tease, breaking through the tension of the quiet.

He laughs, and even though you’re silent, he can tell you’re smiling too. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he says.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

“Yeah, goodnight.”

Clark surprises you the next morning by not only arriving on time, but arriving early. He’s so early that it is just you two in the newsroom. The shock is written on your face as you spot him walking from the elevator while standing at the copier, eyes wide and mouth agape.

He gives a shy wave, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at you. “Good morning,” he calls out.

What he does not expect is for you to grab the stack of papers off the copier and march towards him, smacking him repeatedly with the pile of papers. “You can’t just disappear like that during a crisis!” He doesn’t flinch as he is hit. You don’t even notice how gently he’s looking down at you, too busy giving him a piece of your mind like you always do. “Like, what the hell, Clark? I thought something happened to you!”

You run out of steam surprisingly quickly and meet his gaze.  “I really am sorry,” he whispers, and you take a moment to study his face and the blue of his eyes, and you’re struck by a thought that leaves your mouth dry.

Clark is handsome.

“Don’t do it again,” you warn, giving him one final half-hearted swat to the chest that has him giving you a laugh that leaves you lightheaded. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

He smiles and nods, and when you go to leave, he can feel the end of the moment between you two rapidly approaching. He doesn’t want it to end. “Would you wanna go out to dinner with me?” he asks before he can even think long enough to get nervous about it.

You blink once, then twice as though you’re not quite sure you heard him correctly. “Dinner?”

He nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Is this a date?”

He nods again and can feel his palms begin to sweat.

“Yes,” you say after a beat. He grins, dimples and all, and warmth spreads through your chest, a feeling you’re hesitant to embrace.

“Friday? Seven P.M.?” He asks.

“Gino’s?” You suggest, a lilt to your voice that isn’t normally there, and he’s mesmerized by the look in your eye as you do, by the way you’re trying to disguise the smile that itches at your face. He nods, leaning in a bit. The papers in your hand are a shield between you two, and you step back. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.” He wouldn’t be.

Gino’s Italian Restaurant, Metropolis - 7:43 PM

He was late.

You didn’t miss the sympathetic looks the hostess and waiters sent you every time they passed by your table for two, which was occupied by one. Your glass of wine was nearly empty, and the bread basket was alarmingly full despite the hunger that gnawed at your insides.

You had been trying not to glance down at your phone for the last half hour, knowing that if you had gotten a text, the screen would light up. However, it had remained dark since you sent Clark your last message, asking where he was.

With one final swig, you empty the glass, catching the eye of the waiter, waving him over. “Can I have the check, please?” you ask.

After paying for your singular glass of wine, once you were out in the cool breeze of the summer night, you finally recheck your phone. The absence of any new message sent a trill of fury through you, only amplified by the news report notification about Superman fighting some gigantic monster in midtown.

“Great,” you grumble. “Let’s hope they don’t knock out the T-Line this time.”

The trek home takes far too long with people getting diverted away from the kaiju battle, and the pleasant buzz you had from the glass of wine had long since worn off as you shove through your apartment door, flinging it closed behind you as you kick off your pumps, breathing in the relief for your aching feet.

You’re desperate to get out of the dress you’d squeezed into (after spending far too long debating what dress Clark would like better on you), but the desire to get absolutely shitfaced after being stood up by your coworker was overwhelming. And that’s how you found yourself lounging on your balcony, watching Big Blue himself battle an enormous alien creature from across the city with nothing but a bottle of chardonnay to keep you company.

You stay there until long after the light show ends, just taking sips from the bottle every so often, sitting in your sorrow. Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re so upset. It’s not as though you even liked Clark all that much; you were just looking forward to a free meal.

Like, yes, he was objectively good-looking, and yes, he always remembered your coffee order. And, yes, maybe you prodded him just a little more than you did others because you liked watching him get flustered.

But you didn’t like him.

(You could have, though)

A loud knock at your door startles you from your thoughts. Your bare feet pad against the floor of your apartment as you softly step to your door, peeking through the peephole, finding none other than Clark Kent himself standing outside of your apartment.

If you were any other person, you might have just ignored the knocking, letting him stew in the silence, but you were not any other person, and with half a bottle of chardonnay in your system, you want nothing more than to give him a piece of your mind.

When you rip the door open, Clark looks at you wide-eyed and sputtering. “I’m so—”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you interrupt, shoving your finger into his (startlingly firm) chest. “You have a lot of nerve, Clark Kent.”

“I know, I know, please just let me—”

“Let you what? Explain? Explain how you left me waiting at Gino’s for forty-five minutes for you? Explain how now at—” You lean back to glance at the microwave clock in your kitchen. “—9:57 PM, nearly 3 hours after we were supposed to meet for our date, you show up at my door expecting to grovel at my feet for me to what? To forgive you?”

“No, that’s not it, please just let me explain,” he begs.

You don’t, though. “You made me look like an idiot.” Your voice is soft, and there’s vulnerability, the bite you had seconds prior, leaving your body rapidly. You can feel the way your throat tightens, and the pit in your stomach feels like it could swallow you whole. You hate feeling like this, feeling this small. Clark looks at your eyes and realizes they’re tinged red and clouded with unshed tears. He wants to throw up. “You made me feel like an idiot.”

“I’m really sorry.” His voice cracks, and it looks like he wants to reach out to touch you, but he doesn’t.

“Me too,” you say back, tone empty and despondent.

“I got you these.” He holds out a lightly crumpled bouquet that’s been hanging limply at his side this entire time. You stare at it. It wasn’t one of those grocery store bouquets, no, this one is full of your favorite flowers, clearly and explicitly curated for you.

You blink back tears and grab the bouquet, holding it close to your chest. “Thank you.”

“You look really pretty.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He doesn’t say anything as you shut the door, your gaze catching your reflection in the hallway mirror. It’s almost pathetic, you all dolled up with a bouquet of all your favorite flowers, looking like you were a moment away from the dam breaking.

And then there’s a burn at the back of your throat that you can’t ignore, and you can’t help as the tears finally fall from your eyes, you suck in a deep breath on instinct, feeling the sob try to wretch out from you. You don’t know that Clark is standing on the other side, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he blinks away his own tears.

The weekend passes by horridly fast. As much as you had wanted to waste away and lament about the date that never was (that you would definitely not admit you had gotten your hopes up for), you would not let being stood up consume your entire weekend; they were a precious commodity after all.

So, after spending Friday night ugly crying into your pillow, you pulled yourself together by Saturday morning. You went out to a boozy brunch with some of your college friends, took yourself on a walk around the park to enjoy the sunshine, and spent some time in your favorite bookstore buying books that you promised yourself you would read and not let sit untouched on your bookshelf like the entire neglected pile of others.

By Sunday, you were feeling better. That is, until you were getting ready for bed Sunday night and the dread hit you.

You spent the night tossing and turning, feeling like you wanted to crawl out of your skin at just the thought of having to see Clark again. By morning, it took a generous application of concealer to hide the bags under your eyes and a heavy pep talk in the mirror to even think about stepping out your door.

As with most Monday mornings, as soon as you walked into the bullpen, it was a cacophony of chaos, but at least it was chaos you were familiar with. You make your way to your desk, offering halfhearted greetings, and feel slight relief as you settle into your seat, hoping that work will keep your brain busy enough not to let the anxiety ruin your day.

Then your gaze fixes on the paper coffee cup placed in front of your keyboard. Your name is written in a familiar chicken scratch handwriting. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you swivel in your seat, looking back at the writer block to see that Clark Kent is already sitting at his desk. Hunched and fidgeting with a stack of Post-it notes as he catches your eye. His mouth tilts up into an uncertain smile.

You purse your lips, a scowl forming on your face as you grab the coffee cup, maintaining unblinking eye contact as you proceed to drop it directly into the garbage can next to your desk, and then you spin back around.

Clark grimaces. “Yeah, I deserve that,” he mutters as he looks back at the blank Word document that’s been taunting him since he got in this morning.

It wasn’t any surprise how quickly word got around about Clark’s spectacular failure. Steve had walked by his desk after the morning meeting, giving a ‘womp womp’ that made Clark nearly snap the pencil he was writing with.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jimmy slides over, munching on some yogurt and granola. “You finally ask out the woman you’ve been pining after for who knows how long, then proceed to miss the date entirely without texting her that you wouldn’t be able to make it, and then show up at her apartment with flowers, thinking that would make up for the complete lack of communication?”

Clark sighs. “Yeah, that about covers it.” His voice is muffled as he buries his face in his hands.

“Buddy,” Jimmy starts. “You really fucked up.”

Clark groans, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, Jimmy, I know.”

He didn’t even want to look over at Lois because all she kept doing was sending him looks of disappointment the whole morning. She had stopped by your desk this morning with a grin on her face that quickly morphed into a look of horror as you recounted Friday night’s events.

Even Cat, who was usually all honeyed words with Clark, had been giving him the stink eye.

Honestly, though, no one else could make Clark feel as bad as he made himself feel about the whole thing. He had spent the weekend agonizing over how badly he had messed up with you. The sound of you crying on the other side of the door replaying in his head like his own personal version of hell.

He even called his parents.

“Oh, Clark, honey,” Martha soothed. “You wounded that woman’s pride, you just gotta give her some time to cool off.”

“I don’t know, Ma, I think I really messed this one up,” he said, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he felt the telltale pressure of tears building up.

“Now, Clark, no problem worth fixin’ is ever easy.” He couldn’t see them, but he knew Pa was nodding along. “If this girl is everything you’ve made her out to be, she’ll come around.”

The week passes by, and you coming around is nowhere in sight. Every cup of coffee he left on your desk went directly into the trash, the bouquets of your favorite flowers were pawned off to the secretaries, and the lunches were donated to the breakroom on a first-come, first-served basis.

When he went to drop off drafts for you to edit, you pointedly ignored him. To your credit, the edits you made were not as harsh as he’d thought they’d be in light of everything, though there was an apparent lack of any compliments in the margins that he always found himself looking forward to reading (and re-reading).

“Why don’t you come out tonight?” Lois asks on Friday morning. You give her a look, knowing the standing invite for Friday night drinks includes everyone in the office. “C’mon, he won’t be there, he never shows up.”

You pause, chewing at the inside of your lip, internally hemming and hawing. “I’ll think about it,” you finally concede, which is enough to get Lois to grin, a little pep in her step as she makes her way back to the writer block.

Friday afternoon, Jimmy comes sauntering over to you like a cat that got into the cream. He plants himself on your desk, ignoring your look of indignation when he crumples a few drafts you were working on with his ass. “Check out these photos I just finished developing,” he says as he spreads a handful of photos of Superman in front of you. They’re remarkably clear, some of the best pictures you have ever seen of Big Blue. “I was testing out that new lens I just got.” They were from a fight earlier this week in uptown.

Despite your frequently voiced objections to Metropolis’s favorite hero, you give Jimmy a hum of approval, picking one up to closer inspect it. “These are pretty good, how’d you get such a good shot of him in the air?” you ask.

“Climbed up a light pole,” he informs nonchalantly, grabbing some M&Ms from the candy bowl on your desk.

Your neck snaps to look at him. “James!”

“What?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Gotta do what it takes to get the shot.”

You let out a huff. “Unbelievable, you’re gonna break your neck one of these days.” You continue to sort through the photos, setting aside the ones you know Perry will submit for the front page.

“Haven’t yet,” he says, cheekily popping a few M&Ms in his mouth with a wink.

The final photo is a zoomed-in shot of Superman’s face. He’s smiling down at a few children who have gathered around him in the aftermath of the battle, a familiar softness to his face. You straighten up a bit, holding the photo closer to examine it.

“What’s up?” Jimmy asks when he sees your shift in posture.

You feel like you’ve seen it before, the blue of his eyes, the gentle tilt of his lips hinting at dimples, but the rest of the face is… wrong.

Maybe you’re losing it.

“Nothing,” you reply. “Really great work, Jimmy. Perry is definitely going to run this on the front page.”

Jimmy gives a grin.

You end up at the bar, thinking it might be good for you to let your hair down, literally and figuratively, for the night. Lois lights up when she sees you making your way through the Friday night crowd, and Jimmy has a drink in your hand before you even get a chance to sit down.

You’re listening to Cat go on and on about the guy she’s seeing, and given the debacle of the last week, it should annoy you to hear someone gush about their dating life, but the giddiness on Cat’s face is infectious so instead you sit there resting your chin on your hand with a smile on your face as you nod along asking all the appropriate questions.

It’s loud in the bar between all the people and the music playing, so you barely register the bell above the door ringing. You do, however, clock Jimmy turning to Lois and saying, “He never comes out.”

Instinctively, you turn in your seat, immediately locking eyes with Clark. He looks like he just left the office, suit coat slung over his arm and tie loosened. He’s moving through the crowd towards you, not breaking eye contact as though he’s scared you’ll disappear if you do, only to be intercepted by Lois. “Hey, Clark,” she greets, a tight fake smile plastered on her face. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Uh, yeah, well, not a lot going on tonight, so I figured I’d come… socialize,” he says lamely. You don’t see the flat look that Lois gives him.

Both of them look back at you. You catch Lois’s eyes and give her a little nod of your head, calling off your (very effective) guard dog. However, she narrows her eyes at Clark in a silent warning before returning to her conversation with Jimmy, who had been watching the entire exchange while taking a very long sip of his fruity cocktail.

Clark takes the empty seat next to you. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, fidgeting with his tie.

You stare at him as you play with the straw of your nearly empty cup, unabashedly tracing the slopes and contours of his face. He shifts nervously under your gaze, and you can’t tell if the flush creeping up his neck is due to you or the stuffiness of the bar. You still don’t say anything as you lean forward, and he’s too stunned to move away as your hand reaches out, fingers pressing through the curls hanging on his forehead, brushing them back into a tidier position, spending maybe a bit too long smoothing back the sides. The caress of your nails against his scalp sends a tingle down his spine, and his breath gets caught in his throat.

You don’t say anything for too long, just maintaining eye contact with him, like you’re searching his eyes for something.

“Vodka cran,” you say, resting back into your seat, and Clark wonders if you found what you were looking for.

His ears are red, and he quickly turns to the bartender to wave them down and grab you another drink, getting a soda for himself. Conversation flows between the two of you in a surprisingly easy manner, given the events of the past week. Work-related mostly. Clark is doing a better job of not stumbling all over himself, something he’s silently patting himself on the back for.

“You’ve been on time all week,” you note. Clark tries not to focus on how your lips wrap around the straw or how your gloss has stained the plastic.

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms, the gentle lilt of his Kansan accent slipping through.

You fall silent for a moment, looking at him with such clarity in your eyes that it’s almost startling, and Clark can’t help but feel like he ground your entire conversation to a halt with just two words. “I’m gonna head out.” And then you’re grabbing your purse, tossing a few crinkled bills onto the bar as a tip before standing up.

“O-oh, okay,” Clark stammers, disappointment creeping up in him.

You’re about to step away until you glance back over your shoulder at him. “Are you going to walk me home?” You ask as though that had been the plan all along and he had just forgotten.

He blinks owlishly at your question like he’s not sure he quite heard you right. “Y-yeah!” He scrambles up, nearly knocking over his barstool, and you both head out after bidding your coworkers a goodnight. Lois cocks an eyebrow at you, but you just wiggle your fingers in goodbye.

Jimmy is giving Clark some waggling eyebrows with an enormous grin on his face that Clark is pointedly trying to ignore.

The walk home is quiet. The cool summer air is refreshing on your skin after sitting in the humidity of the bar, and the couple of drinks you had have left you a little light in the head, though it’s not an unwelcome feeling; you figure you’re going to need some liquid courage tonight anyway.

When you arrive at your apartment building, Clark walks you up to your apartment. You still don’t say anything as you take out your keys to unlock your door, and Clark swallows the lump in his throat, already preparing to say goodbye. “You coming in?” You question as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as you step into your apartment, leaving room for him to follow in after you.

“I—” He looks like a deer in the headlights. “You sure?”

You give a nod, and he steps in, albeit hesitantly, closing the door behind him. As soon as it clicks shut, you’re on him, hand pulling at the tie loosely around his neck, jerking him forward despite the other hand firmly on his chest pushing him back until he hits the door with a thud.

He looks shocked, face flushed and pupils blown wide as he doesn’t know what to do with his hands that hover at your waist but do not touch. You’re leaning up and he’s leaning down, gaze darting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. He thinks the strawberry smell is your lip gloss, and his heart won’t stop beating symphonies into his ribcage.

He doesn’t cross it, though, the invisible boundary that’s between you, even when he feels your breath fan against his lips. “I’m giving you the chance to be honest with me,” you whisper like it’s a warning, your voice husky in a way that has his insides twisting and turning.

“Okay,” he says softly.

You don’t move away as though you’re afraid he might try to run if you do. He can hear your own heart hammering in your chest. You’re nervous, he realizes. “You’re Superman.” Your tone doesn’t suggest it’s a question. It’s a statement. You know he’s Superman, and you’re allowing him the opportunity to be honest with you about it.

“Yes.”

Your heart rate speeds up. “That’s why you missed our date.”

“Yes,” he breathes like it’s painful to remember.

You finally blink, breaking eye contact to look down, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. “You really like me?” This one is a question. This one you’re unsure about.

Clark’s hands finally find purchase at your waist. The boundary between the two of you is barely hanging on by a thread. “Immensely.” Your grip on his tie loosens, and both hands are pressed gently against his chest. It wouldn’t take much; he would just have to lean down another inch or two to bring the whole thing crumbling down, but he doesn’t. “How’d you figure it out?” he asks.

“Your eyes,” you murmur like it was an evident thing, “—and your little… Midwestern-isms.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Oh, he was in so deep. “My Midwestern-isms?”

“’Yes, ma’am,’” you mock with a bad accent, not at all what he sounds like, and you bite your lip to hide your grin. “How does it work? Your face is… different than Superman’s.”

“The glasses,” he informs, tilting his head. “They’re hypno-glasses, make me look a little bit different, just enough.”

Your hands surge upward before you even know what they’re doing, stopping just shy as you look to Clark for permission, and he nods. As you take off the glasses, it’s like his face comes into focus when you never even realized it had been blurry before. Edges sharpen and define, his nose a little straighter, lips a little fuller, jaw a little squarer.

Moreover, he stands differently when the glasses come off. His shoulders rearrange, and he’s taller now, more confident… broader.

Superman.

“You know everything is starting to make sense,” you ponder as you set the glasses on your entrance table, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. You’re still standing close, his hands on your hips, not allowing you to wander too far from his orbit.

“Yeah?” Even his voice seems crisper, deeper now.

“Mhm,” you hum, “—you’re constantly being late, disappearing whenever some crisis pops up…” You laugh a bit. “I’m actually kind of mad at myself for not realizing it sooner.”

“I thought you might’ve thrown a shoe at me or something,” he admits.

You pull back, giving him an incredulous look. “What?”

“With you not liking Superman and all,” he elaborates. “Figured you would read me the riot act, at least.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t like Superman.”

“Oh?” Eyebrows raise on his forehead. “First time I’m hearing this.”

You shove him, lightly, though he doesn’t move, solid under your touch. “It’s this… dependency we have on him—you,” you correct. “Superman—you—you’re not our savior, and we shouldn’t rely on you to fix every problem or to always show up. We should be able to stand on our own two feet.”

“But I want to help,” he insists, and you see it in his eyes, the earnestness in them. It’s so… Clark. “When things get hard and the world needs someone to lean on, I can carry that weight.”

“And what happens when you need someone to lean on? You may have super strength and can fly and shoot lasers out of your eyes, but you’re still—”

Human.

He doesn’t pretend the implication doesn’t crash around him like tidal waves.

You pull away a bit, not out of reach, not with his hands still wrapped around your waist. “Who’s going to carry the weight for you?” There’s sincerity in your question, and he doesn’t know how to respond because he doesn’t have an answer.

“I—”

You bite your lip as if you’re uncertain whether you should say the next part aloud, nervous to speak those feelings into the universe. “I can,” you say softly.

“I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“But I want to help.” You throw his words back at him, and he’s at a loss for what to say. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. He wants to kiss you so bad, but he’s afraid of being the one to cross that line.

“Clark.”

He doesn’t know if there’s a sweeter sound than his name on your lips.

“Just kiss me already.”

Except maybe that.

He’s surging forward in the next moment, mouth hot against yours. The barrier is dust between you. He tastes like the remnants of the sugary soda he’d ordered at the bar, and a quick swipe of his tongue against your lips confirms that your lip gloss is strawberry flavored.

You walk backwards, unsteady but confident, hands firmly tugging him along by his shirt, all the while not breaking the kiss that has your brain in a dizzy fog. You can’t help the giggle that escapes as you bump into your destination, the couch, causing your teeth to clatter together.

Clark smiles against your lips as his hands lower, gripping at your thighs as he lifts you off the ground so effortlessly that it has you letting out a quiet ‘oh��. His deep laugh goes straight to your core, and he settles onto the couch with you on top of him, your hands running through his hair, gripping it in a way that has him giving a low groan.

“Is this okay?” he asks in between kisses as though you’re not actively grinding down onto him.

A whimper escapes you as his hard-on catches the seam of your pants just right. “I will actually kill you if you stop.” The normal bite of your tone has given way to desperation. Clark’s entire body warms at that.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your mouth, hands wandering to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him while bucking up into you. He leans back for a moment, placing another peck on your lips as his fingers start making work of the buttons on your blouse. When your cleavage comes into view, accentuated by your bra, something plain and practical, you hear Clark let out a shaky breath followed by an ‘oh, golly’ that has you a giggling mess on top of him. He grins, grabbing hold of the side of your neck as he pulls you back into a kiss. “You’re so pretty.”

You nip at his bottom lip. “I could tell by the ‘oh, golly,’” you tease, though your smugness doesn’t last for long as Clark has you on your back against the couch pillows a second later.

You watch reverently as he unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off before pulling off his undershirt. He’s like a peacock, the way he fluffs up as your mouth goes slack, seeing what he was hiding underneath oversized button-ups and baggy suits for the last three years.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe. “What the fuck were they feeding you in Kansas?”

He shakes with laughter as he leans back down, slotting himself in between your legs so he can reconnect your mouths, hand sliding up your side to palm your breast, not waiting long to slide underneath the cup of your bra. You arch up into him as his thumb brushes against your nipple, moaning quietly into his mouth, a sound he eagerly swallows down.

He trails kisses to your cheek, down your neck, spending a bit more time nipping and biting there when you give a shaky gasp. He continues down, pressing kisses to the top of your breasts, before trailing down to your ribs to your stomach until settling right above the waist of your pants.

You barely register him unbuttoning your pants until he drags them and your underwear down in one fell swoop. You cant your hips, letting him take them the rest of the way off, trying not to giggle as he throws the heap across your living room. A problem for tomorrow you.

Self-consciousness pricks at your brain as he spreads your legs, fingertips biting into your thighs, and in the glow of the moonlight streaming in through your apartment windows, you watch him lick his lips as he stares down at you, suddenly, any self-doubt fizzles away. One hand trails up your inner thigh to your core, spreading you so he can take in more of the sight. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs before he bends down.

A breathy moan escapes you as he licks a stripe up your center. “Fuck, Clark.” That eggs him on, and he swirls his tongue around your clit in a way that has you reaching down and gripping his hair. There’s a finger prodding at your entrance and then two that are curling into you at just the right spot.

Your chest heaves as you sink further into the couch, eyes fluttering to the back of your head as your apartment is filled with the obscene noises of Clark eating you out, groaning as he mutters about how good you taste. The feeling of his spit mixed with your own liquids trailing down your ass is overwhelming, and then he sucks at your clit in a way that has your toes curling.

“Clark, please,” you beg. You can feel the band at your core tightening with each swipe of his tongue and thrust of his fingers.

He pulls back slightly, now three fingers deep, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaches. “Cum on my fingers.”

Your breath hitches at mild-mannered Clark Kent telling you to cum on his fingers. He dives back in with enthusiasm, which is all it takes as your hips buck up into his face, and he gladly lets you grind against his mouth, especially with the sounds you’re making as you tighten around his fingers. His fingers continue pumping in and out of you as you ride out your orgasm, his name on your lips like a prayer as his lips greedily drink up all you give him.

He leans back, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he watches you catch your breath and give a little whine when his fingers don’t relent, tugging on his hair. A grin works its way onto his face, and he takes pity on your overstimulated self, pulling his fingers out as he presses a kiss to your thigh before crawling back up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he licks at your bottom lip.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, drawing him deeper into the kiss, and you can feel the heavy weight of him against your thigh.

“Good?” he asks as he draws back from you, breathless.

“I think I blacked out at one point,” you respond, still feeling a little lightheaded, which is only exacerbated when he grinds his hips against yours and nips at your neck. “Now take your pants off.” You order as you push him back, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Bossy,” he teases as he stands, unbuttoning his slacks, letting them drop to the floor. You don’t even have time to register anything else when he pulls down his briefs, and you can only stare with your mouth wide open and brows raised high on your forehead at the size of him. Clark looks a bit uncertain. “Is this okay?”

You surge to your feet and pull him down into a kiss. “It’s always the quiet ones,” you murmur more to yourself as you push him back onto the couch with no resistance and climb up onto his lap. He practically whimpers when you grind onto him. “Seriously, what the fuck were they feeding you?” You question against his lips as you slot yourself against his cock. Naked against him, you really take in how large Clark is in every capacity.

His hands have settled on the globes of your ass, letting you take the reins as you move your hips against his, the wet friction has him moaning into your mouth. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “Thought about this so much.”

“Yeah?” You ask. “Thought about me on top of you a lot, huh?” He nods and tilts his head back as you jut your hips against just at the right spot. You kiss down his jawline, whispering into his ear. “What else have you thought about? Stuffing me full of your cock?”

He stammers a bit, his brain short-circuiting at your dirty talk, and heat spreads up to his ears. “Y-yeah, thought about how good you’d look with me inside you,” he admits.

You reach down between you, grabbing hold of him, and his hips stutter up against your hand, moaning at the feel of your soft skin against his cock. The next thing he knows, you’re sinking onto him and he’s committing the hot, wet heat of your pussy to memory. The burn is expected given his size, and you whine with each inch of him you take.

Clark is a whimpering mess beneath you, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries not to move, letting you set your own pace, though the iron grip he has on your waist is going to leave bruises tomorrow. “So good, so good,” he repeats as he presses kisses into your shoulder. “Gosh, you’re so tight.”

You let the ‘gosh’ slide, given how full of him you are right now. It’s almost overwhelming the size of him, and just when you’re sure you’ve taken him all, you feel yourself slide down another inch. “Christ, you’re so big,” you whine, and you can feel his cock twitch inside of you at that.

“You can’t just say that,” he practically begs, voice cracking slightly, and he’s so tense, you can feel how taut all of his muscles are beneath you.

It’s sweet relief when you feel him bottom out in you and you stay there for a moment, letting yourself adjust, the stinging pain of the stretch not unpleasant, and when you feel more confident you’ve adjusted, you give an experimental thrust of your hips that has you both gasping.

You give another, and you can practically hear Clark grinding his teeth together, and then you raise yourself up, thighs shaking, before slamming back down. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you set a rhythm, a little sloppy at first as you lean forward to mash your mouths together, Clark whispering praises against your lips.

Every now and then, he leans back to take in the sight of you bouncing on his cock, completely hypnotized by the sight of your pussy swallowing him and the noises you make each time he bottoms out in you.

The rubber band begins to pull tight in your belly, and your thighs wobble, the rhythm faltering. “Clark.” It comes out as a plea. “Fuck me.”

Whatever restraint Clark has snaps at your words. One hand reaches up, grabbing hold of you by the back of your neck as the other digs into your waist, and then he’s forcing you up and down on his cock, hips jutting up to meet yours halfway, setting a bruising pace that has you keening, “Fuck—” you gasp out. “Oh god, I’m gonna—”

Your orgasm rips through you before you can even finish your sentence, and you feel like you’re drowning in the sensation as the world turns to white noise around you. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re so good for me.”

Clark doesn’t even give you time to come down from your high as he manhandles you off of his lap, the sudden emptiness is jarring, but it doesn’t stay that way long as he bends you over the couch, hefting your ass into the air and sliding back in.

“Such a good girl,” he groans as he resumes the hard thrusts that have you gripping the back of your couch for dear life. The only thing you can focus on is the delicious slide of his cock into you, and you think you feel tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

You’re whining, overstimulated as all hell, already feeling another orgasm beginning to bubble to the surface. “Clark, oh God, fuck—” You’re arching your back, and he hits it just right. “Ohmygod.”

A loud ‘smack’ echoes through the apartment, and you barely even register the sting on your ass cheek. “Gonna give me another one, baby?”

“Mhm,” you whine pathetically into the couch cushion. Body shaking, just trying to keep yourself up, though Clark is doing most of the heavy lifting. He reaches down, fingers circling your clit once, twice, and that’s all it takes as you buck back into him, a long, breathy moan escaping you as you cum again. It feels like every nerve in your body is on fire, and you think you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

You barely register him asking, “Where do you want it?”

Your mouth automatically babbling out, “Inside—fuck—cum inside me.”

That has his hips stuttering before he buries himself to the hilt, groaning lowly, and you can feel the warmth spread inside you. You’re both frozen like that, breathing heavily, and then Clark pulls out with a low hiss, gathering you up in his arms before collapsing back onto the couch, you cradled on top of him, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you finally breathe after a moment of silence, and you can feel his chest shake with laughter. You tilt your head up to look at him, and he captures your lips with his before pulling away, reaching up to caress the side of your face, tracing the contours of your cheekbones with his thumb.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest—a feeling you welcome with open arms.

“So, if I agree to let you take me out to dinner again, think you’ll show up this time?”

He grins. “Yes.”

The weekend passes in a blur of tangled limbs and soft confessions. You tease Clark about all it took was you on top of him to get him to talk to you in full sentences, finally. He stammers and blames you for being so pretty.

On Monday, when Clark comes in late, he does so with a cup of your favorite coffee, and you give him a hard time, despite the smile on your face, with no real bite to your words. Clark is on the receiving end of some light teasing from Lois and Jimmy, who, quite frankly, are relieved they won’t have to deal with a pining Clark any longer.

(They quickly realize, though, that even being together, he still stares after you as you flit about the newsroom, possibly looking even more lovestruck)

And when he submits his next Superman article to you, you still tear it to shreds. The peck on the cheek you give him as you hand him back the draft makes him feel a lot better, though.

[boqvistsbabe]

i love a supportive king

[boqvistsbabe]

[boqvistsbabe]

↳ NICO HISCHIER THIS SUMMER | 2024