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it's adorable how clark kent takes your every quip oh so seriously.
the same gentle eiffel tower you were graced to meet eye-to-eye at the daily planet. when you were promised that feature writing gig that seemed like a quick buck, you hadn't expected to be paid handsomely with a free everyday view of a curly-haired mountain. to say you were fast friends was an understatement—how he politely gave you his phone number once you pronounced your relationship as more than close almost made your brain short-circuit and heart run on overdrive. almost.
amidst all the surprise gifts on your desk with accompanying pastel sticky-notes on topics ranging from "love your new hair!" to "you should wear blue more often. It's cute." duly signed with a smiley face plus two hearts; with you now having an army of little, glowing kryptonite soldiers. all taking space in a makeshift trinket shelf that clark kent "found at a garage sale" because "the man looked too proud."
so when you've reached the line of queerplatonicasy, the blur of being more than friends though not quite lovers?
well, say it was a monday evening.
laying down on fluffy-cloud blankets and soft freshly-washed sheets, you kick your feet in the air as you giggle at your phone screen. your thumbs twiddling in anticipation, repeatedly eyeing the greyed-out 'send' button off to the edge of the screen. it was as if you hadn't just send quite possibly the most scandalous text one can to their coworker.
never mind the fact he's over 6 feet of pure golden-retriever, no-nonsense mama kent hospitality; a farmer boy sweetheart, naturally. when talks about finches turned heart-eyed daydreaming, as spurts of 'blah blah blah' leave the other ear when all you could absorb is how darn gosh adorable that sweet southern twang is.
a pillow anchors your body from rolling over and falling face-flat to the cold, squeaky floor. you had to bite back a high-pitched squeal, or the urge to toss the phone at the painted wall.
oh, you couldn't wait!
the first thing superman did once he reached his apartment doorstep was take a deep breath. it was another day of world-saving wonder: a cat stuck in a tree, a little boy's kite caught in power lines, a window washer's scaffold giving out fourteen stories above rush hour traffic.
the usual.
the cape had long been tucked away. glasses settled back on the bridge of his nose. his phone buzzed on the coffee table. one long, frantic vibration, followed by a soft 'ding!' that tugged more than his attention.
he was already halfway to it before he realized he'd moved.
thumbs brushing over the screen, unlocking without a second thought. the sender had his intrigued from the start.
then came the message.
> this is literally us <3
sent 10:58 pm
clark blinked. slowly.
once, twice, the upteenth time his eyes scanned the image as if it did him personal wrong. or right, with a grin riding up his cheeks.
he huffed a breath, surprised. then again, amused.
then, he laughs.
a sweet little snicker parting his lips. his dimples accentuated by the charmed smile. his shoulders relax, guiding him back to take a seat on the lush chair beside the table.
"'gosh," he near-gasps in disbelief, placing the phone aside to take a breather. or two. or more. and then, he could only shake his head, whispering only to himself:
"finches?"
it was adorable how you remember the most minor things and yet manage to reign his heart over and over. clark believes that you might be unaware of such power, just casually messaging him adorations without warning.
now he feels bad for replying late.
𝓟. 𝓢. — a small birthday gift to the one and only @cheretoru!! thank you for being such a great friend and wonderful inspiration. also, by extension, this is my first small drabble on this blog so woo!! can't wait to write more in the future <3
content: fluff, established relationship, reader completely gone over clark’s dimples, domestic sweetness.
clark’s talking.
you know he’s talking — about work, probably, or something his mom said on the phone this morning. his voice is warm, steady, familiar enough to wrap around you like a blanket.
but all you can see are his dimples.
they pop every time he smiles, every time he softens a word, every time he glances at you. they’re carved deep into his cheeks, unfairly beautiful, and you’re gone.
“…and then perry said—” clark pauses, squinting at you. “sweetheart, are you even listening?”
“mmhmm,” you hum, chin propped on your hand, staring at him like he hung the moon.
“what did i just say?”
“that you,” you start, dreamy, “have the most perfect dimples i’ve ever seen in my life.”
he flushes instantly, pink blooming over his cheekbones, dimples somehow deepening like they’re mocking you. “that’s… not what i said,” he murmurs, ducking his head, smiling harder because he can’t help it.
“you could read me the weather report and i’d still be staring at those dimples,” you confess, hopeless. “how am i supposed to concentrate when you look like that?”
he laughs, low and shy, rubbing the back of his neck. “they’re just dimples.”
“they’re not just dimples, clark,” you protest, reaching out to poke one gently, like proof. “they’re lethal weapons. stronger than your heat vision. deadlier than kryptonite.”
he groans, burying his face in his hands, but his shoulders shake with laughter. “you’re ridiculous.”
you pry his hands away, kiss each dimple until he’s melting in your arms, glasses fogging just a little. “ridiculously in love with you,” you correct.
and clark — with those unfair, breathtaking dimples — just smiles wider, knowing he’s won, because you’ll never stop staring.