goingxsteddie
goingxsteddie
Steddie as She Goes
389 posts
August || elder millennial || Buckingham truther ||Eddie x you || Steddie x you ||18+ || minors DNI fr
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goingxsteddie · 23 hours ago
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afternoon nap (and you’re in love)
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goingxsteddie · 1 day ago
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goingxsteddie · 1 day ago
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Girlssss
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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he's all that.
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clark kent x reader. (3.2k)
summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.
content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance
author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏
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“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”
Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.
Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.
“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”
“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."
“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”
“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”
“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.
He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.
“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”
Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.
You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.
Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.
Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.
He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?
Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.
“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”
“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”
Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”
“What did you just say?”
“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”
“No, the other thing.”
“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”
That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”
“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”
Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.
By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.
You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.
There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?
You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.
Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.
If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.
Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.
"Should I consider that as littering?"
Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.
"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.
He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.
"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."
"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"
His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."
"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"
"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."
That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.
"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.
"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.
"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."
"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."
"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"
"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."
"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"
"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."
"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.
He laughs. "And that too."
He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.
“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.
“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”
“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”
“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”
He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”
“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”
“How so?”
“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”
“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.
“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”
“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”
You blink. “You read my articles?”
He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”
”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”
“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”
You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”
“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”
“Oh, not really.”
For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.
“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”
“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.
“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”
Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”
He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”
“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”
He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”
“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”
“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”
“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.
“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”
“No..”
“Does he ask other people about their articles?”
“Not that I know of?”
“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”
You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.
“I think you should have a talk with him.”
The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”
The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.
Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.
You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-
A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”
“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”
You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.
“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”
He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”
You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”
That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”
You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”
“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”
You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.
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a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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he is touch starved — Clark Kent
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summary: clark had never realized just how touch starved he was until you came into his life and started touching him like it was your god given right. notes: disgustingly sweet. a thank you for 100<3 and also because this was the most voted fic, ty to everyone who voted! word count: 5.5k words content warning: size difference, a lot of physical affection, clark is down bad but also so stupid, weird girl! f reader (she is autism coded), clark is obsessed with you and how tiny you are compared to him. mention of reader having hair (bc i felt like her haircut made a lot of sense to who she was). i hope i didnt miss anything else</3 this is disgustingly fluffy, be warned, also this isn't betaread. i wrote it in like three hours straight, but still, i hope you enjoy!
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Clark had never noticed just how much he’d missed human contact until you came into his life. 
Sure, he’d had plenty of girlfriends, but somehow it had never felt enough. Kissing and having sex was nice, but he craved more. He had friends who enjoyed the occasional hug, but he needed more. 
And then you’d entered his life in a whirlwind of sparkles and pink glitter. It only took you three days to put the entire office in your pocket, wrapped around your little finger, Clark first. There was something about you that just appealed to everyone’s basal protective instincts. 
“Clark, right?” you had said to him the first time you both met properly. You’d offered him a hand, soft and small and nails freshly painted with a pearl pink hue. You were wearing clay rings. Each of them more colored than the last one. Your fingers were long and small, and when he’d held your hand with his to greet you, he was suddenly afraid of accidentally breaking you. You were just so — small, and his hands were so big and so used to destroying and punching and lifting, that he was worried he’d forgotten how to handle something small and precious. 
Your hand was just as he’d imagined it. It was like his own hand had been molded with yours in mind, so that could slot together like two pieces of the same puzzles.
“Uh, yes, yes. I’m Clark Kent. It’s so nice to finally meet you, and, um, of course, welcome to the office.”
Everyone knows Superman’s greatest weakness is kryptonite. But Clark Kent’s greatest weakness had always been pretty girls. He’d wished he could be more suave, more charming, but all of his cognitive abilities seemed to fly right through the window whenever you spoke to him.
As luck would have it, you were given a desk right in front of his. It took you two hours to turn it into a pink haven. You’d brought your own keyboard and mouse — both pink, of course — and a wrist pad. Your pastel purple travel mug found itself sitting next to Clark’s own and boring black thermos. 
You also had a lot of pencils, and suddenly, Clark, who’d never lost a pen before, found himself losing his every single day, just so he could ask you for once. He would feel guilty about it if you weren’t always so sweet about it. 
One week into your job, you’d become sort of friends, bound together by missing pencils and neighbor mugs. 
Every time you caught him staring at you, you just stuck your tongue out at him, making him flush so red you actually got worried for him. 
The first time you’d touched him unexpectedly, Clark had thought his powers had left him and that he’d turned human, because his heart had suddenly stopped working. 
It was during lunch, but he’d stayed behind, too into the text he was writing and he wasn’t willing to lose that state of flow just to go eat something he couldn’t even properly appreciate. You’d come backv into the office first, holding in your arms two sandwiches and a drink — you look like you need to eat a lot to keep up with that muscle, you’d explained, so it was just the two of you. 
“Hey,” you said. “I saw that you didn’t take a lunch break so I brought you something to eat.” Your rings shone in the midday light. 
Clark had looked up, entire body shifting to face you, article instantly forgotten. “Oh, um… that’s so sweet of you, thank you so much. You shouldn’t have, really, but I appreciate it immensely.”
His face had turned red once again. You put the food on his desk and approached him, slightly frowning. “Are you sick?” you’d asked. And before waiting for an answer, you gently touched his forehead with the back of your fingers.
His entire body had gone rigid, before slowly melting until he was entirely sure that he’d turned into a puddle. Subconsciously, mortifyingly, he’d realized that his head had leaned against your touch, like a sunflower always trying to reach for the sun. He couldn’t get enough. A simple touch, and he’d already gotten addicted. 
Your hand was fresh like a summer breeze, and soft the way clouds felt when he slowly flew through one. Her touch was morning dew against his feverish skin.
“Oh gee,” you said. “You’re quite hot. Are you sure you’re okay to keep working?”
And you were so genuine. You had no idea that the only reason he was this hot was because you were talking to him, and now your hand was touching him, and the only moments he’d ever felt this good was when he flew close to the sun.
“It’s fine,” he croaked out. “I’m fine. It will pass, I promise. But thank you for your worry, and the food. Really– thank you, darling.”
The petname had come out unbidden and Clark was really close to just giving up and fleeing Metropolis altogether to go back to Smallville. Why did he even think that a farmboy like him could be made into a city boy?
But – you’d blushed, at the petname, and you’d let out the softest Oh he was only able to hear thanks to his superhearing, instead of slapping him and running away, and maybe he hadn’t messed everything up. Maybe he could still stay in Metropolis for one more day. Maybe he could still be your friend for one more day. 
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One month into your friendship, Clark Kent had hopelessly and pathetically fallen in love with you. He couldn’t help it. None of his Kryptonian biology had helped him prepare for the hurricane that was your existence. He had survived the destruction of his own home planet; he could survive an entire building falling down on him; he could hold his own against the universe’s strongest creatures. But all of that meant nothing in the face of your shy smile and your glitter. 
As naturally as water inescapably found its way back to the ocean, Clark had found its way right to you. Falling in love with you was just the natural consequence of life and atoms and everything else Clark hadn’t listened to in class. 
He hadn’t messed anything up yet, but he was messed up. Simply from seeing your smile first thing at the office, or smelling that kiss touch of vanilla that always floated around you.
“So…” Lois started, with a knowing glint in her eyes that meant that she’d found a good source to dig from. She was half sitting against Clark’s desk, one bent leg against his desk, the other stretched, while she cradled a cup of coffee — nine parts sugar, one part watery coffee — with both hands.  “You and the office’s sunshine, huh?”
“What the what?” he yelped, sitting up straight in his chair. You’d gone to the break room, but it didn’t mean that you couldn’t accidentally overhear Lois from there, even if Clark knew that you were completely human (even if your otherworldly beauty begged otherwise). “What are you talking about, Lois? There’s… there’s nothing between her and me,” he whispered, his heart a spooked rabbit trying to outrun a wolf — Lois.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. I know you, Clark.”
And she did. They’d dated before. They gave it a shot, and they were good together. Nothing crazy, just good. And so, three months into the relationship, they’d both naturally came to the decision that they were better off as friends. But that also meant that Lois knew him better than any of his other friends, and nothing flies past her. It’s part of what made her so good as a reporter, and so bad as a friend. 
“I hate you,” he’d muttered angrily. Well, as angrily as he could get. 
“I love you too, big guy,” she replied mirthfully, taking a sip of her disgusting potion. He’d tried it once and almost spat it out. The only reason he didn’t actually spit it out was because his ma had raised him better than that, so he’d reluctantly swallowed everything with a wince-smile while Lois was busy making fun of him and Jimmy had taken pictures of the entire ordeal with his fancy camera. Very humbling experience. “So, why aren’t you asking her out?” she asked, bending forward to look him in the eyes. The sugary smell of her potion was potent and sickening.
“None of your business,” he’d replied, trying to sound stern, but failing almost adorably so. 
“Clark,” she started. “You know I’m always right, right?”
He nodded, but reluctantly. She was right of course — as always — but that didn’t mean that he had to like, or even accept it.
“So trust me when I say this: she likes you too. Go for it. Stop being a pussy.”
His mouth opened before closing, realizing he’d almost manexplained to Lois Lane — the most woman to ever woman (and also accessorarily the world’s most feminist person he’d ever met) — how saying that word to insult someone was sexist and misogynist because it implied that people with a female reproductive organ were somehow less than people who didn’t. 
She knew. She knew he’d almost done that, and she was looking evilly gleeful about it. He’s half convinced she only used that word around him to mess with him.
“Think about it. Sleep on it. Do whatever the hell you want with it, but for the love of God, talk to her and confess. I’m sick and tired of seeing the two of you pine over each other like the world’s pinkest reendition of Romeo and Juliet.”
Maybe she was right. But Clark Kent was a coward. Maybe Superman wasn’t, but Clark was, and that’s how it is. He was too afraid of losing you to ever risk it, even if the reward was high. 
Heels clicked against the floorboard, approaching the two of them. Your crinkets were softly tinkering together, announcing your presence with your very own theme.
“Hi Lois,” you chirped at her with one of your dizzying smile. Even Lois wasn’t immune against it. Then, you turned to him. “Hi Clark, how are you?” you asked. And then you did the thing that you always did yet always took him in complete disarray — you brushed the messy curls on his forehead. He didn’t know why you did it, only that you did it whenever you saw his hair was messier than usual. And just like every single other time you did it, his shoulders dropped and his head leaned towards your touch, like a dog asking without asking for more pets. 
Lois was watching the two of you with the focus of someone who’d just stumbled across the idea of their next top story. “Remember what I told you, lover boy,” she’d said to him as parting words.
Lover boy. He closed his eyes and used all of his strength not to blush again.
“Hey darling,” he said instead, ignoring Lois and her mocking vibes. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore but he could feel her judging and mocking him inwardly. “Um, I’m good thank you. How are you?”
“I’m good,” you replied, but you sounded distracted and unlike yourself. He opened his eyes to look at you, and found you slightly frowning, looking at Lois’ retreating figure. “Lover boy?” you asked, sounding so unsure and betrayed Clark’s heart broke. Gosh darn Lois. She’d probably done it on purpose, like the world’s most evil Cupid. 
“She just calls me that sometimes to make fun of me,” he explained quickly, stumbling over his words. “She, uh… there’s nothing between her and me. I mean, we used to date, but really, we were better off as friend so we quickly broke up, and there are no lasting feelings.”
For a man who could face the sun directly in space without flinching, watching your face break into the world’s sunniest smile without looking away was his weakness. 
“Okay. I like it,” you said. “Lover boy. It really suits you.”
I could be your lover boy if you just said the word, he thought so fervently he’d worried he’d accidentally sent it to you through telepathy — let alone that telepathy wasn’t one of the super powers he had. 
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Clark Kent stayed late at work the next day, not because he had an important deadline coming up, but because you’d stayed late, and he didn’t feel good at the thought of leaving you behind all alone — and worse, walking home all by yourself, with only your cat keychains and frog clay rings and your disarming smile as protection. 
So he pretended he had to stay behind too, and used that time to actually be productive, but the majority of his time was spent gazing upon you. If Lois were here, she would tell him to stop the sickening yearning and act like a man, but she wasn’t here, so that meant Clark could be as disgustingly and as pathetically forlorn as he wanted to be. 
He was lucky you were completely dead to the rest of the world when you were working, because it meant that he could drink his fill of you all he wanted. 
Your hair was looking particularly soft and pretty that night. He had never seen it before, this type of haircut, but you’d said it was a jellyfish hair cut because you loved jellyfishes, and that if you could, you would become one. 
It was shorter in the front and longer in the back. He wasn’t very good with everything that had to do with hair care and even skin care — when he dated Lois, she’d hated how he could just wash his face with handsoap and have a clearer skin than her, even though she had a ten-step skin care routine daily and nightly — but he was willing to make an effort for you, just so he could understand you and everything you did better. 
The tips of your hair were pink too, and you had two front long strands of hair pink too. It made him go crazy. He’d probably lost ten hours of his life that he’ll never get back just staring at your hair and wishing he was woman enough to touch them just like you always touched his with ease, as if it was your birthright. (Clark would definitely not make you think otherwise.)
Lois was wrong, though. He wasn’t a lover boy. He was love sick.
When he offered you to walk you home and you’d said yes, he had to take a second to calm down enough to not combust. 
Your hand kept brushing his as you walked, because you were the kind of person whose arms swung as they walked, and he tried so hard to not find that as devastatingly endearing as he did. And of course, he failed. Everything about you was a losing battle to him, only in the loveliest of ways. 
You’d almost gotten to your place when you stopped him with a hand on his — his heart going thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. — and you asked him to wait for you while you stared at the rat the size of a shoe that was holding a honest to God piece of cheese in his ratty hands, eating it without a single care in the world. 
You were a strange girl. The kind of girl who stopped traffic to help a lazy pigeon who refused to fly away from getting killed. The kind of girl who forgot to continue talking because you’d noticed a dog walking down the straight in a way that was particularly cute (you said the same thing about all types of dogs). And now the kind of girl who thought somehow that a rat eating cheese was the world’s most entertaining sight. Clark was sure that if Perry had allowed you to, you would write about it and fight to get it on the first page.
And Clark would fight with you.
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The first time you held his hand and kept it in yours was the second time he’d walked you home. You were the one who actually asked him if he wanted to walk with you, and he said of course, anything for you. Well, he didn’t actually say it, but he thought it so strongly he felt it vibrate his bones. 
You’d held his hand because you noticed a bakery you’d never seen before, and said that you must try it, or else the croissants and what have you will be sad, because they definitely called for you, and it would be rude to not answer their call.
So, you grabbed his hand and dragged him the other way of your way home, and didn’t let go of his hand. Not even while you ordered for the both of you, or when he’d fought you to pay for everything (he won, because of course he did).
You only let go of his hand when you realized that sitting and eating was impossible while holding hands. So you squeezed his hand softly before letting go, as if you were sad to do so, and sat down.
Clark’s heart threatened to flee from his mouth.
“This is good, right?” you said, before even biting into your cookie. 
(Maybe you’d meant this as in, the two of you, sitting in a bakery, eating together. Like a date.)
“Y-yeah,” Clark said, before clearing his throat. “Really good.”
He didn’t even know what you’d picked for him. He hadn’t paid any attention to anything in the entire bakery but you and everything in your vicinity. 
When you both left the bakery, you’d taken his hand in yours. Water, ocean, all that. (Bury Clark with that feeling.)
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“What is this?” Clark asked, looking at you with a blend of helpless adoration and expectation. It was a few days after the unofficial official date, and instead of telling him good morning like a normal person, you’d branded a gift in his face like a threat. 
“A gift,” you replied helpfully. “I saw it yesterday and it made me think of you. I hope you like it.”
You could offer him a brown leaf and he’ll encase it in resin so he could keep it forever. 
He opened the gift wrapping gently, aware of how Jimmy and Lois had not so discreetly rolled their chairs to his desk, neck craning trying to spy and cursing him for taking so damn long.
It was a box of pencils. A pack of a dozen pencils, with Superman design. Did you know? No, that was impossible. But how..?
“You like it? Maybe I should have gotten you pencils like mine? I don’t know, I just thought since you always lost your pencils, this would help you. Not that I don’t like lending you mine, of course, that’s not what I’m saying, but I thought maybe that would be nice? Especially if I’m not here one day to lend you one, so you can always be prepared,” you said, both excited and nervous, slightly bouncing on your feet. “So, do you like it? Do you? Or should I change it?”
“No!” he said, before clearing his throat, aware of how insane he’d just sounded. “No, I mean, no, don’t do that, I love it, and I love that you thought of me like that. Thank you so much, darling.”
I won’t ever use them. I’ll just keep them in my shrine of you, he thought. 
Your smile was blinding.
Lois coughed. “Lover boy,” she said, disgusted. Jimmy snorted. They both went back to their desk.
You’d used no strength but throwing yourself at him to hug him punched the air out of his lungs. 
He’d almost forgotten how small you were, until you were pressed against him and his hands instinctively found their place on each side of your waist and he realized he could easily circle your waist with just two hands. 
And then he was blushing for a completely different reason. 
After that, he kept noticing it. How you barely came up to his chest, how his left hand could easily hide both of yours if he wanted to. 
He didn’t think you were made for him. He thought he was born this way just for you. 
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He was invited to your place after almost four months of friendship. Simultaneously the best and worst four months of his entire life. Lois’ words haunted him every waking moment. Even when he was Superman and was fighting for his life, he kept thinking about it.
What if I just confess right here and then?
But no. Not yet. He didn’t want to rush anything. 
Your apartment was exactly the way he’d envisioned it to be. Pastel pink and colorful and sparkly, and homey. You didn’t have a couch, and you said it was because you preferred sitting on the floor. You said it’s a family tradition, and you’d grown used to it. 
So he sat down on your soft carpet (of course it was soft, you hated anything that wasn’t), knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees like a little kid, waiting for you as you prepared homemade strawberry lemonade. 
“There you go,” you said, handing him a tall glass of pink lemonade. “Make yourself at home. I hope the carpet’s not too uncomfortable for you. If you want, we can move to my bedroom so you can sit on my bed.”
The simple thought of him being inside your bedroom was enough to make him flustered. “N-no, that’s alright, I don’t mind sitting like this.”
Especially not when you’d sat down cross legged right next to him, so close your knees touched. Clark’s entire focus was on that single point of contact. The rest of his body no longer existed. He could only feel his knee, and the rest of you. 
He wished he could ask you to hold his hand again. Touch his hair, touch his thigh. Make the rest of his body come alive again. 
But he was too scared. Too much of a coward. 
But as if you’d heard him, your hand was on his thigh and you were suddenly on your knees, showing him something on your phone excitedly. You were showing him pictures of the time you’d decided to follow the color pink all over Metropolis and ended up in Gotham, but had to go back home because there wasn’t nothing pink in Gotham.
He took a huge sip of his lemonade, barely tasting it. He was sure it was delicious, but he just couldn’t handle just how close you were. 
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It became a regular occurence, Clark going to your place. At first, it was just after work, after he walks you home. But then, you invited him over during weekends as well, and then days off too. Until suddenly, he was at your place almost every single time. 
That day, when he came over, you opened the door in your pajamas and quickly dragged him inside your living room without even bothering to say hi. Clark figured you’d forgotten how to be a human again.
But this time, instead of stopping at your living room, you took him to your bedroom. He’d never seen it before today, partly because he felt it was too intimate, even though you’d offered him plenty of time.
“We’re going to watch rom-coms until we fall asleep. I made cookies and bought chips and popcorns and drinks. You’re staying the night,” you’d declared, with the confidence of a general leading his army to battle. 
“I– um, okay?” was all he could say. He couldn’t say no, even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. He hadn’t had a sleepover in eons, and while he’d never particularly cared for it, he found that he suddenly really wanted one. “I don’t have clothes, though.”
“It’s okay, you can just sleep in your boxers if none of my clothes fit you,” you said while you were sorting through actual DVDs, totally oblivious to Clark who was fighting for his life after swallowing wrong. 
If it were anyone else, Clark would have thought you said it on purpose, and that you just wanted him to get naked, because there was no possible way on Earth that any of your clothes would fit him, but this was you. The girl who said hi to every single animal she crossed in the streets. The girl who hugged like she breathed. Who thought social cues were a myth and marched to the beat of her own drums.
You probably didn’t even think anything of it, which made it really embarrassing for him to be so hung up about it.
In the end though, he did find clothes that fit, because you were a lover of oversized clothing and you hoarded them like dragons hoarded gold. But Clark could smell the faint smell of men, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were from your old boyfriends. 
He really despised the idea of wearing clothes that once belonged to men who were with you in a way he never would be, but he did it anyway, just because you were so happy you found him something to wear.
Dressed comfortably (it wasn’t as bad, all things considered, because he only smelt the other guys if he really focused, and your smell was the strongest one anyway), you made him get on the bed before bringing all of the snacks — holy moly, you’d even cooked — and climbing next to him. You pressed play on the first movie of your choice — The Princess Bride — and nestled comfortably against him, your head against his shoulder.
Clark may have stopped breathing for ten minutes because he was so worried he would somehow bother you, until you’d murmured sleepily about how weird it was that he didn’t seem to be breathing at all. 
God, he loved you. He loved everything about you, and it was getting more difficult by the day to keep hiding how he felt.
But there was nothing he wouldn’t do for preserving his relationship with you. 
He wasn’t really sure why you’d picked The Notebook as part of your rom-com marathon, but he didn’t question it. Especially not when it meant that you sobbed into his neck, crying about how it was so unfair and how sad it was. 
He just held you through it, wrapping you with his arms, reminded once again of just how bigger he was. How easy it would be for him to protect you against anything and everything. 
“There, there,” he cooed, gently holding you against him.
You sniffed one last time before untangling yourself from his arms. You wiped your snotty nose with the sleeve of your pajamas. “Okay, I’m done crying,” you said.
He chuckled, because this such a you thing to do — deciding that you’re done with something, and just stopping. 
“Let’s watch Pride & Prejudice now,” you said.
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You sighed dreamily. “Mr Darcy is the dream, isn’t he?”
Clark had nothing against men, or women. Only the fact that they weren’t you.
“He’s alright,” he said, trying not to sound jealous. He was here. Darcy wasn’t even real. And Clark was sure he could treat you better than a man who insulted Elizabeth in the same breath he confessed to her with. 
“You don’t get it,” you huffed indignantly. “It’s the yearning, the desperation, the restraint. So dreamy,” you repeated. 
Clark thought to himself that he did all of that on the daily, and you never noticed. Why didn’t he get that treatment too?
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Today was finally the day, Clark thought. He was going to ask you out. No, scratch that, he was going to ask you if you would do him the honor of being his girlfriend.
Quite frankly, he wasn’t completely ready yet, but as Lois had told him the night before, he was only going to regret not asking you out now. She said she overheard you talking to coworkers abou a guy who asked her out, and Clark realized he had to act quick.
There was no way he could let someone else steal you from him.
So, he’d asked you to meet him at a fancy restaurant downtown. He told you to wear fancy, though he didn’t care if you came in sleepwear.
He came thirty minutes early, because he was a loser like that (Lois’ words, not his). He was just so worried that something would happen and he would lose you forever. 
He almost tilted the chair back when he saw you, because he stood up so fast and so strongly. 
You were absolutely stunning. Of course, he always thought you were stunning, but tonight even more so. You were radiant, and you reminded him of the moon. Not just the moon you can see with the naked eye. But the moon he sees when he’s in space, and it’s so bright and huge it was all he could think about.
You were breathtaking, and he was so glad for his Kryptonian biology for the nth time around you, because he wasn’t sure how he could have survived you without his in-built invincibility.
“You look absolutely mesmerizing,” he said. And he was so convinced that you were the prettiest sight the universes had to offer that he didn’t even sound flustered for him. 
You blushed prettily, and he fought the urge to kiss you right then and there. 
He pulled the chair back for you and helped you sit down.
You talked about everything and nothing. Conversation had always been so easy with you. You could talk to him about the life cycle of bugs, and he would be just as enthralled. And you did, by the way, you spoke of bugs to him one day for almost four hours. Another day, you talked about ducks for five. You weren’t even being smart or scientific about it. You were just talking about how cute and fluffy they were, and how you loved going to the parc to watch them all day long. 
But he knew he was running out of time when their desserts came in (you picked his dessert because it was your second option, and you couldn’t make up your mind so you asked him to pick it so you could taste both, and he happily obliged). 
It was now or never.
He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I have something I want to ask you,” he said nervously.
You barely looked up from cutting into your lava cake. “Yes, Clark? What is it? Did you lose a pencil again? I wish I could help but I didn’t think to bring any tonight. I didn’t think we would need any.”
That made him chuckle, and it eased some of his nerves. “No, uh, it’s not about that. It’s… listen, darling, I was wondering if…”
You finally looked up, and you put your fork and knife down. “Yeah?” 
“If you would do me the honor of being my girlfriend,” he blurted out quickly before he lost his courage.
He’d imagined you reacting in a thousand ways, but frowning confusedly was not one of them. “What?” you said. 
“I, um, I am asking you out. These past few months being your friend were perfect, but I’ve always wanted more. I realized being just your friend wasn’t enough, so…”
You still looked confused. “Friend?” you repeated, head tilted to the side. “Clark, I have been your girlfriend for the past five months. What are you talking about?”
“Uh…” It was his turn to be confused. 
You started enumerating things off your fingers. “You walk me home every day, you sleep over, you have your toothbrush at my place, you let me talk to you about insect, we go on dates every day, we hold hands and hug and sleep together. Am I missing something? Isn’t this what people do when they’re together?”
Clark’s entire world just shifted on its axis. 
“I, uh…”
You were right but…
“I just assumed you didn’t want to kiss because you were too shy,” you said. “And I’m completely fine with that too. I’m shy too, so I get it.”
Clark’s brain still couldn’t form a single thought. You guys were dating all this time?
“You okay?” you asked him, leaning over the table to check his temperature on his forehead with the back of your fingers.
“Ah, yes,” he said, before clearing his throat again. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. We have been dating all this time.”
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.
cw: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, hate fucking, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of blood & violence, clark has a massive cock (ofc), sexual tension, tummy bulge, multiple orgasms, dub con, clark fucks HARD in this (2.4k wc)
𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓
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PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE clark kent had only ever dreamt of days where he'd meet his match.
he'd accepted that he was physiologically different that the humans that he kept company with. and that meant compromising. which was a multitude of things. he could only every use one percent of his actual strength in his daily tasks for starters — taking a boatload of mental fortitude to contain himself.
that applied to his sex life. an act he indulged in often.
maybe it was written in his DNA, or maybe having a significantly larger body to muscle mass meant your sex drive left you unbelievably insatiable. he couldn't tell. there wasn't much of a reference point he could compare to.
even then, it was…unfulfilling.
the women he fucked weren't to blame for it. truly. he'd learned after a couple of partners that his cock was disconcertingly massive in 'human' standards. to quote the most recent, he had a 'monster cock.' something he took literal offence to initially, but later learned that was a generic term for far exceeding 9 inches. and that meant only ever being able to fuck barely halfway in before most of them tapped out.
it was okay. he was okay with it. being superman had perks, doing good, keeping people safe. being sexually fulfilled wasn't on the forefront of his mind at all. but that didn't mean he couldn't dream of meeting someone who could keep up with him.
and that was why, clark kent was obsessed with you from the second you threw the first punch to his jaw.
"are you — … are you freakin' smiling?"
you had your knee pinned to his pulse point, knuckles flexed with clark's dried blood. other hand squishing his jaw when his smile tenses against your thumb. bloodied pearly whites peeking through. that wasn't the expression you expected from a man who was panting, bruised, and bleeding from cuts on his lips and nose.
"it hurts," he manages through a laughter of amusement, "like, actually hurts." your brows raise quizzically. it was a no shit sort of moment, because well, you'd swung at his face. repeatedly. but the crooked smile he was giving you, made your cunt clench. "okay. i do not have time to figure out what bullshit you're on. stay out of my goddamn way, superman."
he doesn't chase you when you'd gotten up, free-falling off the museum's building, thumb drive in hand.
after that, getting rid of him was near impossible. he was everywhere you were, disrupting your plans. and for some absurd reason — taking hit after hit, as if testing how much you could deal, and how much he could endure.
the next time you see him, he's skulking in your apartment, rotating a relic that didn't seem like it was from this earth.
"do you have a death wish?"
clark doesn't turn when he hears you approach him, tossing the armored headpiece up and down in his palms. "you're hera," he muses, eyes glinting when your footsteps cease where you stop short of him. the mention of your past alter-ego, sends a dreadful chill down your spine. his gaze drags over your civilian state, formal, a lanyard around your neck, pencil skirt, and a thin black rectangular framed glasses.
you snatch the item from him. dusting it off before putting it back in its' place. "i don't go by that anymore." clark stumbles backward when you shoulder past him. you don't wait before you swipe him clean off his legs, the cement floors crackling beneath his fall. "i'm giving you about twenty seconds to get out before i fuck you up, supershit."
clark reacts to that nickname instantaneously, pointing at you accusatory. "do not —" he grumbles. shaking his head before pulling himself up to his feet. you weren't paying attention to him, wrist twisted to look at the second hand tick on your watch.
"look. miss hera, i'm here to talk —"
"times up."
the force that sends him crashing into your bookshelf cracks the walls of your converted loft. you sigh, unwinding your wrist from hitting that brick wall-like chest. he doesn't want to attack you, and you see it in the way he's standing up, not getting into a defensive stance.
clark raises his palms to surrender. "please, i'm really not here to turn you in." you listen to him for a second, but you wind up to throw another. this time, he catches your fists, a crackle heard before he twists you around, pressing your fist to your back. "would you listen?" you swallow thickly, his voice blooming a warmth in you.
he grunts at you headbutting him, and you take the moment to loop your arm around his, throwing him in the direction of your television console. you briefly hear him mutter a quick 'oh geez that one hurt' in a tired boyish tone. clark looks up to the figure already charging at him. he catches you by your hips when you pounce on him, legs locked around his chest. "ow, ow, ow — i'm serious! just let me talk!"
you huff, holding him in a tight headlock where you were straddled. in the split second you hesitate, he blindly grabs around your back, holding you by the scruff of your neck before slamming you down like he was getting a feral cat off of him.
"that does it." gritting through your teeth, your heels meet the base of his jaw, and it cracks beneath the weight behind the kick. clark whines out loudly, stumbling back. his senses are attuned now, your head whips to the side when he strikes you for real, the glasses you had on flying right off.
"i really don't want to hurt you. " he pants, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. you attempt to knee him, but he catches you, the whiplash of him grabbing you by your throat has your hand grasping around his wrists. his cape flutters when clark catapults onto the other side. you let out a yelp when your back slams into the paintings behind you. he's close now, your chest heaving hard enough to graze his.
you spit out the blood that collects in your mouth, sizing him with a deadly look, "as if you can." clark looks at you intently, gaze flicking to the smear of scarlet on your lips. his jaw tightens, trying to figure out how he could get you to listen to him.
and then — he licks a stripe over your sliced bottom lip.
your whimper ghosts his jaw, and clark holds you still in place by the neck. large hands spanning your entire throat. your eyes dart to his, flitting left and right. his thumbs shift, just slightly, your pulse slowing beneath.
"you done?" he's close enough that you can feel the hum in his voice. your eye twitches at the smug tone.
"the nerve you've got…" you mutter, your own tongue catching your lower lips. he tenses at the sight of you licking over the glossiness he left.
the thrum in your chest is palpable. he feels it, and doesn't let go. the adrenaline of both the pain and closeness turning into something much more twisted.
"you're strong." clark leans close and you tip your head to the side to avoid him. he takes the opportunity to drag his nose down your neck. "as strong as i am." your breath stutters, thighs thrashing helplessly next to his hips.
"so?" you feel him sigh into your collar bone, his forehead rested on the shifted painting behind you.
"so…you can take it. take…me."
your brows furrow at that, but the answer comes in the form of the monstrosity pressed up against your abdomen, that was twitching. "is…is that what this is about? you needed a super-powered criminal fuck buddy?" the deliriousness in your tone is evident, and it seems to embarrasses him.
"this isn't ideal," he snaps in a hushed whisper. pulling back enough to turn your jaw to face him. "i know you want it too. i can…i can feel your heart rate picking up." he points out.
his face is laughably apologetic considering the span of events so far. "well, it's a given with you humping me."
clark's jaw flexes, "gosh you — the mouth on you." he sputters, the grip around your neck tightening a fraction. "you're so damn crass. this is ridiculous. what am i doing?"
you laugh in his face, and he perks up, staring blankly at just how pretty you looked when you smiled. "are you joking? you have your dick pressed onto me and you're questioning my language?"
clark winces, hips bucking into you when you point out the irony in the situation. "don't…talk like that," he's trying not to acknowledge the fact that he was quickly hardening, but your entire presence was a catalyst. "talk like what?"
he's almost certain you're being obtuse on purpose, but in the off-chance you weren't, "saying stuff like dick, and…humping so brazenly." a smile curls at the corner of your lips, and your hand drops, two of your fingers spreading apart to trace over the outline of his bulge.
"o-oh geez," he gasps, followed by a breathless "give-me-a-goddamn-warning."
the hold on your throat loosens. so you grab around his cock firmly, thumbing where his tip would be. "you're here to fuck me, right? so act like it."
clark looks to you, brows pressed into a knit. his arm snakes around your hip, "…very well, then."
you gasp at the shift in positions, where he now had you pinned on your unmade bed.
his hand curls around your wrist, slipping them underneath his suit bottom. clark jumps when your softer hands grip his bare length, it surprises you "oh."
"i-it's…not exactly small," he grits, panting into the side of your head when you stroke him with his guidance.
"no kidding. you're hung, big blue."
clark grunts at that, breaths turning heavier the more you're dry rubbing his cock. "like that. yeah... that's good."
you hum, lifting your hips to accommodate his bigger frame while he tugs his suit off. the impressive size of him comes to your view, and you let out a stuttered breath. your pussy clench almost as a pre-warning.
he drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. "g..osh.." he mutters, looking up to see that you've unbuttoned yourself enough to reveal the curvature of your tits beneath a lacy blue bra.
"like that we're matching?"
clark huffs out a strained laughter, head dropping lower. "that's not funny."
the smirk on you turns to a gasp when he drags his thumb over your panties, wetness slowly blooming where your slit would be. your hips tilt to his touch, and he hooks his thumb around the edge of the fabric, letting his finger dip into you just enough. you moan brokenly, looking down at the erotic sight before you.
his body was definitely as formidable as his cock, biceps visibly flexing at your ministrations. "the point…of this is so you can do what you want. right? just stick it in then."
the tremble in your voice gives away your nervousness.
clark rolls his shoulder, pushing a finger into your cunt, sounding unintentionally smug, "to fuck you…without tearing you. i need you to take at least four fingers." you clench, on instinct, when he says that. it seems to draw a cocky smile from him.
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you aren't sure how long had passed.
somewhere between your second and third orgasm, you lost track of time. clark had his mouth latched around your breast, plunging his fingers deep into you, relentlessly pulling whimpers out of you.
"enough — fuck." you claw at his back, slick with sweat sticking to your cheeks. "just do it already." clark's still diligently stretching you out, marvelling at how your pussy accommodates his digits.
"okay, okay…"
you feel the loss of him all at once and with a flutter, his thighs pushes yours further apart where they were hoisted beneath your thighs. clark angles his thick tip at your entrance. "take a deep breath for me" he whispers, easing himself into you while thumbing at your clit. the reaction was immediate, you squeeze around him, hips already attempting to squirm away.
clark holds you down, feeding you his cock inch by inch and all you can do is brace yourself. "you feel — so.." he groans out, lips pressed at the corner of your parted ones. you're letting out choked, heavy breaths into his mouth, rendered mute, "so soft, a-and wet." you're teary, blinking through the blur that prickle the corner of your eyes. he feels your it wet his cheek, and he pulls back, like he'd been burnt.
"sorry, i'm sorry." his hip still. and somehow, the sting grows even more painful when he isn't moving. "are you okay? should i stop?"
your nails dig into clark's arms, dragging them down his bicep, leaving angry red marks behind. he doesn't expect it, when you grab around his neck, flipping him beneath you. you steady yourself on his chest and fully sheath yourself. the two of you groaning out in unison.
"fuck. oh fuck." clark gasps when your hips lift, and snap back down. he grabs around your thighs, stabilising you as you bounce on his cock.
"god, oh my god, it's like, you're in my…throat.." you're whimpering into his mouth, body falling limp after your brave showing of just having him fully in you. clark holds you up your jaw, drowning your moans in his mouth. his other hand slides down your ass, parting them with a finger, hold firmly around the fat. he takes takes charge to thrust up into you, deep.
"mm—ff..i-i know. it's a lot." he's blabbering in your lips, securing his hold, feeling your tight hole clenching when fingers spanning enough to graze past it, the tip of his finger rubbing where his cock meets your pussy.
it's too much, and clark knows. "y..ou're doing so g-good."
your breath stutters in his mouth, drooling into him helplessly. fuelled by the praise he gives. "so goddamn good." your cheeks presses onto his, panting when the white hot flashes take you to what's now your fourth orgasm.
it comes with no warning. he jolts once, heaving, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into you. never-ending, seemingly. clark turns you over in a fluid motion, cock still pulsing into you with deep spurts. he presses his hand flat onto your abdomen, where the outline of him pokes at your belly.
he's in awe, fully in the depths of a newfound pleasure. a heavy palm swiping the sweaty strands of your cheeks.
clark readjusts his hold on you, a finger tearing your blouse fully apart. you jolt when the buttons clatter to the ground. you gasp out when he presses deeper into you. his palm cradling your jaw.
"wait...what are you…—" he tuts, pressing a kiss on your parted lips.
"i haven't even begun fuckin' you yet."
10K notes · View notes
goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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to whom it may concern  
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clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent  word count: 18k Summary:  You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.  notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
“You looked like you had a long night.”
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you, phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices, but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”
“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.
“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.
You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie, striped, loud, and undeniably Clark, is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.
He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
“Clark, careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry I’m late. Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”
You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk, specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.
Except… it’s not.
Then he clears his throat, loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel, and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”
He flashes you the smile again, crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.
You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is….He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. “You good?”
“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”
Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You don’t say it aloud, not even to yourself, but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.
He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.
…Could he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts. Phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand. 
You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it. You thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which means…
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.
And then Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all.  So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it? 
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You don’t say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder. Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”
You open your mouth, just barely, ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”
Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”
Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
You’re just as tired, though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”
You pause. “Why?”
“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”
You snort before you can stop it.
It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.” The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. “Clark…”
“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coat, the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words, quiet, certain, and meant for you.
You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard, but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder, one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked, unsurprisingly, by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”
“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”
“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate. Usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on, half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell. There was a fireball.”
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I just,” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.
“Sorry—sorry—hang on,” he lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaks, not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 
You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”
You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight. Not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.
He’d meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up, right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.
-
You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know, it stuck with me.”
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”
“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean, it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.
You don’t call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day. He could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way. Shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them, fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.
You wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them, like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air, fragile yet charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
And he just smiles, soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again. Careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence, no flourish, no punctuation.
“Then tell me in person.” 
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes, unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But you know he’ll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour, just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is, elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.
But still, you dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.
It’s also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something, like it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And then—nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing, ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture. Chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you don’t see is the hallway, just twenty feet away, where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”
The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.
-
What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way, coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp, not even from this universe, tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First it’s the downed power lines sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges, someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.
Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.
It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.
You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
You’ve heard it before, dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But that’s not possible. Because Superman is, well, Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.
Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
…Sort of.
-
You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it, frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand, one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.
“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”
“I said I’m fine, Clark.”
You hate the way his face flickers at that. Hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon, half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
“He called me sweetheart.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”
“No. Superman.”
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”
Lois makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”
You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”
“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality, latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one, sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.
You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer?
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.
“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say, but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning, just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”
You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But then Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”
Silence follows. Not because of the volume. He wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush, but crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over, but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.
The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment, those words, it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases he’s used before.
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
And now:
“Her work actually matters.”
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing, always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it?
You can’t stop.
-
It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes, most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed, but written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.
“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note, the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.
It’s exact.
You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”
You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea, just the way you like it, no comment, and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.
You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard, low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”
You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 
There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehow, somehow, he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum, sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar, but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 
You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Clark startles. Not dramatically, just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I-what?”
You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
“I…” he tries again, softer now, “I didn’t think you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”
He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”
You cross your arms, not out of anger, but more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”
You watch him. Wait. 
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him, soft, clumsy, brilliant, real, would somehow undo the magic.
“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”
He blinks.
You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”
Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”
Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”
“But?” you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches, not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him, really taking him in. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”
Clark’s eyes flicker, hope and heartbreak all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like that, close, but not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”
You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again, quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois? Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 
“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.
You blink. “What?”
“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”
You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois…”
“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”
Your stomach flips.
“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”
You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”
“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”
You snort. “So your type.”
“Exactly,” she lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”
You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.
When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift. To mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess, fingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there, still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook, you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”
He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”
You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”
Clark nods, but you’re not finished.
“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”
You meet his eyes, clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then, carefully, slowly, you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair, fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
“Clark,” but you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up, one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head, and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap, into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”
You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat, you finally believe it.
You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him, all of him, underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to,” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
“You’re so…” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander, curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”
“I kept every one,” you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now, he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.
Clark kisses you again, soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that, barely audible, but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.
“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”
He groans. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose sleep.”
You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it and presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell, maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once, because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again, this time fuller, deeper, your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead, bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is, you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk, glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking, lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away, bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should, just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist, and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you, ready to jump too.
“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here, beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water, the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches, not your hands, but your face, as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. “What?”
He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”
But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. “Late night.”
“Editing from home?”
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself, like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.
“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.
He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”
You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes, not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely, you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely, but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible, but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quieted, after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens, the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind, just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time, less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.
“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you, this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this, this steady climb into something real, than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.
-
You’re not official.
Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now, something solid and golden and real in the space between words.
It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours, just barely, and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.
You don’t ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The next kiss happens on your couch.
You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you once, soft and slow, and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
“I-I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to…. something came up. It’s—”
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.
“But…”
“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”
And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.
You never ask. You don’t need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”
You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”
You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just… there.
It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.
He hasn’t said much since dinner, just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this, aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway, pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotional—physical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
“Clark?”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them, not from fear. From restraint.
“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. “You?”
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles, like he can will the oddness away, and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesn’t want to stop.
You don’t want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores like he’s memorizing, not taking.
“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again, warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”
You shudder.
His hands move again, down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
“Clark…”
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”
You do.
You let him wreck you.
He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”
You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like that, panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He kisses you then, deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”
You blink. “Clark, I—”
He kisses you again, soft, lingering.
“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”
Then he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile, but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
“Clark!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His mouth finds you again, warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then, without warning, he slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth, curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
“Clark! God, I-I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”
By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless, dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you then, like he needs to be closer, tells you this isn’t over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”
Your hips answer for you, tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up, his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
“God, Clark…”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him, takes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
“You okay?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel… Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”
You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again, and again, and again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
“Oh my god, sweetheart, don’t do that. I’m gonna—fuck—”
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night…every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps, hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
“Clark’”
“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby. So fuckin’ tight…can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop.”
You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you, it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Clark, don’t stop!”
“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck.”
You can feel him getting close, the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.
And you’re almost there too.
You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again, pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward again, harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
“Fuck…fuck. I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to. Baby I can’t—hold back.”
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before, flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.
Clark’s back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
“I can’t! I can’t… Clark!”
“You can,” he pants. “Please, please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you. I can feel it.”
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him, clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you. And he loses it.
Clark curses, actually curses, and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat, not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.
Not like it should be.
You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie there, chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”
You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”
Clark freezes. “…Did I?”
You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”
His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”
You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”
“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towel and notice it’s already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”
“Figured?” you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”
You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes, like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didn’t even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”
“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”
He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.
-
And still… you don’t say it.
You don’t ask.
Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly, you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
He’s protecting something.
And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.
You haven’t said it yet, not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid, that’s where everything soft lives.
And you’re not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
It’s subtle at first, just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera jolts and then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.
He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding, from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.
“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”
You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.
That’s your boyfriend.
That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.
He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.
He’s not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around you, half-aware, half-horrified, but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feed, something massive slamming him into the pavement, and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You don’t know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But still, your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving. Like someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen: his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”
“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”
“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing…what even was that?”
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
He’s hurt.
And he’s still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You can’t just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”
Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”
“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”
Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”
“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”
Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”
You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream, tattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders, Hawkgirl, has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And then…
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
He’s hurt.
He’s so clearly hurt.
And even through all of it, through the dirt and blood and pain, he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know. 
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”
His voice is steady, but you can hear it now. The strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”
Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
You’re not writing.
You’re just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than that…he looks like Clark.
And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.
You nod. “Are you?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”
It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
I’m not leaving.
You don’t have to say it.
When he flies away, slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs, it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”
Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar, anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.
But the second you’re alone?
You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency, the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”
He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”
You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 
A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”
That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile, the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.
“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.
When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him softly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swell, hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation, but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.
You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”
He kisses you again. Slow this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches yo, thorough, patient, hungry, it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he falters, when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast, you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”
Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this began, you both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended, his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.
You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin, belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”
“You’re bulletproof.”
“I get cold emotionally.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”
You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast, like way too fast, and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”
“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”
“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”
You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced, just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.
“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”
“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”
“I’m saying you’re better.”
He blinks. And then, just like that, he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.
“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
“Soon.”
“You’ll come back?”
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”
You kiss him then, slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window. less streak of light, more quiet parting, you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door, and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
-
tags:  @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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how i feel opening up tumblr to read x reader ffs at my big age
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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to whom it may concern  
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clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent  word count: 18k Summary:  You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.  notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
“You looked like you had a long night.”
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you, phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices, but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”
“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.
“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.
You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie, striped, loud, and undeniably Clark, is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.
He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
“Clark, careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry I’m late. Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”
You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk, specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.
Except… it’s not.
Then he clears his throat, loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel, and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”
He flashes you the smile again, crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.
You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is….He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. “You good?”
“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”
Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You don’t say it aloud, not even to yourself, but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.
He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.
…Could he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts. Phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand. 
You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it. You thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which means…
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.
And then Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all.  So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it? 
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You don’t say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder. Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”
You open your mouth, just barely, ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”
Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”
Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
You’re just as tired, though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”
You pause. “Why?”
“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”
You snort before you can stop it.
It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. “It��s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.” The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. “Clark…”
“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coat, the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words, quiet, certain, and meant for you.
You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard, but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder, one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked, unsurprisingly, by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”
“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”
“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate. Usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on, half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell. There was a fireball.”
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I just,” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.
“Sorry—sorry—hang on,” he lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaks, not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 
You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”
You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight. Not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.
He’d meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up, right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.
-
You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know, it stuck with me.”
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”
“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean, it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.
You don’t call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day. He could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way. Shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them, fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.
You wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them, like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air, fragile yet charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
And he just smiles, soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again. Careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence, no flourish, no punctuation.
“Then tell me in person.” 
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes, unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But you know he’ll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour, just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is, elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.
But still, you dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.
It’s also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something, like it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And then—nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing, ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture. Chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you don’t see is the hallway, just twenty feet away, where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”
The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.
-
What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way, coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp, not even from this universe, tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First it’s the downed power lines sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges, someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.
Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.
It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.
You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
You’ve heard it before, dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But that’s not possible. Because Superman is, well, Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.
Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
…Sort of.
-
You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it, frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand, one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.
“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”
“I said I’m fine, Clark.”
You hate the way his face flickers at that. Hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon, half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
“He called me sweetheart.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”
“No. Superman.”
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”
Lois makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”
You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”
“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality, latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one, sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.
You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer?
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.
“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say, but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning, just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”
You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But then Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”
Silence follows. Not because of the volume. He wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush, but crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over, but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.
The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment, those words, it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases he’s used before.
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
And now:
“Her work actually matters.”
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing, always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it?
You can’t stop.
-
It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes, most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed, but written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.
“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note, the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.
It’s exact.
You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”
You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea, just the way you like it, no comment, and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.
You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard, low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”
You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 
There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehow, somehow, he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum, sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar, but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 
You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Clark startles. Not dramatically, just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I-what?”
You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
“I…” he tries again, softer now, “I didn’t think you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”
He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”
You cross your arms, not out of anger, but more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”
You watch him. Wait. 
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him, soft, clumsy, brilliant, real, would somehow undo the magic.
“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”
He blinks.
You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”
Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”
Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”
“But?” you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches, not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him, really taking him in. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”
Clark’s eyes flicker, hope and heartbreak all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like that, close, but not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”
You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again, quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois? Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 
“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.
You blink. “What?”
“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”
You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois…”
“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”
Your stomach flips.
“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”
You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”
“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”
You snort. “So your type.”
“Exactly,” she lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”
You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.
When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift. To mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess, fingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there, still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook, you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”
He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”
You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”
Clark nods, but you’re not finished.
“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”
You meet his eyes, clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then, carefully, slowly, you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair, fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
“Clark,” but you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up, one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head, and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap, into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”
You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat, you finally believe it.
You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him, all of him, underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to,” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.���
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
“You’re so…” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander, curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”
“I kept every one,” you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now, he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.
Clark kisses you again, soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that, barely audible, but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.
“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”
He groans. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose sleep.”
You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it and presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell, maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once, because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again, this time fuller, deeper, your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead, bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is, you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk, glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking, lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away, bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should, just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist, and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you, ready to jump too.
“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here, beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water, the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches, not your hands, but your face, as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. “What?”
He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”
But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. “Late night.”
“Editing from home?”
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself, like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.
“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.
He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”
You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes, not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely, you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely, but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible, but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quieted, after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens, the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind, just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time, less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.
“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you, this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this, this steady climb into something real, than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.
-
You’re not official.
Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now, something solid and golden and real in the space between words.
It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours, just barely, and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.
You don’t ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The next kiss happens on your couch.
You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you once, soft and slow, and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
“I-I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to…. something came up. It’s—”
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.
“But…”
“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”
And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.
You never ask. You don’t need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”
You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”
You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just… there.
It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.
He hasn’t said much since dinner, just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this, aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway, pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotional—physical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
“Clark?”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them, not from fear. From restraint.
“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. “You?”
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles, like he can will the oddness away, and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesn’t want to stop.
You don’t want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores like he’s memorizing, not taking.
“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again, warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”
You shudder.
His hands move again, down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
“Clark…”
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”
You do.
You let him wreck you.
He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”
You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like that, panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He kisses you then, deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”
You blink. “Clark, I—”
He kisses you again, soft, lingering.
“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”
Then he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile, but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
“Clark!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His mouth finds you again, warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then, without warning, he slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth, curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
“Clark! God, I-I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”
By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless, dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you then, like he needs to be closer, tells you this isn’t over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”
Your hips answer for you, tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up, his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
“God, Clark…”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him, takes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
“You okay?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel… Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”
You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again, and again, and again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
“Oh my god, sweetheart, don’t do that. I’m gonna—fuck—”
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night…every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps, hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
“Clark’”
“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby. So fuckin’ tight…can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop.”
You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you, it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Clark, don’t stop!”
“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck.”
You can feel him getting close, the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.
And you’re almost there too.
You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again, pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward again, harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
“Fuck…fuck. I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to. Baby I can’t—hold back.”
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before, flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.
Clark’s back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
“I can’t! I can’t… Clark!”
“You can,” he pants. “Please, please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you. I can feel it.”
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him, clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you. And he loses it.
Clark curses, actually curses, and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat, not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.
Not like it should be.
You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie there, chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”
You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”
Clark freezes. “…Did I?”
You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”
His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”
You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”
“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towel and notice it’s already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”
“Figured?” you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”
You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes, like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didn’t even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”
“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”
He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.
-
And still… you don’t say it.
You don’t ask.
Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly, you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
He’s protecting something.
And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.
You haven’t said it yet, not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid, that’s where everything soft lives.
And you’re not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
It’s subtle at first, just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera jolts and then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.
He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding, from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.
“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”
You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.
That’s your boyfriend.
That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.
He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.
He’s not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around you, half-aware, half-horrified, but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feed, something massive slamming him into the pavement, and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You don’t know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But still, your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving. Like someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen: his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”
“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”
“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing…what even was that?”
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
He’s hurt.
And he’s still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You can’t just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”
Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”
“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”
Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”
“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”
Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”
You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream, tattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders, Hawkgirl, has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And then…
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
He’s hurt.
He’s so clearly hurt.
And even through all of it, through the dirt and blood and pain, he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know. 
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”
His voice is steady, but you can hear it now. The strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”
Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
You’re not writing.
You’re just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than that…he looks like Clark.
And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.
You nod. “Are you?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”
It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
I’m not leaving.
You don’t have to say it.
When he flies away, slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs, it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”
Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar, anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.
But the second you’re alone?
You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency, the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”
He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”
You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 
A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”
That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile, the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.
“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.
When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him softly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swell, hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation, but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.
You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”
He kisses you again. Slow this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches yo, thorough, patient, hungry, it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he falters, when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast, you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”
Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this began, you both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended, his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.
You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin, belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”
“You’re bulletproof.”
“I get cold emotionally.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”
You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast, like way too fast, and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”
“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”
“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”
You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced, just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.
“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”
“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”
“I’m saying you’re better.”
He blinks. And then, just like that, he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.
“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
“Soon.”
“You’ll come back?”
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”
You kiss him then, slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window. less streak of light, more quiet parting, you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door, and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
-
tags:  @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
Text
Happiest Girl in the World
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david!clark kent x bookshop!reader (plus size)
Warning(s): female (able-bodied) reader, angst (miscommunication, bad thoughts about self/body) fluff, soft, clark is a yearning man and so obsessed with you, oblivious reader, mutual pining, smut (dry humping, fingering, cumming untouched/in pants [clark's a giver, bby]), not the greatest writing bc I just kinda let myself be possessed and not think or beta (i'm sorry)
let me know if i missed any tags!
word count: 5.1k
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The first time you met Clark Kent, you had just taken over your grandma’s used bookstore. The bright yellow sun licked at your uncovered limbs, sweat-covered body aching with the strain of moving what felt like 1,000-pound boxes of books and other necessities. You were on your last trip from the moving truck, following the same path you’ve taken since you started early this morning, when a big white blur comes rushing toward you. 
Then suddenly, you’re on your butt, box ripped open and books scattered on the scorching pavement. Your hands sting as you try to right yourself, muttering a quiet, “Fuck,” under your breath. Red pinpricks surface on your now roughened hands, oozing slowly. Before you can get very far, though, the ball of energy that knocked you down was on top of you, wet yet gritty tongue lapping at your face. 
“Krypto!” a deep voice yells from down the sidewalk, sounding exasperated. 
Trying—and failing—to push the wiry-haired dog away from you, you squint up through the sunlight. The pounding footsteps stop just short of your mess of spilled books, and the dog is hauled off with an easy strength that nearly takes your breath away.
        “Gosh, I’m so sorry,” the man says, voice soft but hurried, as he tugs on the leash. “Krypto doesn’t know his own strength.”
You finally manage to look at him properly. The first thing you notice is the sheer size of him—broad-shouldered, tall, with his tie already loosened like he’d come from somewhere important. The second thing you notice is the glasses, sliding down his nose, catching the sunlight in a way that makes it hard to see his eyes—though you get a glimpse of the beautiful aquamarine shade.
“It’s fine,” you say, brushing dirt off your arms with your palms, though they’re still faintly burning and bloodied from the scrape. “Really. Just…” you gesture helplessly at the pile of books splayed across the sidewalk. “Not ideal.”
He drops to a crouch immediately, the white dog you now know to be Krypto settling obediently at his side now, tongue lolling as if he hadn’t just run full-speed into your legs. “Here, let me help.”
You almost tell him not to bother, but then he carefully picks up a worn copy of Wuthering Heights—one of your favorites—with both hands, like it’s delicate. Like it matters. Something twists in your chest.
By the time everything is stacked back into the box, sweat clinging to your hairline and threatening to spill over, he straightens with an easy grace and offers his hand, his other cupping the back of his flushed neck. “Clark Kent. And, uh—sorry again.”
You take his hand, grip warm and sure as you tell him your name. “I run the bookstore,” you say, a little too fast. “Well. Just took it over. That’s why…” You trail off, gesturing to the mess again.
He smiles, boyish and a little nervous. “Then I guess I know where I’ll be shopping.”
Krypto barks from his spot on the pavement, tail wagging impatiently. 
“Well, uh, I think I’d better get going,” Clark says, face getting a little pink, “This rascal’s got some energy to work off, clearly.”
You giggle at his stern look at the clearly unbothered dog before waving them away, listening as the blue-eyed man scolds the white dog for “Being a menace” and “Causing potential harm to someone.” 
Turning to pick up the now-intact box, you realize that you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. 
You really hope Clark keeps his word and comes back.  
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Days pass, and Clark does stop by—first to apologize again, then to browse, then to linger. He asks about books you’d thought no one your age read anymore. His tie is always loose, like he ran there instead of walked, and his glasses are always slightly crooked. 
One day—maybe the third or fourth time he comes in—you invite him to the book club you ran with your grandmother’s friends. 
“You don’t have to,” you say, maybe too quickly, as you slip a receipt into his new purchase, “but we meet every Thursday night. It’s mostly me and a group of retired ladies who’ve been at it longer than I’ve been alive. We’re doing Little Women right now.”
His smile spreads slow and a little shy, dimples deepening, and a pleasant flush tinging his cheeks. “Little Women, huh? I’ve read it.”
That makes you pause. “You’ve read it?”
“Cover to cover,” he says, pushing his glasses up where they’ve slid down his nose. “Twice, actually.” He shakes his head, suddenly embarrassed, like he’s revealed too much. 
You stare at him, warmth buzzing in your chest. “You’re officially more qualified than anyone else in the group. You have to come now.”
So he does. That Thursday, Clark walks into the cramped back room with his tie crooked and a plate of cookies so oversized you wonder if he’s trying to bribe his way into the circle. Your grandmother’s friends—who usually side-eye any newcomer—fall for him instantly (much like you). They tease him, fuss over him, and by the time the discussion turns to Jo and Laurie, Clark is laughing, animated, and entirely at ease, no edge to his jaw or tightness in his shoulders.
You sit across from him, your heart doing inconvenient cartwheels the entire evening.
And, at the end, as you’re stacking chairs, he lingers. “Thanks for inviting me,” he says in a voice as soft as velvet. 
You pause your work, turning to the bespectacled man. “Of course, Clark,” you say back just as quietly, “Thank you for coming. The others loved having you here.”
His face reddens at your words, blush creeping from his sharp cheekbones to the tips of his ears, something soft and lovely flickering in his eyes as he gazes at you. You watch as his blue eyes flash to your mouth for just a second before looking away from your watchful gaze. 
God, you want him to kiss you right now; it seems like he just might. Until he backs away with a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and a hand rubbing the back of his neck. With his other—very large, you can’t help but notice—hand, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he murmurs a “Goodnight” to you.
He’s out the door before you can say anything back. 
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By the fifth week, you’ve grown used to seeing Clark in the mismatched foldout chair circle of your book club. Used to the way he pushes his glasses up whenever one of the ladies challenges him, used to the low rumble of his laugh when one of the ladies tries to set him up with a granddaughter (and son).
You shouldn’t be used to him—it’s dangerous, how natural it feels.
So when he walks in one Thursday evening with a woman at his side, you nearly drop the stack of folding chairs you’re carrying from downstairs.
She’s… strikingly beautiful. Her dark hair’s pulled back neatly, eyes sharp and curious as they sweep the little back room. She has the kind of presence that doesn’t need announcing—loud and in charge from the moment she walks into the room. 
She’s standing close enough to Clark that your chest twists before you can stop it.
As you’re watching the woman, Clark’s searching for you, finally finding you as you turn to go back down the stairs to the basement where you got the chairs. Your shoulders draw up toward your ears as he calls out to you before you can even take a step down. 
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Oh, uh… I’m just—the chairs I grabbed were the wrong ones!” you stutter out, warmth creeping up your neck and towards the tips of your ears. 
His dark eyebrows furrow and an unruly curl slips into his eyes as he looks at your full hands. “But those look like the normal ones?”
“No, yeah, totally!” you exclaim awkwardly, turning towards him and awkwardly pulling the basement door closed behind you, “I must have just thought these were the wrong ones.”
His head tilts in confusion—which is totally not the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. “Well, okay…” he trails off before seemingly remembering something, straightening out and lighting up like a lightning bug. “I brought my friend, Lois. I uh, hope that’s okay—she read this month’s book?” His words pitch up at the end like he’s asking a question. 
Your eyes dart toward the dark-haired woman who is now staring at you. 
She takes a few steps toward you and Clark, extending a lithe hand with a quick, practiced grin. “Clark’s been talking about this book club for weeks. I had to see what all the fuss was about.”
You shake her hand automatically, giving her the best smile you can muster in return. But you can feel how flat it really is, edges just barely moving, and your stomach feels like it’s sinking. Friend. Sure. The way she leans into his muscular frame, the way he looks at her with big eyes and a small smile when he thinks no one’s paying attention—it all feels like confirmation of what they really are.
You shake off the ache in your heart, asking Clark to take the chairs you have now—which he does with ease—so you can go back and get an extra one. Before you turn, you face Lois and tell her to, “Enjoy the coffee and snacks while you can, the girls will be here soon; they’re beasts.” 
Her face lights up as she laughs, grabbing Clark’s elbow and throwing her head back. Your stomach twists again as you look at the devastating display; she’s more beautiful than you could ever be. 
No wonder she and Clark were together. 
They were both lovely and sharp and kind. 
And you were just… you. Round in all the worst places and barely there—a shy thing with no friends beside women in their 70s. 
Shaking your head of those thoughts, you turn heel and grab another folding chair from the basement. You take a minute to breathe, schooling your frown into a polite smile by the time you get back to the main area.
The others must have arrived in the brief—okay, maybe 7 minutes—time you were gone, as you hear chattering from more than just Clark and Lois as you ascend the stairs. 
By the time you step back into the room, the circle is already forming. Mrs. Hart is fussing over Lois’s earrings, marveling at how “young people still know how to dress nicely,” while Clark is bent half over trying to balance a plate of lemon bars and napkins.
“Ah, there she is!” Mrs. Singh calls, waving you over. “We were just saying how your young man here brought us the most delightful guest.”
You nearly trip over the folding chair you were trying to set up. “He’s not—” The words jam in your throat. “I mean, Clark isn’t—he’s just…”
Clark looks up at you then, startled, glasses slipping a little down his nose as his eyebrows furrow. There’s a flicker of something on his face—Hurt? Embarrassment?—but you can’t read it fast enough before Lois smoothly laughs and says, “Don’t worry, I’m here because he won’t shut up about it.”
Everyone chuckles, moving on easily, but the heat crawling up your neck doesn’t fade. You unfold the chair, slotting it into the circle, and sit with the kind of posture that aches after thirty seconds—spine so rigid you could be a statue.
Discussion begins. Lois is clever and sharp, the kind of reader who makes connections that even you—who’s practically lived inside these books since childhood—haven’t noticed. Clark listens to her with open admiration, his laugh rumbling low when she teases him about skipping over chapters.
You try to participate, but every time you open your mouth, your words feel thin, unimportant. By the time the group dissolves for the night, you’re drained.
As you stack chairs in the silence afterward, you hear Clark clear his throat softly from by the snack table. “I hope Lois coming tonight didn’t… throw you off,” he says, tentative.
You take a second to really look at him: shoulders curved in and spine slouched, hair tousled from his fingers running through it, and dark circles under his eyes; he seems… almost defeated. 
Looking away from the pitiful image—he looks so much like a sad puppy in one of those Sarah McLachlan ASPCA animal cruelty PSA commercials, it could make you cry—you instead focus on the chair in your hands. “She’s amazing, Clark. Smart, Beautiful.” He opens his mouth to say something, but you continue before he can get a word out, “Honestly. You guys make a great pair.” 
There’s a beat of quiet. You force yourself not to look up, because if you do, you might see him confirming your worst suspicion.
“Right,” he says finally. His voice is soft, unreadable. Then the shuffle of his steps as he walks toward the door fills the otherwise silent room.
The bell on the door jingles as it shuts, leaving you alone with the faint scent of lemon bars and a weight in your chest.
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It’s been days since you’ve seen Clark. 
Normally, he would text or call or even stop by with a drink or lunch. But he hasn’t said a word to you in what seems like forever—but is actually just four days. Four long days of silence and torture. ‘
You feel miserable. Lonely. 
You closed the shop early on Friday to give yourself some time alone, but you ended up not leaving your bed until this Monday morning. Despite your body aching from disuse, you go through the motions, brushing your teeth, getting a quick shower, and trying to eat breakfast. Your body’s on autopilot as your mind races and slows methodically with thoughts of Clark and Lois and your feelings. 
Had you imagined it all? The warmth in his voice when he lingered after book club. The way his eyes crinkled when you said something that made him laugh. The look in his eyes as he gazed at you. Surely those things meant something.
But then Lois—an amazing woman with spunk and beauty—had appeared, so comfortable at his side, and everything tilted sideways. Maybe you’d been foolish to think a man like him—practically a god—would want a woman like you: quiet, shy, bookish, bigger than you should be.
Your toast goes cold in your hands, uneaten.
By the time you push open the shop door, flipping the sign to open, the bell’s cheerful chime feels like a mockery. The shelves loom too quiet, the air heavy with dust and disuse. You sink into the stool behind the counter, chin propped on your hand, staring at the door like it might conjure him if you wish hard enough.
It doesn’t.
Instead, the morning drags. A couple of regulars drift in, a student asks about course books, Mrs. Singh drops off a bag of homemade bread on her way to yoga. You smile, you nod, you make conversation, but your chest feels hollow. The grey-haired lady gives you a knowing look before she leaves. 
It isn’t until nearly closing, when you’re half convinced he’s disappeared from your life entirely, that the bell finally rings, and Clark walks in.
Tie askew. Hair mussed. Glasses sliding down his nose like always. Flushed from the neck up.
Your heart kicks painfully, but you force your voice to stay level. “Clark.”
He swallows, gaze flicking around the shop before settling on you. “Hey. I… uh, I think we need to talk.”
You fold your arms tightly over your chest like armor, trying to look steadier than you feel. “About what? About how you disappeared? Or about Lois?”
His brows draw together and his mouth parts, surprise flashing across his face. “Lois?”
You laugh, sharp and tired. “Come on, Clark. She shows up at book club, sits next to you, everyone assumes you’re together, and then you stop talking to me for four days. What am I supposed to think?”
He shakes his head, curls jostling, stepping closer. “Gosh. No. No, you’ve got it wrong.”
Your throat tightens. “Do I?”
“Yes,” he says, firm this time, like he needs you to believe him. “Lois is my friend. My partner at work. That’s all. She came because she was curious—and because she doesn’t believe me when I say I’ve been spending Thursday nights at a book club with one of the most beautiful women.”
Heat floods your face. “Clark…”
“I stayed away,” he says, running a hand over the back of his neck, “because I thought I messed everything up. That maybe you didn’t… feel the same way I do.”
Your breath catches, sharp. “The same way you—?”
He cuts you off, walking a little closer to you and murmuring, “I really like you.”
Something snaps in you at his confession. 
Closing the gap with a few quick strides, your fingers curl around his patterned tie and use it to drag his mouth down to yours. 
His mouth is on yours—warm, certain, desperate. His eyelashes tickle your cheeks. How you’ve dreamed about for weeks and more.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, “I thought you didn’t want me.”
You shake your head, tugging him in again by the tie. “Idiot,” you murmur into his mouth, a smile curling at the edges of your lips.
This time, his laugh rumbles into the kiss, low and relieved, as his hands find your waist.
You both smile into the kiss, giggling with relief and glee. And for the first time in days, the hollow ache in your chest is gone.
You’re kissing the man of your dreams. He wants you—all of you.
And he shows it with surprising strength as he lifts you into his arms and onto the checkout counter, never breaking your connection. You squeak in surprise at his show of power, allowing him to slip his tongue in to taste you, groaning at the first touch of your taste on his tongue. 
You have to grab at the short curls at the back of his head to get him to stop for breath; he nearly whined at the loss.
“Clark,” you breath out, chest heaving as your lungs fight to get oxygen back, “Baby, we need to breathe.” 
The blue-eyed man just hums in reply, pecking your lips and cheeks. 
His lack of response makes you laugh, body warming as his hands travel up and down your sides contentedly. Soon, though, he settles his broad palms on your waist and pulls away, opening his eyes to take in the sight of you: mouth kiss-swollen and glossy with spit, cheeks pushing up into your eyes with a smile, and eyes a little dazed but full of care and need. 
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs with a dimpled smile.
“Stooop,” you say with a mumbled voice, your warm face hidden in the crook of his neck, inhaling his manly oak barrel and burgundy smell. He smells like safety and warmth. 
Clark’s hand comes up to the back of your head, fingers carding through the hair there. You feel his chuckle reverberates against you, shaking you to your very core.
He tucks his face in towards yours, kissing the side of your head before he continues to compliment you, “You are so smart. And kind. Your laugh makes my heart race. You—”
Before he can get anything more out, you whine into his neck, basically plastering your body into his—you look as though you’re trying to meld into him. 
“Clark!”
The hand not on the back of your head comes from your waist to help coax you from the depths of his neck, thumb and pointer fingers grabbing at your chin when you finally—very reluctantly—pull away from the safe place. 
“Why’re you hiding from me, hmmm, honey?” he asks, blue eyes bearing into yours. The hand holding your chin slides against your jaw as he cups your face.
“Just don’t like being complimented…” You mumble, eyes looking anywhere but him.
“But you’re too pretty not to, sweetheart.”
The only response you give him is a sheepish smile while trying to burrow your face into his hand to hide.
Clark allows it this time, just smiling softly down at you, large palm at the back of your neck pushing you up into him so he can kiss you just in the divit of your smile with ease.
His black-framed glasses poke at your cheek as he tries to nuzzle into your face. You bring a hand from where it was resting on his chest to his face, ready to swipe them off of him, before he stills you with a grip on your wrist. 
“I want to be able to see you.”
Your chest stills for a second as a breath gets caught in your throat. But soon, your heart is thundering against your ribcage in a valiant attempt to beat itself out of your body and into this perfect man’s hands. 
He owns your heart already, and he doesn’t even know it.
You pull him in for another—more sloppy—kiss when you can’t think of anything to say back, mind blank other than the thought of the imposing man in front of you. 
Clark’s hands find your hips again mid-kiss, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter and into his toned body. The pressure on your center makes your mind spin, a breathy noise leaving your throat involuntarily. 
The curly-haired man moans in response, hands gripping you tighter, pulling you against him and rutting his hips into yours.
The added force has you mewling embarrassingly loud, your hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulder and in the small black curls at the back of his neck. You hide your face, your nose back into the hollow of his throat again as your whole body heats. Despite your embarrassment, your body follows his movements, grinding onto him and chasing your pleasure. 
Clark makes a low, encouraging noise—sourced somewhere in the back of his throat—at your movement, one hand moving to press on the small of your back. You let out a pant as your skin tingles and heats, a fine sheen of sweat already building on you. You’re all worked up, swollen clit dragging deliciously against his hard-on through both layers of clothes. Your cunt is achey and wet, soft underwear slick with your essence and sticking to you as it drags with your movement.
Another roll of her hips brings another noise, muffled into Clark’s throat.
“That's it,” Clark’s murmur is low and rough, rumbling against you, and his grip on the back of your shirt tightens with hesitation before his fingers slide below the hem, touching your bare skin. His voice shudders as you sink your teeth into his collarbone, feeling the heat of his broad hand, as he says, “Take what you need, honey.” 
You let out a whimper at his words, taking a second to find your voice before you say, “Need you, Clark.”
“You have me, baby.”
“No!” you practically whimper out, “Need to feel you. Your fingers.” 
His body trembles against you, fighting to control himself against the pleading tone of your voice.
Clark peels himself away from you, grabbing your face in two big hands and making you look at him, asking, “Are you sure?”
Your breathy, “Yes,” with a nod against his hands is all it takes for him to let out a guttural groan.
His forehead comes down to rest against yours, his curls sticking to the sweat accumulated there. A large hand smooths down the side of your face, over your neck, then collarbone, then your breast—which he lingers at, making your breath hitch—down your side, all the way to the hem of your shorts, which he fiddles with before moving down and popping the button open and pulling down the zipper. 
Clark’s broad chest stutters as his fingertips make contact with your wet heat. His head falls from your forehead to your shoulder, hot breaths hitting your skin and fogging his glasses as he stumbles out, “Gosh,” at the feeling of you. 
“You’re so wet,” he mutters, almost as if he were talking to himself.
Your breath hitches as he swipes from your entrance to your clit, wetting his fingers with your before he focuses on rubbing tight circles around your engorged bud. Finding your breath, you reply, “All for you.”
That response has him basically whining into your neck, his hips jerking into where his hand sits stuffed in your pants. 
“You can’t say stuff like that, honey,” he says with a slight shake of his head.
You don’t get to reply—not that you had one—because Clark decides that he is done teasing, adding the perfect amount of pressure to where he circles your clit perfectly. Your hips buck into him, chasing the pleasure.
“Need you in me,” you murmur into his ear, breathless whimpers leaving you. 
Your voice and movement goad him into slipping his fingers lower, where he circles your entrance. Before you can whine at his teasing, he slips a finger in experimentally—just barely in before he pulls out to just the tip. His eyes squeeze shut, brows furrowing as you grip him tight.
“Only got one in and you’re already squeezing me.” 
Your plush thighs squeeze against his hips at how thoroughly fucked out he sounds, voice low and gravelly despite how he hasn’t even been touched. 
You don’t get time to properly think before a second finger starts prodding at your opening, quickly slipping in with the first. And he doesn’t waste any time finding the spongy spot just inside you, fingers curling with intent. When he finds it, you cry out, your head dipping back and eyes rolling to the back of your head. 
“‘S that it? That’s the spot?” he slurs out, sounding drunk on pleasure—on you. He curls his fingers again, hitting that damned spot with precision. 
“Yes! Fuck, Clark!” you exclaim, hips impatiently thrusting to meet his movements.
Clark chuckles then, though it’s breathy and cut off by hot pants of breath leaving his lungs. “Mhm, that’s it, honey. I’ve got ‘ya. You can let go.” 
Your hips stutter in their movement, chest heaving and eyes crossing as you tighten around his thick fingers. 
You’re going to cum on his fingers. 
Fast. 
And Clark makes sure of it as he prods at that special spot with intensity, fingers moving in a ‘come hither’ motion faster than you can think. 
He lifts his head from your shoulder, eyes opening to watch as you writhe on his fingers with awe. Gosh, he couldn’t get enough of your tiny little noises or the way you look so absolutely wrecked under him. His dick twitches in his pants, a large wet spot staining his underwear where his tip sits.
“C’mon, let go,” he says, almost sternly. 
Your eyes snap open to look into his—though it’s a little difficult, with how his glasses have fogged up—as you start shaking, thick thighs squeezing his hips even tighter—if even possible, at this point. And then you’re gone, eyes rolled to the back of your head, and a high-pitched moan of his name leaving your spit-soaked lips as you finally fall over the edge. 
Feeling you pulse around him sends Clark over, too. He groans and whines as he leans into your body like it’s a haven, hips canting into where you’re intertwined. He doesn’t stop—only slows—the two fingers he still has in you, prolonging your orgasm; they don’t stop until you’re pushing his hands away, body overstimulated.
The both of you are panting, bodies flushed and warm against each other, sweat and spit and slick mixing into one heady combination.
Clark presses soft kisses to your damp skin, murmuring your name with so much affection that your stomach flips. You nuzzle into him, still catching your breath. When your lungs are relatively back to normal, you deposit kisses up and along his jaw until you catch his mouth with yours, savoring the taste of him on your tongue.
Separation from the kiss, you nudge your nose against his gently, murmuring a “Hi,” with a small, shy smile. 
His cheeks dimple as his mouth spreads into a wide smile, teeth on full display. 
“Hey, pretty girl.” 
Your cheeks—which had been cooling down—flare back to life at the nickname he bestowed upon you. 
“Claaark!” you whine, looking anywhere but him.
“What, honey? You’re my pretty girl.” 
Despite the shyness you feel creeping up on you, you smile wider at his words, eyes finally finding his blue ones. 
“Nothing, just…” You trail off, head in the clouds, before you sit up a little straighter with a start, “You never got to… y’know? Get off.” 
Your sudden realization makes Clark laugh so hard that it shakes you. 
“No, baby. I’m okay,” he says with nothing but love in his eyes.
“But—”
You’re cut off before you can get any further with your questioning, the black-haired man quick to pacify you with a, “I’m taken care of.” 
“But… what? How?” Your head tilts as you look at him with squinted eyes, trying to understand what he means.
“I…” he pauses, face scrunching and cheekbones lighting up an adorable bright pink as he bites his lip, “I already came.”
“Wh-what?” you wonder aloud. Before you can say anything else, though, he grabs one of your hands and guides it to the front of his dark slacks. There, you feel a wet spot seeping through, causing your eyes to widen. 
“But… but how?”
“How?” Clark repeats, “Honey, I had the prettiest girl in the world at my fingertips, trembling under me. What else was I supposed to do?”
A startled sound leaves your lips as the realization of what happened hits you like a ton of bricks—Clark Kent, easily the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, came untouched just because he got you off. Your pussy pulses around nothing at the thought. 
“Oh.”
Clark laughs again, rumbly and undoubtedly happy. 
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ My girl’s just too gorgeous.”
You don’t hide from being called gorgeous this time. Instead, you allow yourself to bask in his aquamarine gaze, preening under him. 
“‘Your girl’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Gosh, I think it does,” he murmurs back with a smile. 
Clark leans down and peppers your face with ticklish kisses, making you giggle and writhe underneath him. 
A smile never leaves either of your lips as you settle in together, never leaving each other’s side as you fix yourselves and get the shop closed. Not even as Clark walks you home—always stationed on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road—does your smile slip.
You’re his now, and that makes you the happiest girl in the world. 
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this is NAWT good !!!! I wrote it in a few (3ish) hours spanning two days.
tag(s): @moompie @claudiwithachanceof @basking-in-sunlight-shark @noisyflowerking @les4elliewilliams
(sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged!!) & (if you want to be tagged in anything else I may write, leave a comment!)
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
Text
Consumed with what’s just transpired
clark kent x f!reader
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), heavy overstimulation (reader), oral (reader rec), unprotected p in v, multiple creampies, (light) breeding kink, cum play, usage of safe word, soft!dom!clark, sub!reader
wc: 1.2k
now playing:  Sex on Fire – Kings of Leon
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Your back hit the mattress, not a single piece of clothing left on your body as Clark parted your folds with his tongue. Electricity cracked between you where his mouth connected with your skin, his lips sucking on your clit with no mercy.
“Oh, m- god, Clark,” you gasped, writhing under him while he worked on your sensitive bundle of nerves. 
He barely even heard you, focused on smothering his face with your cunt. You could feel him breathe in as he smushed his head further into your thighs, arms reaching out to spread your legs across his shoulders. 
 You tightened your muscles around him involuntarily, keeping him locked in place. But he didn’t seem to mind; in fact, it just made him more determined. Clark’s fingers dug into the flesh of your sides as he kept you from bucking away.
“You taste so good,” he murmured as his tongue swirled across your clit, “Like heaven.”
Warmth pooled in your lower belly while he lapped at you relentlessly. A short glance downwards blessed you with the most divine point of view. The lower half of Clark’s face glinted with your essence and you couldn’t figure out who was more drunk on who. (But it was probably him.)
The coil in your tummy tightened as he lightly grazed your clit with his teeth, just a hint of pain adding to the pleasure boiling at the base of your spine.  When he added two thick fingers into your channel while he flattened his tongue against your sensitive bundle of nerves, your hips lifted off the bed. Your legs fully locked around his neck, effectively trapping him between your thighs. 
“Oh, fuck, Clark-,” you moaned, your muscles beginning to shake with your impending release. 
He groaned into you like a man possessed and curled his fingers right against your g-spot.
“Shit, I’m-“ The rest of your sentence got lost in a string of desperate noises as your orgasm washed over you, warming you to the tips of your fingers and toes. 
Clark didn’t let up on your twitching core until you trembled away under his grip. 
“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispered, slowly guiding your ass back to the mattress, letting you sink into the softness of the sheets. One of his large hands sprawled comfortingly over your tummy, his own body temperature transferring into your skin. 
“Again?” He asked once you stopped twitching, a devilish grin on his face that Superman should never carry. 
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Hours later, Clark still wasn’t done with you. It wasn’t even the search for his own pleasure that kept him going through the night, the moon replacing the sun as orgasm after orgasm washed through the two of you. No, he wanted to see just how far you could go. 
 Cum was spilling out of you, dripping down your thighs, as Clark yanked up your hips while mushing your face in the pillows.  “Look so beautiful like this, my love,” he mumbled, smoothing his hand across the sweat slicked skin of your back.  “So full o’me,” he continued, fascination tinting his words. With surprising gentleness, he parted your legs a little further. “Jeez, such a pretty sight,” he whispered, more to himself than you.
One long digit started pushing his cum back into you, your abused hole spasming at the stimulation.
“Clark,” you whimpered, “I… I can’t…”
He kissed the small of your back while he kept sliding his pointer finger in and out of you.
“That’s not your word, honey,” he replied.
Barely seconds later, his cock replaced his fingers. The tip nudged at your opening, slipping in just an inch or two.  That alone was enough to make you whine into the pillow, one hand reaching for the headboard to pull yourself off of him. His strong grip kept you in place. 
“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” Clark asked and pulled you right back, fucking you onto his cock. He still didn’t give you more than the first few inches. The mushroom head slipped along your drenched walls, you own slick and his earlier releases making it so much easier for him to fill you up. 
“I can’t… I’m so… I…,” you stammered helplessly. 
“You know what to say,” he reminded you and you nodded but didn’t give up yet.  Another inch breached you and you cried out, fisting the drenched sheets hard enough that your knuckles paled. 
“Good girl,” he praised gently, “I know you can do it. It’s so much but I know you still got one more in you. Don’t you, princess?”
You whimpered a sound that resembled a ‘yes’ and felt him smooth a hand across the small of your back. 
“That’s it,” he purred and filled you up in one go.
You felt him in your guts, that’s how deep he went. The bed banged against the wall as he set a fast-paced rhythm, his pelvis meeting your ass repeatedly. 
“Gosh, you were made for me,” Clark groaned while his heavy balls slapped against your clit again and again, “Need to feel you fall apart, baby.”
Your hole clenched around him as he thrusted into you and he moaned in reply. “Don’t… oh shoot, you feel so good.”  Stars crossed your vision while the bedframe creaked so loud you were sure it would break in half. 
Clark’s fingers tightened on your hips, surely leaving behind bruises for you to admire in the morning – if you could walk tomorrow, that is.
“Just one more,” he promised, his free hand sneaking along your stomach to your clit to rub you even rawer.  “Just one.”
Overstimulated, gasping and trembling, you felt fresh tears prick in the corner of your eyes as Clark brought you closer to your release with every draw of his fingers across your flushed bundle of nerves. 
You came with a scream, muffled by the pillow below you, and Clark followed right behind, burying himself so far into your core that you swore you tasted him for a second. Blinding, hot pleasure had you sobbing as his cock twitched with aftershocks against your velvety walls. 
He slipped out of you with a hiss tumbling from his lips and you dropped to the bed without question. Soothingly, he ran a hand across the back of your thigh but even that was too much to handle.
“Did such a good job, baby. Love you so much,” he muttered, “Lemme look at you, hmm?”
Clark helped you turn around so that you laid on your back but the peace was short lived as he pried your thighs apart.  His eyes watched in fascination as his liquid leaked out of your cunt, translucent pearls decorating the delicate flesh on your legs.
When his fingers found their way to your cunt, your thighs clamped shut, trapping him right there. 
“Can’t let it go to waste, baby,” he protested, his eyes clouded with that post-coital haze.
“Kansas.”
The word hadn’t fully left your lips but he had already halted all movement. 
“Okay, sweet girl,” he whispered. His expression cleared and your muscles relaxed, freeing his hand.  “You’re done, baby, don’t worry,” Clark soothed and gently kissed your forehead, “Thank you for telling me.”
Time passed and the only thing he did was hold you. Your breathing began to steady while he gently squeezed you in his arms. His cum dried between your legs but neither of you wanted to let go of the other. 
“I love you, princess,” he murmured into your ear, “You’re always safe with me.”
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❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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: ̗̀➛ Superman's twin
ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader
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synopsis : Alcohol gives you the courage to finally talk to the hot stranger at the bar, the one you’ve been eyeing every time you came here. What could possibly go wrong?
cw : fluff, suggestive content, alcohol, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 4k
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ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3
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"You should do it," your friend Lucie said.
If you were in this bar to begin with, it was her fault. She was getting married in a couple of weeks and wanted to celebrate as much as she could with her friends. After the wedding, she and her wife were moving out of Metropolis to Evergreen for her wife’s new job.
So every weekend lately felt like a bachelorette party, and you were always invited.
"Do what?" you mumbled, drunk and barely tracking the conversation.
"Go talk to the guy you've been eye-fucking all night!" she giggled, making the rest of your friends laugh with her.
"What guy?" you asked, trying to sound innocent. You thought you were pulling it off, but you definitely weren’t.
"The one who looks like Superman!" Jenny yelled, just as tipsy as you.
And, well… she wasn’t wrong.
The guy you’d been staring at was probably the hottest man you'd ever seen in your entire life. Tall, broad-shouldered, soft-eyed. His glasses gave him a nerdy charm, but everything else about him, especially that body, told a very different story.
It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed him. The more often you came to this bar, the more familiar his little group became. There was a shorter but still cute blond guy, a stunning bleach-blonde woman, a mesmerizing dark-haired woman, and him.
Just like you and your friends, they seemed to be here most weekends.
For at least the last three weekends, you’d been watching them, especially him. It wasn’t like you were ever going to do anything about it. You never did. But you liked to watch him from afar, a quiet, harmless ritual.
Snorting, you turned away from eyeing them yet again and faced your friends. “You know what? He kinda does look like Superman…” you muttered, almost to yourself, then added quickly, “Just another reason why I shouldn’t shoot my shot.”
That shut down the chatter among your friends. It wasn’t a new thing, you putting yourself down. They were used to it. Not that they appreciated it.
“Oh, stop it!” Claire snapped. “He looks strong enough to manhandle you straight into heaven. Men like him? They love their women thick, girl. I would know.” She laughed, unapologetic.
Another truth.
Claire was a big girl, not that she was hiding it. She owned every inch of herself. And her boyfriend? A sweet, nerdy soul who adored her, fat and all. He was gentle to the core, tall and lanky, always looking at her like she hung the stars.
Claire had always said men like Justin were lovers before anything else.
“He looks like a lost puppy most of the time, but I just know he’d rock your world,” Claire added pointing at the stranger, taking another sip of her cocktail. Will. Like she knew it was inevitable. Like it was already written.
Looking back at the hot stranger, you noticed he was smirking. Your eyes couldn’t seem to leave his dimpled lips alone, and your brain, traitorous as ever, was already conjuring up foul scenarios where his mouth was doing anything but smiling.
You shook your head quickly and turned back to your friends for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. If you’d waited just one second longer, you would’ve met his gaze, he glanced your way, right as you looked away.
“It’s just… he’s out of my league,” you muttered with a shrug, hoping, begging, they’d drop the subject.
All your friends sighed at the same time, but thankfully, they dropped the subject, sober enough to notice you were starting to get uncomfortable.
Truth be told, you weren’t even that fat. Chubby was probably the more accurate word. But some terrible experiences in your past had altered the way you saw yourself. Made you question your worth. Your appearance. Everything.
Your friends had always been there, catching you before you spiralled too far, stopping you from slipping into unhealthy patterns with food or the gym. You owed them more than you could say.
Still, you struggled to believe people could find you attractive. You hadn’t grown up with that kind of validation, and since moving here, most of the men you’d encountered had been… well, bastards, to put it mildly.
And now, your friends wanted you to go talk to a man who looked like he could play a Greek god in a movie. Of course they insisted you were just in denial about your own beauty, but they clearly didn’t grasp just how hot that man was.
You couldn’t really blame them. Out of the six of you, only you and Claire weren’t lesbians. And the handsome stranger was way outside of Claire’s type. She liked, in her own words, “skinny boys with sad eyes.”
So, you did what you all came to do—talked, laughed, danced, and drank. Way too much. Way more than any of the other nights you’d been here. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the energy. Maybe it was Lucie’s countdown to married life. Or maybe it was the unnerving way the stranger’s eyes had brushed past you a few more times than coincidence allowed.
Everyone had paid for a round of shots. Everyone had at least two cocktails. And the bartender, clearly trying to charm a group of mostly lesbians, had given your table two rounds of free shots.
You were wasted. Utterly wasted. And that meant your eyes kept drifting across the bar, to him. Always to him.
Apparently, his friends had the same chaotic energy as yours, because they were now on stage, screaming, well, attempting to sing, Firework by Katy Perry. To your drunken self, they were the best band you’d ever heard. To everyone sober in the bar, it was a train wreck in real time.
Seeing him alone at his table, head in his hands, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched his friends, did something to you. Your body was already warm and fuzzy from the alcohol, and you couldn’t really say what took over you.
One second, you were sitting with your friends, half-listening to a conversation you couldn’t even follow. The next, you were on your feet, weaving through the crowd on wobbly legs, heading straight for the handsome stranger.
The moment you stood, his eyes left his friends and landed on you. It was immediate, like gravity, and it made your heart skip a beat.
His gaze was gentle, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, but still taking you in with quiet appreciation. A soft smile played at his lips. It almost felt like he’d been waiting for you.
Before you reached him, you glanced back at your friends and flashed them two thumbs up in what you thought was a slick, covert move. It wasn’t. The stranger saw it, plain as day, and let out a quiet, amused laugh.
“Hello,” you said as you stopped at his table. You didn’t sit down right away, not wanting to intrude if he preferred to be alone.
“Hello, Miss,” he replied in a deep voice. His smile was gentle and kind, so different from the usual smiles men gave you.
“You know… you could be Superman's twin?,” you slurred, the alcohol finally catching up with you.
He was even more handsome up close. From here, you could see the faint ghost of his dimples, the softness in his eyes, and the unruly mess of his hair. His shoulders seemed even broader at this distance, and the glass in his hand looked almost comically small. Without meaning to, your thighs pressed together at the realization.
“Yeah, I’ve been told,” he laughed—with you, not at you.
You were more lost in looking at him than in functioning properly. The alcohol still swam in your veins, muddling your thoughts, made worse under the weight of his watchful eyes.
“Do you want to sit down?” he asked gently, pulling out a chair for you.
Something unlocked inside you. The moment you sat, you forgot all about your friends, your shyness, and the belief that he was far out of your league. He was so interesting, the conversation flowed effortlessly, and he really listened to you.
Even when you were certain you weren’t making any sense, especially after ordering more drinks, he stayed attentive. Deep down, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep this nonchalance if sobriety ever caught up with you.
Clark—that was his name—was, without question, the most attractive and kind man you had ever met. Between every drink, he gently slid a glass of water toward you. He didn’t seem the least bit drunk, but then again, you weren’t sure you trusted your own judgment.
At some point during your conversation, your friends came over to collect you. You threw a little tantrum, refusing to leave with them. Deep down, you knew you’d probably never see Clark again, and that when you thought back on this moment, you’d find it painfully embarrassing. But right now, you wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.
After a few minutes of back-and-forth, your friends finally gave in. Still, Lucie made sure to turn your location on, just in case the handsome Clark turned out to be less than perfect. “You might look like Superman, dude, but I don’t trust strangers,” she said, kissing your cheek before heading off.
As the conversation went on, his friends drifted by one after another to say their goodbyes. By the time the bar was closing, the two of you were the only ones left still talking. When the owner gently asked you to leave, Clark settled both his tab and yours, even though you’d insisted he didn’t have to.
Outside, the night air hit you all at once. The street blurred, the ground swayed beneath your feet. You had badly underestimated your drinking, and there was no denying it now : you were absolutely wasted.
Trying to order an Uber was a disaster, your fingers slipped against the screen, your eyes refusing to focus. Clark stood beside you, gently taking the phone from your hands, putting it in your bag—just after he had looked at your address.
You tried to concentrate on his lips as they moved, but the words slipped past you, blurred and repeating themselves. Even sober, you doubted you could have focused. All you could think about was how soft his mouth looked, how badly you longed to press yours against his.
Not thinking straight, you pushed yourself up, aiming for his lips. But the height difference was impossible to ignore, you realized you’d never reach him like this. In your drunken haze, the only solution your mind could come up with was simpler : you wrapped your arms around him instead.
“Oh,” you heard Clark say with a gentle laugh. His arms came around you, warm hands rubbing your back. “I’ll take you home, darling.”
Giggling like a schoolgirl, you nodded against his chest. Heat rushed to your cheeks. It had been so long since you’d felt this way about a man, and stranger still that this man was, in truth, almost a stranger.
The entire way back was a blur, a warm, hazy kind of blur. Clark didn’t seem to mind your clinginess in the least. You held his hand, clutched at his arm, even traced the lines of his bicep, and he never pulled away. Instead, he just kept talking, filling the walk with easy conversation : little anecdotes about the city, praises about random restaurants, nerdy trivia about Superman.
He knew a lot about him—suspiciously a lot. He’d said he’d interviewed Superman several times for work, which only made him sexier in your eyes. A sweet, nerdy journalist with broad shoulders and kind eyes.
Your absolute favourite kind of man : a himbo.
By the time you reached your place, you didn’t want the night to end. It felt so good, being seen, being appreciated by a man like Clark. He was a dream come true : handsome, intelligent, gentle, and kind.
Clinging to his arm, you walked toward the front door, only to stop abruptly. Your eyes met, finally level in the glow of the entry light. Your gaze drifted down to his lips, while his lingered on yours.
“You wanna come up?” you asked.
Or at least, you thought you did. The words tangled together, blurring into one another. Still, you turned back toward the door with the biggest smile on your face, feeling victorious even though he hadn’t said a single word.
Clark followed you up to your flat, steadying you with his hands as you climbed the stairs, afraid you might miss a step and fall. He couldn’t help but notice the darkness hanging over the building, the front door broken, the lock useless.
At your apartment door, his body went rigid, like a dog catching a sound you couldn’t hear. Maybe he had heard something. This wasn’t exactly the best part of Metropolis, but it was all you could afford. You, at least, had grown used to the background noises and didn’t pay them much mind.
Once inside, you slipped off your shoes while he lingered at the door, carefully studying each of your locks with sharp, deliberate eyes.
When he turned around, you tried to kiss him again. What you imagined as a graceful, soft leap was closer to a clumsy tackle, and Clark caught you easily in his arms. He turned his head just in time, so your lips brushed his cheek instead.
“Sweetheart…” he sighed, voice warm but steady, almost like a warning wrapped in kindness.
If you’d been sober, you would have drowned in embarrassment at being turned aside like this in your own home. But instead, you tried again, practically climbing him like a tree. His large hands settled firmly on your hips, not pushing, not harsh, but guiding you down with quiet insistence.
He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by your weight, which only fuelled the thought spinning in your hazy mind: maybe he did like you. But the way he held you, gentle, unyielding, made it just as clear he wasn’t going to let this go any further tonight.
Or at least, it was clear to him.
Giving up on prying you off, Clark simply shifted you more securely in his arms and started making his way through your apartment, as though he already knew where to go. It didn’t take him long to find your bedroom.
In the meantime, your head had dropped against his neck, your nose brushing softly against his skin as you were gently rocked by the rhythm of his steps. The walk from the front door to your room wasn’t far, but in your drunken state, sleep rushed in far too easily.
It should have been the opposite. Drunk, alone, bringing a stranger into your flat, your mind should have been wide awake, primed to fight or flee. But something about him was different. Soothing. Calm. Safe. It was too easy to trust him.
The moment your body met the mattress, sleep pulled you under without mercy. And the last thought that drifted through your mind before the darkness claimed you was how serial killers would have loved you.
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Pounding.
Your head was pounding. Your mouth was dry, your stomach twisted, and you felt grimy all over. Opening your eyes was a nightmare, the sunlight streaming through the window stabbed straight into them.
When you finally managed to keep them open without burning, you dragged yourself into the bathroom. The dress from last night hit the floor, and you turned on the shower. A good, cold rinse might work miracles.
It did, just a little. Out of the shower, you caught your reflection in the mirror. You were a wreck. Hair wild, mascara and eyeliner smeared like bruises around your eyes, your skin paler than usual. The lack of sleep and the leftover alcohol left you looking half-dead.
On instinct, you gulped water straight from the tap before brushing your teeth, desperate to wash the taste of alcohol from your mouth. Dressed in an old oversized football shirt of your brother’s and a pair of panties, you shuffled toward the kitchen, nowhere near ready to face the day.
The plan was simple : grab some breakfast, then crawl back into bed and sleep off the rest of the world.
What you hadn’t expected was Clark, standing in the middle of your kitchen, gently whistling as he cooked. Your eyes flicked to the couch, where a throw blanket lay crumpled, his shoes and socks neatly beside it. It looked very much like someone had spent the night there.
Had he slept on the couch?
Frowning, fragments of last night slammed back into your head, draining even more colour from your face.
He shouldn’t be here. He had rejected you. Surely he would have gone home after you passed out. And yet, here he was, in your kitchen, casually cooking breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Clark said gently, without even turning around, as if he had sensed your presence. When he finally glanced back, his warm, calm smile made your stomach twist, half embarrassment, half something else you couldn’t name. He went back to the eggs sizzling in the pan, completely unfazed by your staring.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he continued. “I made breakfast.”
Your brain protested, scrambling to find the right words, or any words at all. Why is he here? Why does this feel… comforting? Your heart thudded, a mix of guilt and something you weren’t ready to admit. He had rejected you, but he hadn’t left. He was here, taking care of you, and part of you wanted to melt into the ease of it all.
You shuffled closer, feeling the edges of panic and gratitude collide. Your mouth opened, but no coherent words came out. All you could do was stare at him, at the soft light of the morning catching his hair, at the way he moved so naturally in your space. It was infuriating, and intoxicating.
“Here,” he said, placing a plate piled with eggs, toast, and bacon in front of you, sliding a cup of water alongside it.
Then he placed a second plate beside yours, this one even more generously filled than the first.
You sat down, still reeling from his unexpected presence, and he settled directly across from you, his calm gaze making it impossible to look away.
You picked up your fork almost mechanically, unsure where to start, your eyes darting to him every few seconds. Clark, meanwhile, ate at a relaxed pace, occasionally glancing up with that calm, steady smile that made your chest tighten.
“Sleep well?” he asked casually.
Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard. “I… uh… yeah. Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up.
You took a tentative bite of your food, your mind swirling between embarrassment, disbelief, and a strange comfort. Every time your gaze flicked to him, you caught little gestures, the way he stirred his coffee, the way he pushed a stray crumb off the table with his finger, that made your heart race.
He was still just as handsome as he had been at the bar.
“Hum,” you began, trying to keep your tone casual. “I don’t want to be mean, but like… did you sleep on my couch?”
“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting nervously between you and the couch. “I… I didn’t want to leave you alone. I kept hearing those noises outside, and… well, if I left, your front door wouldn’t have been locked,” he admitted, his words tumbling out in a mix of concern and awkward charm.
There was a pause, filled only by the quiet clatter of breakfast utensils. You couldn’t help but notice the faint blush rising in his cheeks, the way he avoided your eyes for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. Somehow, the honesty, and the tiny hint of vulnerability, made him even more irresistible.
“I didn’t move anything, didn’t touch anything… I left your bedroom the minute you fell asleep,” he rushed out, his words tumbling over each other. “I—uh—I wouldn’t do anything to make you feel uneasy…”
His eyes searched yours, earnest and slightly anxious, as if he needed you to believe him. The awkwardness made him even more endearing, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but soften, realizing how much he cared about your comfort, even before coffee had fully woken you up.
It might have been the lingering alcohol in your blood or the lack of sleep, but tears gathered in your eyes. “That’s… the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me…”
“It’s the least I could do,” Clark said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact, as if protecting you like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Weirdly, once the initial awkwardness passed, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You forgot all about how messy you had looked, how cringe-worthy you had felt last night. If anything, the man turned out to be an even bigger nerd than you were.
Talking to him felt so natural, almost as if he had been meant to be in your life all along.
But, as all good things must, Clark had to leave, suddenly, and in quite a hurry.
It felt odd. No one had called him, he hadn’t received any texts, and it was Sunday. Yet here he was, rushing off without explanation. You didn’t question it, at least, not out loud. Deep down, the nagging thought crept in: maybe he had only been kind enough to sleep here, to talk to you, without any real interest.
Of course. Clark was way out of your league. The genuine connection you had convinced yourself existed was probably nothing more than a fleeting dream.
As he made his way to your front door, you followed, ready to lock it behind him and bury yourself in bed for the rest of the day. You had plenty of explaining to do to your friends, and you weren’t ready for their lectures about how reckless your behaviour had been.
“Hum,” he started, stopping by the front door. His eyes flicked from the floor to yours. “I… I’d really like to see you again, if you want, of course,” he added quickly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.
“I’m sorry I have to leave like this, but I have something important I can’t postpone…” he explained, his words tumbling out as fast as before.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. For a moment, your mind went blank, the words you wanted to say buried under a rush of warmth and disbelief.
“Uh… yeah, I’d like that,” you finally managed, your own cheeks heating up. “I mean… if you want, too,” you added, stumbling over your words, hating how flustered you sounded.
Clark’s smile widened, his dimples showing, a mix of relief and quiet joy lighting up his face. “Good,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Then it’s a date. I promise I won’t disappear next time.”
The words settled between you, leaving a lingering buzz stronger than any alcohol had. Giggling, you bit your lip before letting out a soft breath. “Okay.”
Then he scribbled something on a scrap of paper, what you assumed was his number, turned one last time, and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead before he was gone. It all happened so quickly that you barely registered the softness of his lips on your skin.
Locking the door, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. The grin refused to fade, even as you sank back into bed, ready to steal a few hours of sleep.
This time, sleep came more gently than it had hours ago, just as a flash of red and blue streaked past your window.
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©sillyswriting 2025
an unexpected sweet clark kent fic before the multi chapter one. i truly love this man beyond comprehension tbh...
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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— hardly discreet !!
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clark kent x reader warnings: angst to fluff, clark using his superhearing to spy, jealous!clark, not proofread :0 word count: 3,000k
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clark kent doesn’t do love. he tells himself he doesn’t have time for it. i mean, how could he, with the weight of an entire world on his shoulders? one more person to worry about would be a distraction, a weakness. at least, that’s what he used to believe. but then you came into his life. you waltzed into the daily planet with your perfect smile and beautiful features, and swept him off his feet—literally (lois still teases him about it). and everyone sees it, even if he thinks he’s good at hiding secrets. he hovers without hovering, the kind of man who will cross a crowded newsroom just to put your coffee down exactly where your hand is about to reach for it. he buys your lunch when you forget, pulls your chair out before you can, nearly trips over himself when you say thanks, clark, with a bright smile.
so when he walks into the bullpen that afternoon, balancing two coffees because he knows your usual order and wanted to surprise you, it feels like the floor drops out beneath him because his hearing snags on your voice. “…jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him.”
the cup nearly slips out of his hand. his jaw clenches, something sick curling in his stomach, because you sound so sure—like it’s been sitting heavy on your chest for weeks and you finally let it out. he freezes in the doorway, coffee cup creasing between his thick fingers, staring at you and lois huddled by her desk like the world didn’t just tilt sideways. he forces himself to move, to keep walking, though each step feels wrong, like wading through cement. he sets the extra coffee down on your desk without a word, the gesture suddenly hollow, stupid. his throat is tight, his ears ringing with the echo of your confession.
"ugh, my hero," you grin, looking up to see him. he just nods, eyes looking everywhere but you. then, without a sheepish goodbye, or a murmured compliment, he trudges to his desk. you furrow a brow, watching the way his shoulders slump and his mouth curves downwards. you shrug and sip the coffee, practically groaning at the taste.
clark can barely focus for the next ten minutes because lois is still laughing at whatever you said, patting your back, and putting way too much sugar in her cup. when he moves his chair farther away from her chattering, he's met with the sight of perfect little jimmy olsen. clark knows it's wrong, but he can't help but feel hatred towards the red-head. of course you’d want jimmy. why wouldn’t you? he’s—he’s everything. he’s normal. he’s good. he's not…clark. he exhales deeply, pushing the thoughts out of his brain and rising to his feet. he mutters something about interviewing superman to lois before slinging his bag over his broad shoulder. for the first time in months, clark passes your desk without tripping over his own feet or offering to bring you back lunch. he just keeps his gaze straight, ignoring the small smile you send him that would've had him in cardiac arrest last week. when he shuts the door to the stairwell, he slams it harsher than usual.
"huh," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. it’s odd, the absence of his usual stammer, the way he doesn’t even pause to ask if you’ll need anything while he’s out. clark kent doesn’t just leave. not without fussing. not without that earnest, big smile that always makes you laugh under your breath. you glance toward the glass doors just in time to see the back of him vanish into the street. his frame seems even larger when weighed down with that invisible heaviness, his shoulders hunched like the city itself pressed down on them.
lois waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to dream girl. what’s got you staring holes into the exit sign?”
“nothing,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your coffee. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. “he’s just…weird today.”
lois smirks, like she knows something you don’t. “maybe you’ve finally scared him off.” you roll your eyes, but there’s a seed of unease tucked somewhere beneath your ribs. clark, ignoring you? clark, walking out without a word? something’s off, and you don't like it.
meanwhile, he’s already halfway down the block, jaw tight, breath sharp against the collar of his shirt. every noise in the city seems louder, harsher. he wants to fly, to tear through the clouds until the ache in his chest evaporates, but even that won’t fix the image burned into his head—your smile, your voice, the certainty when you said something about loving jimmy. he adjusts his glasses, forces his hands into his pockets. you deserve jimmy, he tells himself. you deserve someone simple. someone safe. not a man who lies every day just to keep you from finding out what he is. but god, it really does feel like he’s been punched through a building.
~
the next morning, the newsroom is its usual chaos of ringing phones and rustling paper. you’re perched at your desk, expecting the familiar shadow of clark kent to appear at your elbow with a steaming cup balanced carefully in his hand. but he doesn’t. he walks straight past you, no “morning,” no stammered compliment about your outfit, not even the ghost of his bashful smile. his stride is stiff, mechanical. he sits, adjusts his glasses, and pretends the stack of notes on his desk is suddenly urgent.
your brows pinch, the silence where clark usually is buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. from across the bullpen, lois notices immediately. she grins like a cat with cream, rolling her chair over until she bumps against clark’s desk with a little thunk. “wow,” she drawls, crossing her arms. “no coffee or expensive danish for your girlfriend today? what’s the world coming to, kent?”
normally, clark would flush bright red, choke on his words, maybe even sputter something about she’s not my girlfriend. today, though, he just stares at his computer, jaw tight. “it’s not funny, lois.”
her smirk falters, curiosity sparking. “okay, grumpy. what’s crawled up your cape?”
he exhales slowly through his nose, voice quiet enough that only she can hear. “i heard you two yesterday. by your desk. i wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but i couldn’t not hear it. she basically confessed her love for jimmy.”
lois blinks, letting the information sink in, then lets out a bark of laughter so loud perry pokes his head out of his office and scowls. she waves him off, shoulders shaking. “oh, clark,” she says finally, grinning like she’s just been handed front-page gossip. “you are so out of your depth.”
he looks at her, confused and a little wounded. “lois-” but she’s already rolling back toward her desk, still laughing under her breath, deciding it’ll be far more entertaining to let him stew in his own misery than clear things up for him. from your desk, you glance between the two of them, unsettled by the storm cloud hanging over clark’s usually sunny face.
~
by the end of the day, you’re convinced something’s wrong. it’s not you—at least, you don’t think so. clark isn’t avoiding eye contact out of shyness, he’s dimmer. a man sized shadow slumped in his chair, typing but not seeing, answering questions with one-syllable words. it unsettles you. so, on impulse, you stop by his apartment that evening, balancing a warm paper bag of his favorite takeout against your hip. you knock, humming under your breath, rehearsing some lighthearted line about him looking like he needed it.
when the door creaks open, you almost drop the bag. clark stands there, hair mussed, tie still crooked from work. his glasses slide a fraction down his nose and he doesn’t even push them back up. his expression is blank, exhausted—nothing like the clark kent that you know. “hi,” you start, lifting the bag like an offering. “i, um…thought you might want dinner. you seemed…i don’t know. sad, today.”
for a beat, he just blinks at you. no blush, no stammer, just an emptiness that makes your stomach twist. and it’s impossible not to remember the last time you stood at this doorway. it was months ago, when you came to return the coat he’d forgotten at the office. he’d opened the door with his shirt half-tucked, papers scattered behind him, his ears blazing red. he’d practically yelped, slammed the door in your face, and by the time he opened it again—thirty seconds later—his hair was brushed, his apartment spotless, his shirt pressed like he’d just stepped out of the dry cleaner. you never questioned it, just laughed at how adorably flustered he was.
but tonight, none of that frantic effort. no rush to impress you. just clark, a shell of himself, standing there like he doesn’t quite know what to do with your kindness. “you didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, voice low, almost flat.
you frown. “clark, it’s just noodles. not exactly a grand gesture.” he steps aside reluctantly, letting you in. the apartment is dull, curtains drawn, papers stacked haphazardly on the table. he doesn’t make any excuse for the mess, doesn’t try to straighten anything. you set the bag down, glance back at him. “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do i have to guess?”
his throat works. he looks at you, then away, as if the sight of you burns. clark rubs a hand over his face, glasses skewing, and mutters, “it’s nothing. really.”
you narrow your eyes. “you look like your dog died.”
“i don’t…have a dog. well, not really,” he says, almost defensively, before realizing how stupid it sounds.
you huff out a laugh despite yourself, unpacking the food. “exactly my point. sit down before you collapse on me.” he obeys, but slowly, like his body weighs twice as much tonight. he doesn’t even move to help, just watches as you set the cartons on his table and search his cabinets for plates. normally, he’d be at your side in a second, fumbling for napkins, tripping over a chair leg in his rush to make himself useful. “you’re freaking me out, clark,” you say finally, sliding a plate of noodles toward him. “yesterday you were fine, and today you’re like this. did perry yell at you? did lois make some crack about your tie again?”
“no.” his fork stirs aimlessly through the noodles, appetite nonexistent. his eyes flicker up to yours for a heartbeat, then drop to the table. “just—don’t worry about it.”
but you do. you can’t not. this is clark, the man who once apologized three times in a row because he accidentally bumped your chair. the man who leaves sticky notes on your desk when you’re having a bad day, with scribbled little cartoons that always make you smile. seeing him dulled, detached, is like finding the sun burned out overnight. “too late,” you murmur, softer than you meant to. “i’m already worried.”
his throat tightens. he pushes his food away, elbows braced on his knees, palms clasped so tightly his knuckles blanch. he wants to say it—that he heard you, that he knows you’re in love with jimmy, that it’s tearing him apart. but the words wedge in his chest like shards of glass. so instead, he shakes his head. “you don’t have to take care of me. i’ll be fine.”
you stare at him, unsettled. the clark you know would’ve blushed at the sight of you standing in his doorway with dinner, would’ve tripped over his gratitude, would’ve told you a dozen times you didn’t need to, but thank you, thank you, thank you. this version of him? he feels distant—even untouchable. “so who will?” you sigh, reaching out to rub your manicured nails up and down his arm. he flinches at the sudden contact. “if i don’t take care of you, who will?” you repeat the question, voice quieter this time.
for a beat, there’s nothing but the hum of his old refrigerator, the distant honk of a horn outside. then, the sudden snap of his words. “maybe you should go take care of jimmy instead.” the words land like a slap. sharp, petty, and completely unlike him. his voice isn’t raised, but it cuts through the room like glass.
your lips part in confusion. “what?”
instantly, his face crumples, shame flooding in. he drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “i—god, i didn’t mean that.”
but you’re still staring at him, confusion knitting your brow. clark kent doesn’t snap. he doesn’t sulk like a child or spit out jealous little barbs. he doesn’t tell you to go take care of someone else. except, apparently, tonight he does. you whisper, incredulous, “where did that even come from?”
that’s when the words begin to spill out like you’d given him truth serum. “iheardyouandloistalkingaboutjimmyyesterday.” he babbles, eyes pinching shut in pure embarrassment. “i wasn’t eavesdropping—well, i guess i was—but that’s only because i have really, really good hearing.” you blink at him, stunned into silence. his words tumble over themselves, frantic and messy, and it’s so painfully unlike the careful, gentle clark you know. “you said he was super amazing and he was perfect and blah blah, and it really upset me because i really like you.”
your chest goes still, like the air’s been punched out of you. clark’s face is pink, his glasses slipping low on his nose as he finally dares to glance at you. his expression is raw, almost desperate. and then, all at once, it clicks. the conversation he must’ve overheard. the laughter with lois. the exaggerated tone you’d been using.
your lips part. “oh my god.”
he flinches. “i knew i shouldn’t’ve said-”
“no, clark,” you cut in quickly, leaning forward across the little table. “you didn’t hear the whole thing.” his brows pinch, confusion warring with the nerves flickering across his face.
“jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him,” you’d said, slouched against lois’s desk, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. lois had nearly spit out her coffee, laughing as you mimicked the wide-eyed gush of the new intern who couldn’t string two sentences together without swooning over poor jimmy olsen. “and she didn’t know that he was right behind her! i almost died.”
back in clark’s apartment, you cover your mouth, a laugh threatening despite the tension. “clark… i wasn’t talking about me. i was making fun of that new intern, melanie. you know, the one who brings jimmy muffins every morning like she’s feeding a baby bird?”
his entire body stills. he blinks once, twice, the words catching up like bricks tumbling into place. “…oh.” clark’s ears flame instantly, red creeping down his neck. he scrubs a hand over his face like he can hide inside his palm. “i-” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “i thought—i really thought-”
“that i was in love with jimmy?” you supply, a mix of incredulity and something softer curling around the words.
he groans, deflating like a balloon and dragging his fingers through his hair. “god, this is humiliating. i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have assumed. i just—i heard it, and it felt like someone punched a hole straight through me. and then tonight i went and…” his jaw tightens, guilt coloring every syllable, “snapped at you. you didn’t deserve that.”
you study him, the way his shoulders slope in defeat, the way his chest still rises and falls too fast. you’ve never seen clark kent like this. it makes your heart ache. “clark,” you say gently, resting your hand over his where it grips his knee. he jolts at the touch, eyes flying to yours. “you like me?”
the question cracks something open in him. his throat bobs as he nods, slow, reluctant, but honest. “more than i should.”
your lips curve into a wide grin. “you’re serious.” you try your best to feign disbelief.
his laugh is humorless, quiet. “painfully.”
you tilt your head, studying him, the way his broad frame looks so small slumped forward on the couch. “i had a hunch.”
that makes him look up, startled. “you…what?” sure, maybe he was a little obvious. okay, more than a little. but in his defense, how else was he supposed to act around you? how do you look at someone who makes the whole room feel like it’s finally in color and not trip over your own feet? he thought he’d been careful. that the coffees and lunches and endless, nervous “thank yous” were just gentlemanly. the kind of things anyone would do for a coworker. except no one else at the planet is lining up outside your favorite deli to grab your lunch when you’re too swamped to get it yourself. no one else memorizes how you take your coffee down to the sugar packet.
but you noticed. of course you did.
you shrug, trying to bite back your smile. “clark, you bring me coffee every single morning without fail. you pull out my chair like we’re in a black-and-white movie. you once carried my bag down three flights of stairs because you said it looked heavy—it had one book in it.”
his ears are glowing now, eyes wide behind his lenses. “i—i thought i was being-”
“discreet?” you finish for him, laughing softly. “you aren’t very discreet.”
he groans, hiding his face in his hands, muffling something that sounds like, “oh, god.”
but you reach forward, gently prying his hands away until his flustered face is bared again. “hey.” your voice is softer now. “for the record i like you too. i have for a while.”
his mouth parts, a little stunned breath catching like he doesn’t quite know how to hold it. the corners of his lips twitch up, like a smile is fighting its way through all that disbelief. “you—really?”
“painfully,” you echo back, teasing but oh so true.
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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S3 Everyone lives nobody dies!AU. On the way to find out where Soviet spy is
🔪🔪🔪в вк не репостить🔪🔪🔪
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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The gay boys in question:
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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goingxsteddie · 2 days ago
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“i never see you at the club” ok well i never see you on ao3 at 2am reading about the same two bitches falling in love for the 1000th time in the 500th way
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