If you stumble upon this, hello!! I will be reblogging all my fics here so I can keep track of them and spread the love for writers! They are giving us works of art for FREE, so it’s the least I can do.
There is no rhyme or reason to what fics I read, they will range from angst to smut to fluff. Whoever I’m crushing on will be found here.
I love romance and the idea of a relationship but can’t seem to get out of the book/fanfic realm. There might be some side rants throw in every now and then too because no one I know follows me here. Tag along if you want !
Summary: You once went to high school with Clark, and nothing happened. But time changes people.
Word count: 5k
Contains: Fluff & smut. Reconnected meet-cute, unrequited first crush. Daily Planet!Clark & Baker!Bookish!reader. Mentions of Clark’s friends & mom. Awkward flirting, anxiety, kissing. Lots of inner monologue. Time skips July-Nov-Feb. *PIV and clit play– not very graphic, kept it mild to match the tone.
A/N: okay this one took me a while to get right but i really love it :,) hope you enjoy anon !! again, barely proofread but i trust you to be nice
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Coming home was tough for Clark.
Without his dad around to make the farm feel full, and while D.C. took his mother away on business 364 days out of the year, Smallville just didn’t have the same charm it used to. Even his friends were based in Metropolis or the stars beyond now. What was left of his childhood was long gone. It was quiet and empty, and yet so could his life be, and that is why he went anyway. Coming home, at the very least, was a chance for him to reconnect with himself. Even if he did it alone in a familiar farmhouse.
It wasn’t as if Smallville wasn’t nice. It was beautiful all year, littered with lush nature and boasting a quirky downtown. A perfect getaway for most. The AirBNB business would boom here soon, if it hadn’t begun already. Being away had only made it seem sadder, somehow. Metropolis was always bustling, he could barely get any sleep, and part of him liked that; the surge of the city, the never-ending list of tasks, the lights and sounds. Here, nothing ever happened. It was partially why growing up was possible, but also why it felt so impossible at times. He owed much to the small town.
The long drive down the county road out to Kent Farm smelled of that mid-July fuzzy, homegrown grain he liked to forget when he could. As he rolled up the driveway, he let out a conflicted breath. The house was the same it had been last Christmas. It never changed. The yellow paint still simmered in the sun, the windows still shone, and somehow the plants were green and viney– it had to be one of Martha’s friends, coming by to water them while nobody was home. Clark’s boots clopped up the front porch and he turned slowly, savoring the crisp intake of oxygen. The air never felt fresher than it did at home, which was one positive. The land looked good. It seemed the deal he struck with his neighbors was serving the family acres well.
Clark would go through the motions– walk the farm, call his mother, do his laundry. Something about the well water out here really got the remaining stains out of his suit. And when all that was done, he’d go into town and see the things he missed the most– the old talon, the bakery that sold the little almond croissants, the bookstore, Smallville High. Things that made life feel like it only just happened, and wasn’t some distant memory of a planet he had left behind long ago. It would help him claw out of this unusual slump he was in, which he desperately needed to shirk. He’d missed two punches, botched a high jump in front of a group of civilians, written three stories with nearly forty typos between them, and nearly lost a mid-air brawl. He was losing his touch, and he needed to get it back.
It didn’t help that he felt so alone. Sure, he had his friends– Chloe, Jimmy, Lois at the office, Oliver at Queen Industries (when he wasn’t on a jet), Kara and Jonn and the others floating around somewhere galactic. He had people to call. But whatever this feeling was, it had nothing to do with them. It was a gaping hole in his bedside and a missing hand on his head. It was something nobody in his world had been able to fill. There was certainly no finding it in Smallville, but in all honesty, he wasn’t sure where else to go. Even if he had to prolong the ache, at least home would take the sting out, right? He sure hoped so. If not, he was out of luck.
So, he slept in his old bed, and in the morning he would try the bakery first. Sugar cured all ills.
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Early morning rushes on Fridays were predictable. Tom came in for his black coffee and Boston creme donut before sunrise. His buddy Adam followed to buy a dozen for the construction crew up the street, where LuthorCorp was building a new plant. A few of the high school teachers rushed through for a pastry on their way in, eager to close out the week. Sally, the florist, took her time perusing the glass case as usual before ordering the same as always, a cherry danish, and stuffing a five dollar bill into your hand for always being ‘such a sweet girl’. You didn’t mind it; busy was not bad, and predictability was comfortable. Nothing ever changed on Fridays. Or so you thought, until the bell rang above the door, and you glanced up to see a face that you hadn’t in years.
Was that actually Clark Kent?
It had to be. The dark hair was well-kempt, but it had that same black-sapphire shade in the warm light. His eyes, too, were as bright as you remembered them, even behind glasses. When he walked up to the counter, you knew it for sure as he smiled and a sharp row of misaligned teeth appeared. Clark Kent was standing in front of you. The very same who always showed up in the Torch or the Ledger for saving a life, who won the Crows the championship, who used to eat donuts with his band of friends in your aunt’s shop. The very same who once stopped you from tripping over yourself and hitting your head when an inexplicable windstorm swept the prom and nearly killed half the school. Clark Kent was standing in a crisp flannel, a Planet journalist out of water– it wasn’t like you kept track of him– and smiling as if he did not remember you at all.
You felt heat rise in your chest as you brushed the flour from your palms onto your apron and smiled back. “Hey. I– welcome in. What can I do for you?”
Clark fished a wallet out of his jeans and asked conspiratorily, “Do you have any of those almond croissants left, or am I too late?”
Your smile grew wider. “Ah. Yeah, we do. Just one?”
The man nodded and watched as you flipped the case open and unfolded a piece of pastry paper. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
As you wrapped his croissant and tucked it neatly into a paper bag, you studied him. He was peering at the menu behind the counter and thumbing his bills, trying to determine the price. The board wasn’t very specific. Your aunt insisted that unlabeled prices were more artisanal, and therefore more successful. You snickered softly and came back to the counter, sliding it across. “It’s gonna be $3.75.”
Clark seemed pleased enough and handed you four singles. When you opened the register, a sneaky five found its way into the tip jar. Part of you was dying to know if he remembered you, but it was such a silly whim, wasn’t it? You were always in a different class than him, had different friends and interests. He saved a lot of classmates back in the day. You didn’t think you looked all that different– you were still quite chubby, although your hair wasn’t cut the same way anymore. He likely met thousands of people every year with that job he’s got. It wouldn’t be plausible for him to remember a girl he graduated with. But still, you wanted to know.
As you dropped a quarter into his open palm, you cocked your head. “I hope this doesn’t come off presumptuous, but… do you remember who I am?”
Clark blinked in alarm and turned a pretty shade of pink, showing his teeth. “Um…”
You felt a blooming embarrassment and chuckled quickly. “I didn’t think so. It’s okay! Um– just– we graduated together, and you’re always the talk of the town now, what with writing for the Daily Planet and stuff, and I remember when you used to come in and eat donuts with your friends after school, so I just– y’know– I thought I’d ask.” You shifted your weight and winced a bit at your inability to talk at a regular pace.
Clark seemed to stop for a second, considering what you said. His eyes scanned you, and then he narrowed them, and then he smiled. “Wait a second.”
“Hm?”
“You used to work here in high school,” he confirmed, laughing softly. “This is your aunt’s place, right? Yeah! You– you used to win the bake sale drive every year, Chloe used to be so pissed,” Clark said at last. “Everyone used to call you Betty Crocker.”
You flushed plum and shut the register. “Yeah, good times…”
Clark’s grin softened as he scooped up his pastry. “Didn’t like the nickname, huh?”
You shook your head. “Could’ve been worse, though.”
“Yeah, I think it could have,” he teased. “I haven’t seen you here the last few times I came home.”
“I was living in the pacific northwest for a while,” you shrugged, leaning on the counter. “Seattle, mostly. I got my degree out there and worked for a publisher for a few years. I loved the water. But I missed home.”
“Publisher? Are you an author?”
“No, just an editor. But I’m hoping to start my own publishing company soon. Trying to find my roots again first, that’s all.”
Clark’s expression was difficult to read, but it was pleasant. He just seemed a bit… twisted up. Like a rubber band wrapping around itself. “Well, you certainly look right here. This is how I remember you.”
You ducked your head to avoid smiling too wide. “You think?” you gestured to your dirtied apron.
Clark tilted his head to the side and thought for a moment, before nodding softly. “Yeah.”
The attention was a bit too warm, but you didn’t move. Instead, you chirped, “Let me get you some coffee.”
“Oh, no, really–”
“Even if it’s on the house?”
Clark couldn’t help his smirk. “Giving out freebies, are we?”
“For an old friend,” you tested, turning around to reach the back counter. “You did save me once, after all.”
Clark furrowed his brow. “I did?” he asked, only to think for a second and follow up with, “oh. I did! Prom, right?”
“Yeah,” you giggled, filling a paper cup with coffee from the canteen.
“You were wearing a blue dress. I do remember.”
You turned around with a handful of scalding drink, but the burn was nothing compared to your skin. “What?”
Clark smiled sheepishly and scratched his head. “You… uh… you wore a blue dress. I remember it, it had, like… beads on it. It was pretty. Is that my coffee?”
You handed it to him with a nervous hand and flushed, trying to find your way back to that easy smile. “Right.”
Clark clutched his croissant and cup awkwardly and nudged his glasses up with a knuckle. “Um, well… I guess I’m good to go, then.”
“All paid up,” you nodded.
“I’ll see you?” He asked.
There was the smile. “I’ll be here.”
“Good,” Clark said, stepping back. “Uh… have a good day. It was good to see you again.”
“You too, Clark.”
As the memory of a boy all but waddled out of the bakery, you leaned your hip against the counter and watched him go. He was even taller, and yet just as you once knew him. Sweet, teasing, bumbling when he got caught. Perfect. You felt yourself gushing, but there was no harm done if he was gone. For a minute, you felt just like your young self again, going to the football games for no other reason than to ogle the golden child of Smallville High. Everyone had a crush on him. But did he remember everyone?
Clark came back every morning that week until he went back to Metropolis. You assumed as much when he stopped showing up. But it wasn’t until you emptied the tip jar at the end of the week to split it between you and your aunt that you found a note slipped in with a few bills…
Stay at the bakery for a while longer. The croissants have never been better. If you’re still there by Thanksgiving, you’ll make one happy man. Call if you won’t be. xxx-xxx-xxxx
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Clark was looking forward to the holiday for more reasons than one.
His mother got some time off, thank God. That was reason enough to celebrate. He had even convinced his friends to make the trip back, since so many of them were each other’s family now, and a Friendsgiving in the Watchtower just wouldn't do. It would be the first real Thanksgiving he enjoyed in years. He’d taste his mother’s homemade apple pie again. But, on top of all that, there would be almond croissants and coffee.
You called after you found the note. You got his machine, but you left a message. When Clark called back the next morning, you found his voice was quite nice over the phone, and he was happy to hear yours. I don’t get a lot of calls, he had teased, I’ll clear the machine so you can fill it up. And fill it you did. You called all the time, whether you intended to catch him or not. You told stories about the bakery, and sometimes he was there to laugh with you, or he would chuckle to himself while he recapped upon coming home. The times you did get him to pick up, he would spill the juicy details of what it was like working at the Planet, being in league with the best reporters in the country and just barely scraping by. Sometimes he read his stories aloud for you to edit, given all your experience. Now and again, if he got a big one, he’d fax it to you and wait for you to return it covered in red pen. He earned points with Perry for developing his craft, and he acquired a taste for the cute way you scribbled your Rs and Ks.
When November rolled around and you had months of phone bills under your belt, Clark had rung one night with a special request. Come to my house for Thanksgiving, he asked, for dessert. Meet my friends. Please? They want to try your baking. And I want to see you. You were sold at the prospect of being wanted, but it took more convincing to get your mother and aunt to see you weren’t ditching the holiday, merely cutting out early for a lateral celebration. They agreed on the contingency that you bring a canteen of the special banana bread coffee the bakery was experimenting with, aiming to hear results from a test group. That was how you ended up in Clark’s living room, polling Crow alumni and strangers alike.
“Honey, whatever you put in this, I’m gonna need fifteen more of,” a very satisfied Lois Lane grinned. It was safe to say you were mesmerized by her– not only was her name known nationwide for her exclusive interviews with Superman, but she had a head of chestnut hair that flowed the way you imagined Greek goddesses’ did, and her comebacks were witty and sharp, and she looked like hell on wheels in a pair of jeans and a blazer. She gave you a friendly wallop on the arm. “This stuff is a bestseller!”
“It really is,” Chloe hummed, sidling up to you against the kitchen counter. “I wish you had this back in high school. I was running on terrible mochaccinos back then.”
You chuckled softly at the blonde. She was as pretty as you remembered, with her gap teeth and bouncy hair. “Weren’t we all.”
“You know, I really think you’ve got a good investment opportunity on your hands here,” Oliver Queen interjected from across the room, almond cream and powdered sugar clumping around his lips. He had sugared hands like a Pillsbury massacre. “We should talk about stakes. I could put your pastries in airports around the world.
“Dude!” Jimmy Olsen scoffed.
“Absolutely not,” Clark cut in, tossing a napkin in Oliver’s direction. “She’s one person, she can only make so many. No machine could make them taste as good.”
You flushed a bit and shrugged. “Thanks, Clark.”
“You always had a talent for treats, sweetheart,” a greying yet spry Martha Kent lilted as she shooed Chloe and Lois from the counter so she might reach the sink. “Just like your aunt. People talked for years about how those croissants fell in quality when you left for school. I think your mother was making them.”
You had to bite back your laughter as she gave you a wink. You scooted away to give her room for the dishes.
Clark’s friends were sweet. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. They were all new to you, that was all. City folk. The people on the other side of the country, when you did work in Seattle and Portland, had a small-town attitude. The world moved differently there. It was kinder, just like Smallville had been growing up. Metropolis was like New York, and New York was the total opposite of Seattle and Portland. In turn, these people were the total opposite of you. They seemed the opposite of Clark in many ways, Chloe included. They were full of jabs and prods, sly jokes, work talk. You had little to contribute but the food you brought and a small story now and again when they remembered you knew Clark in school, vaguely and barely, and asked you to recount something they’d heard of before but never got the full story. They were all reporters or seekers in their own right, and it was frankly exhausting to keep up with.
Plus, with Lois around, it was a bit hard to breathe.
Clark had been so sweet over the phone. Curious about your life, asking after your progress on building a publishing company and how your family was doing. Invested in a way that gave you hope. He never mentioned Lois outside of work tales. But as she stood in his house now, punching his arm with a sense of camaraderie unknown to you, you worried if perhaps you’d read too much into things. She smiled at his every sentence and flipped her hair, and she drank your coffee while she did so. You were the servant to their obviously undeniable love, forced to watch it play out like some cruel joke. Well, maybe not in so many words, but that was how it felt. It felt, as she ruffled his hair and he flushed while fixing his frames, like Clark had not told you everything. It made you feel like a fool.
As his friends slumped on the couch with full bellies, bickering over a recording of Miracle on 34th Street, you parceled off the leftovers of your pastries in the kitchen with Clark.
“I’m glad you came,” he murmured, wiping some sugar off the counter. “Everybody is. They all really like you.”
“They’re nice people,” you offered back, trying not to replay the image of Lois patting Clark’s hand during dessert.
“I missed these,” he nudged your elbow, poking the Ziploc full of croissants. “And you.”
God, it really wasn’t fair. “You did?”
“Mhm.”
It was hard to tell now, when he touched you, if it was friendly. He touched Lois plenty. And Chloe, and Ollie, and surely everyone else. Hands on the small of their backs, pats between the shoulders. He was an affectionate person. He seemed to speak to them the same, too, as he joked and praised in ways you found so flirtatious over the phone. You were beginning to rethink everything he had ever said and done, retracing it back to when he first reacquainted himself in the summer, worrying that you’d been stupid enough to fabricate love out of a friendship.
“Are you listening?”
You blinked, snapping out of the spiral as Clark tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. He was closer now, peering down at you with curiosity. Warmth made you shudder as you shook your head. “Zoned out. Sorry.”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, but it pulled your cheeks tight. “Great. This was really nice. Thank you for inviting me.”
Clark studied how your hands moved quickly to clean, and he reached out to still a wrist. “You’re not at work. You don't have to do that.”
You paused, a sick feeling swirling in your gut. You had been cleaning all night. Serving, watching, attending to his friends and mother, making sure they liked your food, topping off their coffees. It was the only way you felt useful anymore since coming home.
Clark slipped a palm around your back and pressed his fingers into the soft pudge of your skin, dimpling the dip. “What is it?”
You swallowed the worry and smiled again. “Nothing,” you said before deflecting. “You never said what you were thankful for, you know. Earlier. Lois said cable television, and Jimmy said film developers, and then you never answered.”
Clark squinted playfully. “Really? Well, what are you thankful for? I don’t recall you answering, either.”
You chuckled weakly. “Um… the bakery. My family. The freelance work I get now and again,” you glanced at him, “and, y’know… other stuff.”
“Stuff?”
You swallowed again, closing your eyes. It was all friendship, this whole time. You knew it. A trick.
Clark leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Well, I’m thankful for you.”
Your eyes stayed shut as the tingle resonated like a sonic boom throughout the chub of your cheek. So that was what Clark’s lips felt like.
“Was that a bad idea?” Clark suddenly asked, voice softer than you were used to.
You opened your eyes and looked up at him with enough hope to start a fire. “Are we friends?”
Clark blushed. “I was sort of hoping we were a little more than that now.”
A little more than that. So you weren’t an idiot. You read between the lines, like you did for a job once. You found the discrepancy. Smiling like a fool, you nodded. “I’d like to be.”
Clark’s teeth glinted in the yellow light of the kitchen, and he murmured, “You’ve got a little something on your chin.”
A flustered worry overtook you. It could be sugar or soapy water or something worse. “I do?”
He hummed, taking your chin between two fingers, and he promptly pressed a kiss to your lips. Another trick. He was quite sneaky, that Clark Kent.
When he pulled away, he offered, “Could you make more croissants for Christmas?"
You just laughed. “I’ll make you whatever you want.”
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February in Smallville was postcard-worthy, which was why you emailed a photo of it to Clark a week before you were set to see him again. He sent a picture of a snowy Metropolis skyline, to which you replied, Looks cold. He wrote back, Would be warmer if you were here.
The commute wasn’t impossible. You worked out a schedule in which every weekend one of you visited the other. When you drove to the city, Clark always had a reservation set at a different kitschy restaurant where you could tuck yourselves into a corner and talk until the wine was gone. When he came home, you’d sneak him freebies at the bakery and he’d talk shop with your aunt at the counter. He’d given you a bracelet at Christmas with a little C charm, and a tiny book charm to go with it. Your two loves. You were smitten, to say the least.
There had been talks about moving. You scheduled a few tours of office buildings in the city where you might start your business out. There was only one publishing company in Metropolis and it was owned by LuthorCorp, and they did not take on independent artists– it was an untapped market of aspiring writers who were looking to get their work on shelves. You figured that if you were to start new anywhere, that would be a good place to nest. You wouldn’t go back to the west coast. You wouldn’t go anywhere Clark wouldn’t follow. In all honesty, your time there was well spent and left behind. Smallville was home again, and the thought of straying far from it was one you no longer entertained. You could endure the people of Metropolis so long as you had the choice to ground yourself now and again just down the highway.
Clark felt like everything was falling into place, just like you. He was crushing it at work, getting stories by Perry all the time with his own personal editor waiting with a red pen. His late-night escapades in red and blue were faster than ever, with minimal screw-ups and damage. He was sleeping plenty while your slow breathing filtered through his phone receiver at night. And soon enough, you would be coming to stay with him and start your dream up. He hadn’t felt a slump since summer, and that hole he was drowning in was filled and patched over. Nothing could hurt him now. In fact, it quite motivated him beyond your sensibilities.
“You’re thinking about something,” Clark whispered, nibbling at your neck.
You giggled softly and tried to wriggle free. The deep sky did little to light his apartment bedroom through the windows as he wrestled you onto the bed, but you could see his eyes clear as day, gleaming as if they held moonlight like a glow stick. “Tomorrow,” you panted, “that one building by the Planet. I’m hoping it goes my way.”
“It will,” Clark teethed at your jaw, peppering little kisses over the bend. “The loan was approved, you’ve got a good reputation in the industry… you’re gonna get it.”
You carded your fingers through his hair, coaxing him up to get a good look at him. “Do you really think I can do this?”
Clark gazed down at you. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, so you tugged them off. He always looked so much like his teenage self without them. It was incredibly deja-vu-ish. “I do.”
“You don’t think I’ll fail?”
“Maybe you will,” he smiled. “But I’ll just write you an article in the paper, and then everyone will donate money or something and we’ll save you.”
A soft bubble of laughter erupted from your chest and you hauled him down for another kiss. Clark grunted with approval as he hitched your legs over his hip and pressed you hard into the mattress, relishing in the pillowy cushion of your body beneath him.
“I love you,” you professed into his mouth, nails scratching softly down his shoulders, tracing little lines over the skin.
“I love you,” he parroted.
You squeaked a bit as he shoved a palm up your shorts and made contact with your ass. “You know, I used to think you had a thing for Lois.”
Clark squeezed as he laughed. “What?”
“I did,” you wheezed, bucking into the touch as his mouth sealed over your throat and his curious hand slipped beneath your panties. “I thought– mmf– at Thanksgiving, you know–”
“You’re crazy,” he purred, hands working magic you– and probably most girls back home– had dreamed about one way or another. It was a familiar pleasure to you, though. Who would’ve thought? “I definitely didn’t, and don’t.”
“I hope not, because that would be embarrassing– ah…”
Clark smothered you with kisses and promises that ever since he found you, it had only ever been you, and in all his life he’d never felt anything like what you do to him. Somewhere in the middle of all the talking, hands stopped and motions started, and you were moving as a unit, twisting the sheets and clinging to each other like fated limpets. Very few things felt better than Clark Kent swearing he adored you while greeting your insides over and over again.
“I bought the house,” Clark gasped for air, driving his hips home.
You blinked tears of pleasure from your eyes and tried to make sense of the words. “Mm– hm?”
“The farmhouse,” Clark moaned, clawing at your thighs around his waist. “Bought it off– my mom. We can… keep it… go home whenever we want.”
The flutter in your gut was hard to identify given the duelling notions occurring at once. The sweat of his cheek mingled with yours as he crushed you, and you tried to breathe through it. “You bought me a house?”
Clark grunted, eyes fluttering. He managed a smirk. “Too much?”
You shook your head, swallowing a cry. “No. I’ll– ah– God, I have to bake you stuff forever now!”
“Only because you love home so much,” he reasoned while bullying into you. “Want you to be happy.”
The part of you which wanted to ask if he remembered you, if he could recall that girl from high school who watched him from afar but never said a word, wanted to rear its head again. Clark Kent bought you a house and called you every night and was helping you achieve dreams. Certainly this was a dream, or heaven, or an incredible stroke of luck. But that part got trapped beneath the whines in your throat as he bucked hard enough, thrusting you both over the precipice. Clark collapsed on top of you, breathing in the sweet, heady scent of your perfume as he nuzzled into your neck.
You panted hoarsely and shook out your head, trying to clear the fog. You smiled like a dope. “I can’t believe you. Are you hiding any other secrets, sneaky? Any more tricks?”
Clark lifted his head to look at you with an expression of recognition. There you were, as you’ve always been, and he loved you. It might have been later in life, and he often asked himself if he could have had you back in high school had he looked past himself, but none of that really mattered now. He could go home any time he wanted and know you were waiting around every corner. Nothing was hard, nothing hurt anymore. He wasn’t alone. That was probably enough to tell you everything, wasn’t it? Because the house was only the beginning. If you loved him, then you had to know it all.
Clark smiled sharply. “Well, come to think of it…”
clark kent who can't fuck you in doggy because he keeps leaning down to kiss you. just can't help it, he needs to feel your whimpers as he bullies that thick cock deep in your core. he needs to feel you squeal into his lips as his palm presses onto your lower abdomen, where the tip of his cock nudges into that sickly good, gummy spot of your hot, warm walls.
there's a compromise he settles with — pulling you against him as he lays on his side. parting your thighs that much wider with his sheer width, tangled around his limbs as he finds purchase around the soft fat of your skin. that same, dull arousal paralyses you when he realigns his slick, reddened tip back into your entrance.
though you aren't sure if the change in position was for your or his benefit. especially now as clark's stuttered, desperate, needy grunts warm your tongue at every snap of his hips.
-> always check any warnings before reading! I hope you enjoy and love these fanfics just as I do <3
much love, mari 🦢💋
divider by: @uzmacchiato <3
carolina: @senawashere
summary: Who is Carolina? Is she the other woman? And why Bradley is talking about her in his sleep?
i will follow you into the dark: @kyber-crystal
summary: your first instinct has always been to push people away when they get too close, but for some reason, you have trouble letting one pilot go. but little did you know that he had settled into your heart from the start and has no intention of leaving. (in which you have Bradley Bradshaw wrapped around your finger, and you don't even notice—5 occasions that solidify your love for him, and 1 time you realize it)
before love: @bloatedandalone04
summary: After finally sleeping and spending the night with Bradley, you thought the sexual tension that had always been there between the two of you would be gone, but (un)fortunately for you, it did the exact opposite of what you wanted it to.
ethera operation: @romerona
summary: You're the government's best hacker, but that doesn't mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.
cause no one breaks my heart like you: @heartsofminds
summary: Bradley Bradshaw is terrified of commitment and he decides to stop being selfish (even though it's hard to see).
but it’s warmer in your arms: @bodhiscurls
summary: night of domesticity is incomplete without you kissing your clingy husband goodnight.
merry chirstmas, please don’t call: @bodhiscurls
summary: at the elite program of top gun graduates, rooster doesn't expect to see such a familiar face back in the game. except you're not just his team leader and the daughter of his mortal enemy, you're also his childhood lover he left standing at the altar.
for the plot: @sometimesanalice
summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.
i wanna feel what love is: @idkwhylou
summary: You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can't stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded... until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.
chatter box: @angelbby555
summary: Bradley's girlfriend is a yapper and he's a listener.
new haircut: @bruisedboys
summary: you're worried about what bradley will think of your new haircut.
no pilots allowed: @appocalipse
summary: Rooster and his teammates are frequent patrons at your aunt's bar, the Hard Deck, while they're training for a dangerous mission. When he asks you out on a date, the two of you jokingly agree to keep it friendly, never cross certain lines...but Rooster has other ideas.
to the sky and back: @rootedinrevisions
summary: After a falling-out with Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, reader tries to piece her life back together, avoiding every place and routine that reminds her of him. But when Bradley faces a high-risk mission, a visit from Natasha "Phoenix" shatters her fragile peace, forcing her to confront the depth of her feelings. With Bradley's life hanging in the balance, she must decide whether to risk her heart again and let him know just how much he means to her before it's too late. A story of love, loss, and second chances, To the Sky and Back explores the courage it takes to hold on to what truly matters.
playing games: @geminiwritten
summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far
all your’n: @lulunothulu
summary: You and Bradley had been best friends for a while. You'd both wanted more but the other didn't know until you declare him yours after a fight.
wrong number: @roosterforme
summary: Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.
permanent state of oblivion: @topgun-imagines
summary: Despite all the times you have tried to make your feelings for the mustached pilot obvious, he still hasn't caught on. You make things clear one night at the Hard Deck.
୨ৎ summary: you absolutely love your job at the daily planet without a question. you'll be the first to admit most of your friends are from work. especially clark. you just seem to click. you'd never really paid too much attention to your relationship with him, until a quip from jimmy olsen sends you spiraling.
୨ৎ pairing: clark kent x journalist!reader
୨ৎ warnings/tags: wingman!jimmy olsen AND wingwoman!lois, language, fluff, down bad clark and oblivious reader, and then reader is lwk avoidant :(
୨ৎ word count: 3.0k
୨ৎ a/n: ANNDDD another or3 inspired fic 😂😂😂😂 sorry guys I got busy building my daily bugle lego and forgot to write !! anyways first clark kent fic (so hyped for supergirl too) and enjoy! also if you are an actual journalist or educated in the field I deeply apologize because this is not accurate :( my only qualifications are two semesters of beginning journalism my bad 😞 don't mind any typos I finished this at 2 am and i'm tired
There simply never was (and probably never will be) a dull moment working at the Daily Planet. It seemed like every day, there was something new and novel to report on. In part, that’s why you loved your job. Stories cropped up all the time, and the city held endless treasures to investigate. As of late, the newest gem of Metropolis was their resident superhero, the affectionately named “Superman”. And even more recently, your dear friend Clark Kent had been getting quite a bit of recognition for his stories about Superman. After all, it was quite an impressive feat to score several interviews with the local superhero. Stories like that were headline-worthy, and you couldn’t be prouder of him.
Where exactly do you even begin with the character that is Clark Kent? To keep a long story short, he was one of your best friends. When you were first hired at the Daily Planet, Clark invited you to sit in the empty desk next to him. And with those kind eyes and even kinder smile, how could you refuse? He made easy conversation, shared bits of his lunch with you, and helped make the Daily Planet feel like home. From there, the two of you only grew closer. Quickly, there was nothing that the Daily Planet’s dynamic duo couldn’t handle. You and Clark were more or less joined at the hip. Jimmy even started referring to you as “Woodward and Bernstein” (a bit that Lois and some of the other writers picked up). It was a joke you’d smile and shrug off, and you’d never notice the pink flush that dusted Clark’s face as he awkwardly laughed.
Today, you came into the office and immediately noticed Clark’s dark curls peeking over the cubicle walls. He was engrossed in whatever article was pulled up on his screen, and then yanked out of his trance when you sat down at your desk.
“Morning!” Clark said, smiling. Like always, he seemed to be in good spirits. You were grateful for that, Clark was a breath of fresh air, somehow managing to make everyone’s day just a tad better.
“Good morning to you too! Congrats on your headliner Clark, I saw it this morning!” You said excitedly, swiveling in your chair to face him.
“Ah, it’s nothing,” he mumbled, adjusting his glasses, “How about your opinion piece that just got published? Now that was awesome,” he continued, finally meeting your gaze.
“Oh shut up and take the compliment, Clark,” You retorted, lightly smacking him on the arm as you got up to grab a coffee. You poured out two cups, one for you, and one for Clark. He took his coffee with three sugars, and a little bit of creamer. You kept that little tidbit of information tucked away in the back of your mind for whenever you needed it. Such as now. Turning back around, you almost slammed right into Jimmy Olsen.
“Woah! Hey, where’s my coffee?” Jimmy asked, peering down at the two cups in your hand, with that familiar sarcastic cadence shining through.
“I don’t even know how you like your coffee, Jimmy,” You shook your head, walking past him.
“My bad, I forgot you and Clark shared a brain,” Jimmy scoffed, glancing back at Clark. He was sitting at his desk, focused on whatever article he was looking through.
"Green's not your color Jimmy," you tease, "And besides, knowing how someone likes their coffee isn't really an impressive feat."
"Yeah, yeah. Excuses, excuses," Jimmy replied, shrugging before heading back to his desk. You didn't really mull over the implications of Jimmy's remark, it was Jimmy Olsen after all. He liked to joke. You walked over to Clark's desk and set down his coffee. The small thud of the cup onto the wood of the desk made his head crane towards you.
"Oh wow, thanks! You really didn't have to, I was going to grab a cup myself pretty soon actually-" Clark trailed off, as if he was rethinking his ramble, "Um, thank you, for the coffee." He smiled at you. For a second, you two stared at each other. You noticed the shimmer in his blue eyes, behind the frames of his glasses. Somewhere behind you guys, Jimmy coughed loudly. Clark's eyes widened, and he quickly swiveled back to his computer. For a split second, you could have sworn he was blushing. As the hours ticked by at work, you checked your emails, scheduled interviews, and were just about to continue working on another article when you heard the familiar noise of footsteps behind your chair.
"Hey! I, um, had a quick question about some of these sources I found. I just wasn't too sure if they were, well reliable?" Clark asked, a paper slip in hand.
"Yeah for sure! Here, let me see," You asked, taking the paper from Clark's hands. His fingers brushed up against yours, and Clark was eternally grateful you couldn't feel his heart jump. You scanned over the list of websites he had found. Behind you, Clark leaned closely over your shoulder. He smelled vaguely of coffee and wood, probably due to whatever cologne he was wearing. It was a comforting smell, one that you were plenty familiar with. After finishing reading through his list (a task that took way longer than you wanted to admit), you handed the paper back.
"Yeah, everything looks good!" You told Clark, running your hands over the fabric of your skirt. Something about him leaning over you with his hand on your chair, watching you so intently, made your pulse quicken.
"Perfect! Thanks a ton, uh, maybe I could repay the favor with a cup of coffee?" Clark asked, a nervous laugh escaping his throat.
"Oh it's ok, don't mention it Clark!" You replied, grabbing a stack of files off your desk, "I gotta go run these over upstairs but I'll see you soon!" You waved at Clark, a gesture that he returned with a smile on his face. Once you had disappeared into the elevator, he sat back down at his desk with a sigh.
"Damn, how many times has that gone over her head?" Jimmy's voice popped up behind him, making Clark jump, "You really suck at this, Clark."
"Jeez, I don't know what I'm doing wrong Jimmy. Y'know, maybe you were wrong, maybe she just doesn't like me?" Clark said dejectedly.
"Nah, I'm telling you, she likes you. You just gotta be more, up front about it," Jimmy reassured Clark, clapping him on the back.
"What does that mean?"
"Figure it out man," Jimmy waved his hand towards Clark, "Look, I can pick her brain about it later, alright? Have faith in me Clark."
"Yeah, I can do that…" Clark trailed off, like he barely believed what he was saying. Around a half-hour later—which felt closer to a couple of hours for Clark— you walked through the elevator doors and back into the Daily Planet. Quicker than you'd like to admit, your eyes sought out Clark's familiar face. From across the room, your eyes met his. You'd rather not think too hard about the fact that he was already looking your way. Maybe it was a coincidence? Lost in thought, you rounded the corner, where once again, you ran into Jimmy Olsen.
"Come on, we've got to stop running into each other like this," Jimmy said, falling into step next to you.
"What can I do for you now, Jimmy?" You asked, raising an eyebrow at whatever foolish remark was about to leave his mouth.
"Saw you and Clark earlier, you two looked pretty cozy. What's up with that?" Jimmy questioned innocently.
"What? I was helping him with some sources he found, it wasn't-"
"Oh please, you really think Clark needs help verifying sources? If you asked me, he just wanted to talk to you," Jimmy quipped. The smirk on his face could be classified as downright devilish.
"I mean seriously, he's like a lost dog until you come in the room-" Jimmy continued, unaware of the fact that your stomach twisted with every word.
"Jimmy! Shut up, please." You cut him off, stopping dead in your tracks, "Clark and I are friends, don't be dramatic."
"Tell him that. Just saying, you guys would be great together, maybe you should get on that-"
"Zip it Jimmy!"
You returned back to your seat, far more flustered and nervous than you should have been.
"How'd it go upstairs?" Clark asked. Your words caught in your throat when you remembered Jimmy's remark. Did he seriously like you?
"Uh, it went fine." You replied. It came out a bit more harsh than you intended, and you felt sick when Clark's face dropped slightly at your half-hearted answer.
"Oh, that's good!"
"Mhm…" The awkward silence that ensued spoke volumes. You pretended that it didn't bother you, that you were now seeing your best friend in a whole new light. Instead, you typed away at your computer, and tried your best to ignore that Clark's eyes were boring into the side of your head.
That night, you went home and couldn't sleep. Suddenly, your mind replayed every interaction with Clark, rethinking every casual touch, every totally-platonic conversation, and every last aspect of your relationship. Sometime into the night, you realized that nearly nothing about your friendship was normal. Staring at each other across rooms, always somehow sitting too close to each other, knowing each other like the backs of your hands, how could you have thought any of that was just friendly? It was actually laughable. The next morning, the only thing you could feel was a swirling pit of anxiety in your stomach at the thought of facing Clark. How could you face him?
When you walked into the Daily Planet, you made a beeline for your desk. The last thing you wanted was to have to deal with Jimmy's teasing, or worse, to have to make awkward small-talk with Clark. Ultimately, you decided it'd be easier to drown yourself in work rather than confront the unsettling reality; you were in love with Clark Kent.
Clark came in a couple minutes after you, greeting you with his bright smiles and kind words. It almost irritated you, how nice he was. It happened to be one of the reasons you liked him so much. Unfortunately, it made it way harder to stop liking him. He made every effort to be nothing but gracious towards you, and now, all you could do was respond with a frigid "mhm".
This routine dragged on through the week, and admittedly, it was the worst week of your life. One day, Clark had enough. He missed his best friend, and he felt ill at the idea that you might be upset with him.
"Are you ok?" Clark asked, concerned.
"I'm fine?" You replied, a hint of annoyance seeping through your voice.
"You sure? Because if you aren't, you can talk to me-"
"Jeez Clark I'm fine!" That time, the undertones of annoyance had become much more apparent. But the moment your words left your mouth, you regretted them. Clark hardly deserved your wrath, but here he was. You weren't, not in the slightest. However, explaining that your bad mood was a consequence of Jimmy Olsen’s dreadful commentary was absolutely not an option.
“Oh, well alright…” Clark said, almost seeming despondent. Seeing Clark so upset was rare, and there was a certain brand of guilt that crushed you, knowing that you were the one at fault. You needed air, quickly. The break-room door swung open as you ducked inside. It was empty, save for Lois drinking her coffee at the table.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Lois remarked, raising an eyebrow. You could always trust Lois to be honest, it was one of her many admirable qualities.
“That bad huh?” You sighed, sitting down at the table, “Some stuff on my mind I guess.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fact that Clark’s sulking at his desk?” Lois suggested.
“How did you-”
“Just a hunch.”
“Y’know, it’s all Jimmy’s fault,” You groaned, letting your head fall onto the table.
“Of course it is, what’d he do now?” Lois grinned playfully. She had the kind of smile where you always felt like she knew something you didn’t.
“He kept going on this stupid rant about how me and Clark would be good together, and then I freaked out about it, and now I was accidentally kind of mean to Clark, and now apparently he’s sulking and probably hates me?” You rambled. It was almost comedic, right down to Lois’s wry smile.
“If it’s any consolation, I highly doubt he hates you,”
“Come on Lois, you too?” You exclaimed, sighing in defeat.
“What’s so wrong with the idea of being with Clark anyways?” Lois asked.
“Nothing but-”
“But what?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t want to ruin a good thing y’know?” You conceded. You liked Clark, a lot, but you weren’t even totally sure if he liked you in that sense. Besides, if by some miracle he did, who knows what would happen if you guys broke up? After all, you two were coworkers. What an awkward situation that would be. By now, you’d simply come to the conclusion it was safer to not say anything. Even if it made part of your heart shrivel up just a tiny bit.
“What if something better comes out of it though?” Lois posed. You understood she was trying to be the voice of optimism, but you weren’t feeling too inclined to listen to that right now.
“I don’t know Lois, it’s not really worth it…” It physically hurt to say that part out loud, but it was still true. You sighed, throwing your cup in the trash and heading towards the door.
“You never know until you try,” Lois called out to you. She watched you leave, and stared at the spot where you sat. She’s known you and Clark for years, and all she wants is a shot at happiness for you both. Lois could only hope you listened to what she said.
Lois’s words echoed in your head as you walked back to your desk. They bounced around in your brain when you sat down, and while you worked. They still hadn’t left your mind even when you felt Clark’s eyes land on you again. You knew him well enough to know when he wanted to say something. You waited, and waited. But he never said a thing. The rest of the day ticked by, and Lois’s voice persisted. No matter how much you wanted to ignore it, no matter how much you wanted to ignore Clark, it was never that easy.
You packed up your stuff, and slung your bag over your shoulder. Clark was still sitting at his desk, and didn’t look up until you had pushed in your chair.
“Wait! Could I maybe, walk you downstairs?” Clark offered, the small glimmer of hope returning in his eyes. And against your better judgment, you felt persuaded to agree. You could never say no to Clark anyways.
The heavy quiet that fell over you two in the elevator was wholly unfamiliar. You found yourself reminiscing on times where it was impossible to get you and Clark to be quiet. But that was back before you were plagued with worries of ruining your friendship with three simple words; I love you.
Outside the Daily Planet, the scorching mornings had cooled down to more manageable nighttime temperatures. Next to you stood Clark, and once again, Lois’s advice blared inside your brain. Yet, it was Clark who spoke first.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“What? No!” You replied incredulously.
“Sorry, it’s just that you seem distant and I feel like I did something wrong…” Clark admitted, “Do you, not like me?”
That was the furthest possible thing from the truth. This all became an issue because you liked him too much. Because you were afraid of what would happen if you ever let slip just how much you liked him. It was right then and there that you could not stand it anymore.
“No Clark, not at all. Kind of the opposite actually,” You started, wringing your hands nervously, “Look, Jimmy made this dumb comment about how me and you should get together, and I freaked. Because it made me realize just how much I actually liked you, and that was really, really, scary.” There it was. Your true feelings, cast into the night air. Clark’s face changed. At first you thought it was confusion. But then his eyes softened, and you recognized it on his face. You’d seen it on his face so many times before you could sketch it from memory. Happiness.
“Y’know, I’ve been trying for years to get you to catch on how I felt about you. But nope, it takes Jimmy Olsen to get through to you,” Clark joked (only he could joke at a time like this), “I mean, I’ve been nuts about you since I’ve met you, and seriously, all I’ve ever wanted is for you to see me.”
“I see you Clark,” You said softly, looking up at him. You didn’t notice how close you were to him until you could see the flecks of gray in those beautiful blue eyes. Clark’s hand reached out for yours, tentatively, before you interlaced your fingers with his. The sounds of Metropolis surrounded you, before you felt Clark’s gentle lips on yours. You could smell his cologne again, that distinct smell of coffee and warmth, and it enveloped you as he pulled you closer. And for those precious moments, it was simply you and him.
Somewhere in the Daily Planet, Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane sat in the break-room.
“You think they’re finally gonna cave tonight?” Jimmy asked, glancing over at Lois.
“I don’t know, I’m doubting it,” Lois mused, “Wanna bet on it?” she offered.
“20 bucks says it’s happening tonight.” Jimmy said confidently.
“Deal.”
The next morning, when you and Clark walked into the Daily Planet hand-in-hand, Lois Lane owed a very smug Jimmy Olsen 20 bucks.
please don't repost my work anywhere else! and if you see anything of mine anywhere other than here on this blog, please let me know because it is most definitely not me.
if the list is crossed out, i don't currently write for that fandom anymore.
˙ ⋆✮ here are some of my favorite bradley bradshaw fics. please be mindful of tags and remember that likes, reposts, and comments are very punk rock ✮⋆˙
⟢ disclaimer: i highly recommend checking out what each of these authors has to offer! i’m not always up to date on this masterlist.
⋆˙⟡ love to lie by @ddejavvu
your worst fear is recognized when bradley’s jet goes down with him in it.
⋆˙⟡ like i can by @sometimesanalice
after yet another bad date and tired of swiping on apps, the dagger squad steps in to help you out by setting you up on a series of blind dates. much to rooster’s dismay.
⋆˙⟡ days like this by @sometimesanalice
when your day goes from bad to terrible to worse, bradley is there to help pick you back up.
⋆˙⟡ and they were roommates by @starryeyedstories
bradley “rooster” bradshaw is the perfect roommate. he tidies up after himself, he picks up your favourite snacks when he does the grocery shopping, and he’s just a little bit gorgeous…falling for him was inevitable.
⋆˙⟡ goodnight kisses by @harringtonswriting
a perfect first date with bradley bradshaw.
⋆˙⟡ slowly intertwining fingers while the other is driving by @harringtonswriting
on the hard days, bradley will ask you to drive around with him in the bronco and all you need to do is hold his hand.
⋆˙⟡ a glimpse of them by @bradshawsbaby
from the very beginning, maverick knew that you and bradley were meant to be. how? because every time he looked at the two of you, he saw them.
⋆˙⟡ booze, burgers, and bartenders by @risriswrites
short love story involving rooster and penny's favorite bartender.
⋆˙⟡ a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day by @desert-fern
when a bad day hits his girl hard, bradley isn't one to let her suffer alone. so he does his best to help her out, even if that involves laying on top of her.
⋆˙⟡ lost and found by @sugarcoated-lame
when bradley’s four-year old daughter goes missing during a trip to the mall, he doesn’t expect to find himself so taken with the pretty stranger who helps her find her way back to him.
⋆˙⟡ return to sender by @katsu28
you’ve been getting your neighbor’s mail for the past few months and you were okay with it, but now came a time to finally talk to him about it.
-> always check any warnings before reading! I hope you enjoy and love these fanfics just as I do <3
much love, mari 🦢💋
divider by: @uzmacchiato <3
carolina: @senawashere
summary: Who is Carolina? Is she the other woman? And why Bradley is talking about her in his sleep?
i will follow you into the dark: @kyber-crystal
summary: your first instinct has always been to push people away when they get too close, but for some reason, you have trouble letting one pilot go. but little did you know that he had settled into your heart from the start and has no intention of leaving. (in which you have Bradley Bradshaw wrapped around your finger, and you don't even notice—5 occasions that solidify your love for him, and 1 time you realize it)
before love: @bloatedandalone04
summary: After finally sleeping and spending the night with Bradley, you thought the sexual tension that had always been there between the two of you would be gone, but (un)fortunately for you, it did the exact opposite of what you wanted it to.
ethera operation: @romerona
summary: You're the government's best hacker, but that doesn't mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.
cause no one breaks my heart like you: @heartsofminds
summary: Bradley Bradshaw is terrified of commitment and he decides to stop being selfish (even though it's hard to see).
but it’s warmer in your arms: @bodhiscurls
summary: night of domesticity is incomplete without you kissing your clingy husband goodnight.
merry chirstmas, please don’t call: @bodhiscurls
summary: at the elite program of top gun graduates, rooster doesn't expect to see such a familiar face back in the game. except you're not just his team leader and the daughter of his mortal enemy, you're also his childhood lover he left standing at the altar.
for the plot: @sometimesanalice
summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.
i wanna feel what love is: @idkwhylou
summary: You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can't stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded... until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.
chatter box: @angelbby555
summary: Bradley's girlfriend is a yapper and he's a listener.
new haircut: @bruisedboys
summary: you're worried about what bradley will think of your new haircut.
no pilots allowed: @appocalipse
summary: Rooster and his teammates are frequent patrons at your aunt's bar, the Hard Deck, while they're training for a dangerous mission. When he asks you out on a date, the two of you jokingly agree to keep it friendly, never cross certain lines...but Rooster has other ideas.
to the sky and back: @rootedinrevisions
summary: After a falling-out with Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, reader tries to piece her life back together, avoiding every place and routine that reminds her of him. But when Bradley faces a high-risk mission, a visit from Natasha "Phoenix" shatters her fragile peace, forcing her to confront the depth of her feelings. With Bradley's life hanging in the balance, she must decide whether to risk her heart again and let him know just how much he means to her before it's too late. A story of love, loss, and second chances, To the Sky and Back explores the courage it takes to hold on to what truly matters.
playing games: @geminiwritten
summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far
all your’n: @lulunothulu
summary: You and Bradley had been best friends for a while. You'd both wanted more but the other didn't know until you declare him yours after a fight.
wrong number: @roosterforme
summary: Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.
permanent state of oblivion: @topgun-imagines
summary: Despite all the times you have tried to make your feelings for the mustached pilot obvious, he still hasn't caught on. You make things clear one night at the Hard Deck.
Maybe me reblogging all these lovely fics will feed into my tumblr manifestation hack and find me the most CURATED man to ever exist ….. now we are cooking with gas people !!!
Summary : The squad is on a hunt for the truth about the dynamics of your relationship with Bradley.
Pairing : Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Fem!Reader
Important info : Your callsign is Nitro 💨 :)
Disclaimer : English is not my first language so apologies for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading, also I have zero knowledge of the military or the navy so sorry for any inaccuracies in that area !💞
Word count : 5.9k
‼️‼️CONTENT WARNING : suggestive, talks about power dynamics, talks about sex, sex habits, crude talks about sex. MDNI.
Part one :)
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Natasha never expected to talk, or even think about you and Bradley’s sex life ever again.
Truth be told, It was a subject she would have liked to never even have to think about in the first place. Alas, working with a bunch of immature and dirty minded naval aviators who giggled at the mere mention of the word ‘sex’ had very unfortunately, and against her will, planted the image in her head. But it was fine she had told herself after you and Bradley had left the Hard Deck, eventually the guys would move on to another stupid and incongruous matter to giggle and theorize about.
The one thing Natasha had never expected was that she would be the one to bring back the topic on the table.
In her defense, she’d probably say the universe imposed the situation on her. That some divine doing had put it right in her face, impossible to ignore and she had been condemned to bring the thoughts from the deepest and forgotten parts of her mind back to life.
The morning after that unwanted debate at the Hard Deck, Natasha was waiting for you in front of the women’s locker room, a little tradition that allowed you to have some short, but much needed time away from the guys before the day started.
She checked her watch for the third time, damn, you were actually late. A rare occurrence that happened… well that had never happened actually. You were too much of a professional about your job to even be anything other than twenty minutes early.
Granted, you weren’t late for briefing or training, but you were late for your daily unofficial meeting with Natasha, and that was enough to have her frowning. She was about to send you a text when she heard your hurried footsteps coming down the hallway.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” you said once you reached her level, sounding a bit out of breath, “Rooster’s Bronco had a rough wake up.”
You looked pristine, like you always did on base, not a hair out of place, and still, Natasha couldn’t help shake the feeling that somehow, something was… wrong with you. Perhaps wrong was a strong word, weird would be a better one. Yeah, there was definitely something weird about you. And you seemed to shift on your feet uneasily under Natasha’s prying gaze.
“How that thing is still driving is honestly a wonder to me,” she finally said entering the locker room and holding out the door for you, and you visibly relaxed at her words
“So, how was the rest of the evening last night ?” You asked, starting to put away your stuff in your locker.
“Uneventful,” Natasha answered flatly, putting her own stuff away, “I didn’t leave long after you, I wasn’t in the mood to endure watching Jake flirt with half the bar.” You snickered before she spoke again, “what about you ?”
She saw you strangely froze out of the corner of her eye.
“What about me ?”
Natasha hadn’t meant anything by returning the question, it was more out of habit, reflex, the meaningless conversations you’d always share before pre flight briefings.
She raised an eyebrow at your nervousness.
“Yeah,” she simply shrugged, “I mean, how was the rest of your night ?”
“Oh, well, uneventful.”
“Look at us, what a life we have,” she marveled ironically while taking off her sweatshirt.
“I know, right ?”
You started undressing as well, preparing to put on your flight suit for the rest of the day.
“When are you doing your sim ?” She asked you, unbuttoning her pants while you were already halfway out of your jeans.
“Um… something like ten thirty if I recall ? Somewhere around that, I need to check again, you ?”
Natasha took a second to think, leaning on her locker, her eyes wandering uselessly around the room, landing on you and—
She only saw it for half a second, but it was enough. She wished she could have just ignored it, forced her brain to move on but it was too late now. And Natasha had to will herself to avert her eyes from the very big, very purple, very obvious, hickey on your inner thigh, just at the crease of where your panties met your leg.
“So ?” You prompted, completely unaware of Natasha’s crisis, passing your legs in your flight suit.
But unwanted flashbacks of the night before kept flashing in her brain. Bribes of it were drowning out everything else around her. And Mickey’s words, of all people, somehow arose amidst the dizzying chaos.
“Well, Rooster seemed awfully unbothered, no ? So what if he was so calm because he’s actually the dom ?”
And God did Natasha hate herself for even allowing this thought to surface in her mind, loud enough that there was no way she could bury it back, deep from where it had come from and never think about it again.
“Nat ?” You waved your hand in front of her face, where she was weirdly staring off into space.
There was no actual way Mickey could be right about this.
“Hey, Nat ?”
And yet…
Natasha finally looked at you, harboring the most believing smile she could mutter.
“Sorry, got lost in my thoughts for a sec there.”
“Yeah, I saw that,” you laughed, grabbing your gloves, g-suit and helmet, during the time Natasha had spaced out deep into uncharted and unwanted territory about your sex life, you apparently had gotten the time to get fully dressed, “okay I gotta go see Maverick before to check something on my jet, I’ll catch you at pre brief.”
“See you,” Natasha said absentmindedly, watching you exit the locker room with a determined step, the way you always did when you walked around base.
She let out a defeated sigh as she stood in the locker room still in just a t-shirt and panties. She hated herself for she was about to do, truly. But at this point she knew this newfound discovery wasn’t going to let her live in peace anytime soon, and she hated even more that she had the perfect people to share this with just at her disposal.
“Phoenix, you’re here just in time !” Javy marveled as soon as Natasha stepped foot in the briefing room, “settle this for us will you, between Payback and me, who do you think would win in a hot dog eating contest ?”
Natasha didn’t pay him any mind as she quickly scanned the room. Jake was lazily lounging on the couch, scrolling on his phone, Reuben and Javy were perched in front of her, impatiently waiting on her answer to whatever debate they had included her into it and she hadn’t listened, Bob and Mickey were engaging in a pretty intense match of table football in the corner of the room. No sign of you, you must had still been with Maverick, and no sign of Bradley either.
Fuck, the universe really had set her up for this.
She took in a deep breath, aware that whatever she was about to say could not be taken back.
“I have a theory.”
That wasn’t quite enough to grasp everybody’s attention. Javy gave her a confused look.
“Okay, well, just answer my question first, who do you think—“
“It’s about Rooster and Nitro.”
Now that did it, exactly as she thought it would.
Jake looked up from his phone, thumb freezing above his screen, and Mickey didn’t even notice that the way his hands had stilled on the handle bars of the football table had allowed Bob to score a goal.
“Look at that,” Jake said, an all too characteristic smirk pulling at his lips, “weren’t you gushing about how disgusting we all were for talking about them last night ?”
“What’s your theory ?” Mickey asked, totally abandoning the football table now, seemingly all too happy to jump back into this conversation.
“I think Rooster is the dom, not Nitro.”
Silence fell upon the room before Mickey loudly cheered, rushing up to get to her side, throwing an arm around her shoulders in a tight side hug.
“Yes ! That’s it, Phoenix ! See ?” He turned to the rest of the guys, who were watching his enthusiastic outburst with a skepticism, “That’s exactly what I was saying !”
“That’s a stupid theory and we all know it,” Jake absentmindedly remarked, his eyes returning to his phone once he had concluded this conversation did not deserve his attention.
“You say it’s stupid only because it contradicts yours, Hangman,” Mickey remarked.
“No, it’s stupid because it’s stupid. Guys, it’s Rooster we’re talking about. Do you seriously think he has what it takes to dom someone ? And Nitro of all people ? He gets pegged,” he said, tone as final as it could be, “probably begs for it every night, and I stand by that.”
“What makes you say that ?” Bob questioned Natasha, joining Javy, Reuben and Mickey around her, completely ignoring Jake’s crude rant, “did something happen ?”
“So,” Natasha began, all reticence and reserves thrown out the window now, “we were in the locker room just now, changing into our flight suits,” everyone made a point of ignoring Jake’s overly flirtatious whistle, “and she has a hickey.”
That got her a perplexed stare from Javy.
“A hickey ? That’s weird, I saw her when she walked in this morning and I didn’t see anything.”
Natasha shook her head, “not on her neck, her inner thigh.” She practically whispered that last part out, her hand coming up to point at her own thigh, exactly where your hickey had been hiding.
Mickey let out the biggest dramatic gasp while Jake rolled his eyes from where he was still lazily slouched on the couch.
“Phoenix, please. Don’t tell me you’re basing this entire thing on one hickey ? It doesn’t mean anything, I swear you people know nothing about sex.” He said.
“You are weirdly adamant about this,” Reuben mused with raised eyebrows.
“That’s just called being right, Payback,” Jake quipped in response.
“Well, in that case,” Reuben clapped his hands loudly, grabbing everyone’s attention, “there’s only one way to settle this once and for all.”
“Please not a betting pool,” Natasha whispered pleaded, not entirely ready to deal with the consequences of her actions.
“It’s betting pool time ! Everyone bets on either one of those options : Nitro doms Rooster—“
“Nitro pegs Rooster.” Jake corrected.
Reuben wasn’t even phased, “— or Rooster doms Nitro. Empty your wallets people, the minimum required is forty dollars !”
“Forty ?! Isn’t that a bit much ?” Bob asked.
“This is a high stakes matter, Bobby.”
“Alright, put me on Rooster doms Nitro,” said Mickey, immediately reaching into his wallets to put out two twenty dollars bills on the table.
Jake merely scoffed from the couch.
Reuben silently added his own money above Mickey’s, “Phoenix ?”
Natasha sighed before getting her wallet out. This has spiraled out of control, she told herself as she looked through it, this is totally unprofessional, theorizing and betting on your coworkers’ sex lives is wildly inappropriate, not even to mention how many HR policies this is breaking, this is a perfect display of immense immaturity—
“Put me on Rooster doms Nitro for fifty dollars.” She finally said.
“Phoenix !” Jake dramatically gasped, and honestly Natasha wasn’t able to tell if the shock he conveyed was genuine or not, “so much for being the voice of reason, what happened to this whole thing being weird ?”
“Shut up.”
He pulled a forty dollar bill, “you all are about to lose so much money.”
Javy put his money above Jake’s, “I’m with you, it is physically impossible for me to imagine Rooster being dominant, genuinely.”
“Finally someone with common sense,” Jake praised him, clapping him on the back.
Bob, who bad been pretty quiet, suddenly seemed to rise from the shadows, putting three twenty dollars bills on the biggest pile, right on top of Natasha’s own money.
“Statistics show that at least sixty five percent of women fantasize about being dominated in the bedroom, a large part of that being women in charge in their daily life, who usually enjoy giving the power to someone else sexually.”
Everyone turned to him, expressions varying and displaying a quite impressive range of emotions. Jake seemed to be the only to find his voice back amidst the shock.
“Now why the fuck would you know that ?”
Bob shrugged, “I don’t know I just read it somewhere and remembered it, I guess.”
Jake squinted at him, pointing an accusing finger in his direction.
“Next person we’re investigating is you Bobby, always knew you were a freak.”
Bob simply chuckled.
“Alright,” Reuben clapped once more in his hands, he seemed to love doing that, “so basically it’s Phoenix, Fanboy, Bob and me against Hangman and Coyote.”
“We’re about to be rich, man,” Jake said to Javy, “you guys are so incredibly stupid it almost amazes me.”
“How are we supposed to know who wins ?” Bob, the voice of reason, questioned, “it’s not like asking outright will give us an answer, i mean, it didn’t exactly get us anywhere last night.”
“Yeah,” Natasha agreed, now fully and weirdly if she had to say so herself, invested, “also we can’t do anything on base, we all know how Nitro is.”
Everyone silently agreed. It was no use talking to you on base about anything that wasn’t related to SuperHornets or dogfight strategies. Within the confined perimeter of military ground you barely even glanced at Bradley, so truly, it was a lost cause.
So they had to come up with a plan.
“Again ?” You looked at Natasha perplexed as you were both planning your flight routes for the next morning in the computer room, “we just went to the Hard Deck yesterday though.”
“Yeah but it’s a nice way to blow off some steam, don’t you think ?”
“Well we just blew off steam yesterday.”
“Yeahhhh, but I told you Penny made these new cocktails that she wants us to try out, give our opinions on so she can decide if she puts them on the menu or not.”
They had a plan, nobody said it was good.
“I don’t know…” you sighed as your mouse clicked useless around your screen, not really tracing your route anymore. You were clearly against the idea but also clearly not wanting to disappoint Natasha, or Penny, “I was kinda hoping to spend a night in with Rooster since we went out yesterday.”
Natasha would always marveled at how on soil proclaimed by the military you’d never call Bradley by anything other than his professional call sign.
She looked at you, the tiniest bit of shame clinging to her at what she was about to do, trying to capitalize on your affection for her and Penny.
“You know Penny values your opinion so much, and besides it’ll be fun. You’re not gonna leave me alone with the boys, are you ?”
You pursed your lips, you were going to crack any second now, Natasha could feel it.
She decided to deliver what she hoped would be the final blow.
“Rooster said he’d come.”
The tiniest flicker of light shined through your eyes.
“Did he ?”
“Yeah,” she affirmed, voice raised in a slightly pitched tone, one that perhaps should have alerted you of the lie she was selling you.
It only took you a second after that, “alright, I’ll come.”
Natasha mentally clapped herself on the back and was pleasantly surprised to notice the lack of guilt that should have accompanied manipulating you. God, who knew it was that easy ?
Now she just had to pray that the boys would deliver on their part.
“Heyyy Brady Boy !” Mickey cheered entering the locker room and making a beeline for Bradley, squeezing his shoulders in a weirdly affectionate way.
Javy shared a look of despair with Jake.
“God, he’s so fucking useless,” Jake muttered out.
Bradley quirked a brow at Mickey’s behavior, and Reuben tried to salvage the already failed mission the best he could.
“You down to go to the Hard Deck tonight ? Penny has some new cocktails she wants us to try.”
Bradley stopped putting his gear in his locker for a second, “cocktails, you say ?”
Reuben’s confidence seemed to waver, “yeah,” he tried to sound sure of himself, “right, guys ?” He turned to the others in desperate need of backup.
“Yes,” Bob nodded, pushing his glasses back up his nose, “she really wants our opinion apparently.”
Bradley hummed, “when did she ask that ? I feel like she would have told me first, you know ?”
Shit.
Yeah… they hadn’t really thought this through.
“Awww, is the little chick hurt because mama hen didn’t text him first ?” Jake mockingly cooed.
Mickey threw a worried glance at Javy.
“Listen, if you wanna play old man and stay at home, that’s fine,” Jake spoke again, “but just know your girl is coming with us.”
If the Penny comment hadn’t really done anything, the mere mention of you finally did it. Bradley stared at Jake, a skeptical look on his face.
“Did she, now ? That’s weird, she said she wanted to stay at home tonight.”
Jake wasn’t even looking at Bradley anymore as he was putting his gear into his locker, “I guess maybe she didn’t feel like getting the strap out after all,” he snickered, the only one amused by his wit.
The group held their breath as Bradley only stood there for a moment, watching Jake with the small hint of an amused smile.
“Alright, I’m in then.” He finally conceded.
Mickey didn’t even try to hide the sigh of pure relief that left him, which got him a mean look from Reuben. Bradley went back to putting stuff in his locker.
Taking off his t-shirt to shower, Jake turned around to face the rest of his squad mates.
“That’s how you do it,” he mouthed to them, a triumphant smirk illuminating his face.
Now Bradley wasn’t stupid. Not even a little.
The guys had been acting weird even since pre-brief and their little ambush in the locker room certainly didn’t help their case. Something was up, that much was very clear. Now he just had to figure out what.
And the fact that you were now sitting next to him in one of the Hard Deck’s booth told him that Natasha must have pulled the same stunt on you, perhaps she had been more subtle than the guys because you didn’t seem to suspect anything.
The smile pulling at your lips wasn’t exactly fake, it was more tired than anything. And it pulled at Bradley’s heartstrings a little. He knew you had been craving that night in together. At least, he’d make sure that coming here was worth your while.
He stood up, “alright, I’m getting drinks, what do you guys want ?”
Unsurprisingly, everyone ordered a beer and Bradley barely managed to hide a snicker at how incompetent they were at keeping up their own lie. They were too busy talking over each other to notice your soft smile towards him.
“Could you get me one of the new cocktails Penny is trying, please ?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” The small white lie still burned his tongue as he said it, he didn’t have the heart to tell you that you wouldn’t be tasting any new cocktails tonight.
Placing the order to Penny at the bar, he made small talk and simply to entertain himself, he decided to ask, “also could you make Y/N of your new cocktails, please ?”
Penny looked at him quizzically as she was drafting a beer.
“What ?”
“Yeah, you know those cocktails you’ve been trying out.”
“Bradley, this is a navy bar. I’m not gonna bother myself with some fancy mixtures when all everyone drinks here are beers. You know the best I can do is either a mojito or a sex on the beach.”
Penny raised a questioning eyebrow when Bradley simply laughed.
He couldn’t believe how genuinely stupid they were.
But they seemed to notice none of it when Bradley came back with a tray full of beers, and the usual mojito for you.
“What–?” You began to ask when Bradley handed you the glass, but he was quick to softly shush you with a kiss to the temple.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, no new cocktails. But just watch, I promise what’s gonna happen is definitely better than anything Penny could have prepared.”
A small laugh escaped you as you gazed at him, perplexed by all the mystery. Bradley winked and squeezed your thigh affectionately.
Talking to Penny and bringing the drinks over, he’d taken the smallest time to think about it and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t figured it out sooner, quite literally at the moment the guys were so insistent about bringing him to the Hard Deck.
The fact that you had been sold the same lie about the cocktails as him was his final hint. Clearly all the others were in on it, and it had something to do with the two of you. From there, it wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess it probably had something to do with the animated discussion about your sex life just the night before.
And it didn’t long for the squad to prove him right.
“So,” Mickey spoke up after a sip of his beer, and Natasha seemed to share an anxious look with Javy, “I was talking with some friends the other day and I thought I’d ask you guys the same question, what’s– um, what’s your guys favorite thing to do in the bedroom ?”
Natasha closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to find the strength to not break down right here and there. Reuben actually laughed out loud and Jake looked at Mickey with a mix of confusion and despair.
“Jesus Christ, he actually is fucking useless,” he muttered and it wasn’t clear if those words were meant for Javy who was sitting next to him or simply for himself.
“What the fuck, Mickey ?” You exclaimed in a laugh.
“Alright, let’s do it,” Bradley agreed, desperately trying to suppress the biggest smirk ever, “Mickey you start.”
Stunned silence filled the squad’s booth, a very rare occurrence for them to be so quiet. Everyone, including you, was looking at him with wide open eyes. The hint of a confused smile was quirking up your lips, Bradley squeezed your thigh under the table, a silent ‘I got this’ that seemed to settle you down, and he felt his heart speed up at noticing the obvious fluster dusting your cheeks.
Mickey, who had his jaw hanging open suddenly seemed to regain cognitive capacity and cleared his throat awkwardly. Clearly, he hadn’t expected this work, or for Bradley to prompt him to start.
“Blowjobs… ?” He finally said, looking like he blurted out the first word that came to his mind and he wasn’t even sure of his answer.
“Pff laaaaame !” Jake called out, now suspiciously way too invested into this, “if you’re gonna say something like that, at least say it with your full chest, son, own that shit. Alright my turn.”
“I’m not sure I wanna know this,” Natasha spoke up.
She got completely ignored.
“I just love when a girl goes dumb on my cock, you know ? Like when I fuck her so good she can’t speak.”
Natasha made a repulsed moue at his choice of words while you slowly nodded.
“That’s actually… not as bad as I thought,” you chuckled at Jake, “I honestly expected something way dirtier from you.”
He smirked and threw a flirty wink your way.
“There’s plenty more where that came from, darlin’. I could show you if you come back home with me tonight instead of chicken.” His green eyes shifted to Bradley next to you, “No offense intended, Brady boy.”
Bradley’s grin was a strangely attractive mix of smug, knowing and predatory.
“None taken.”
He was completely relaxed, one arm lazily thrown on the back of your seat, ankle resting on top of his knee. The sight of him like that sent a delectable little shiver up your spine, and for a moment it transported you back to just the night before. The memory of what had happened afterwards made you unconsciously clench your thighs.
The rest of the squad shared their answers, Reuben something about how a woman sitting on his face was the equivalent of heaven, Javy ranting about how sixty nine was the best position and the most beneficial one for both parties. Natasha unsurprisingly skipped her turn, mumbling about how she wasn’t taking part in such an ‘inappropriate conversation’, while Mickey coughed a very loud ‘hypocrite’ into his elbow.
Everyone had been going into a circle and as Natasha kicked Mickey in the shin for his comment, everyone realized that the next in line was Bradley. He could almost see half the squad unconsciously hold their breath, awaiting the verdict that this whole shaky and unworthy of decorated naval aviators plan had been designed for. He could see them practically holding on to the edge of their seats, and he could even spot you in the corner of his eye, almost as curious as them of what he was about to reveal about your private life.
Bradley took in a breath, unable to suppress the huge smile from stretching his lips as he finally uttered the words he knew would bring chaos to the entire table.
“Mine’s pegging.”
Watching the frenzy unfold as soon as the words left his mouth probably were the best few seconds of Bradley’s day. Everyone’s eyes got bigger and their jaw hanged open in the funniest dumbstruck expression he’d ever been given the chance to witness. The real kicker though ? Watching Jake literally jump out of his seat at the edge of the booth and cheer, getting some perplexed looks from other people who were just trying to enjoy a beer and nice music.
Jake laughed pointing at his friends who still had not recovered from the information.
“Oh my god I fucking knew it ! I cannot actually believe you guys are so dumb,” he laughed hysterically, extending a hand, “alright pay up. God there is nothing quite like being right.”
“Oh so that’s what’s happening, you guys were betting about us,” said Bradley, seemingly unsurprised by the revelation.
That seemed to get you out of your own stupor caused by Bradley’s response. To say your boyfriend’s words had been a shock would be an understatement. You now looked at Jake with frowned brows.
“Wait, I’m so lost, what the fuck is going on ?”
Jake and the others froze, like caught red handed in the cookie jar. Bradley’s smirk never left his face as he turned to you.
“What is happening, sweetheart, is that our amazing friends apparently made a betting pool about our sex life. I can only imagine the question was whether or not I was submissive ?”
“The exact phrasing was either if Nitro was dominating you or the other way around.” Mickey helpfully supplied.
“Bro, how do you fold under zero pressure ?” Javy chuckled at his friend.
“What ?” You said in a stunned laugh, “is that true ?”
Reuben nodded, “the betting pool is at a comfortable prize of two hundred and seventy dollars.”
“Exactly, and Coyote and I have just hit the jackpot. And honestly I feel like I should get a bonus because not only was I right about chicken being a gigantic sub but I was also right about the pegging and I do think it deserves some recognition.”
“But wait, so only you and Javy bet that Bradley was submissive ? Just yesterday you all thought I was dominant !” You tried to reason, weirdly entertained by your friend’s obsession with your sex life.
Your words seemed to spark some realization in Bradley.
“What changed your minds ?”
Natasha awkwardly cleared her throat.
“Well, um…” she scratched her neck, visibly uncomfortable, “when we were changing in the locker room this morning,” she pointed to you and her, “I— um, I saw a hickey on your inner thigh.” She finished, her eyes squeezed shut as if to not face your reaction to her words.
Before you or Bradley could even answer that, Jake cut in.
“Yeah and clearly, just as I thought, it was stupid to base everything on a hickey. Payback,” he turned to Reuben, who had been carrying the contents of the betting pool safely in his bag, “please deliver the money over to Coyote and myself.”
A snort escaped you, and all eyes turned to you.
“Something funny, Nitro ?” Jake prompted.
Bradley was looking at new with nothing short of pure adoration and devotion in his eyes that were becoming more and more half lidded and clouded with obvious lust as the conversation went on.
“Jake,” you tried to say through little giggles, “you don’t actually think I peg Bradley, do you ?”
He frowned slightly.
“I do, Nitro. I’m convinced by it, and more than that, I just know it.”
“I’m truly sorry,” you started, looking at Javy and Jake, “but, um… I feel like just to be fair to everyone I need to restore the truth,” you said quite solemnly, turning to Bradley with a silent question in your eyes, a permission to share the most intimate details about your life.
His neck and cheeks had taken on a beautiful flushed shade and you recognized in his gaze the hunger from the night before. One of his arms was still thrown over the back of your seat and the other one was now casually draped over his lap, no doubt readjusting the hard-on slowly growing against his pants. His eyes traveled quickly to your lips before going back up to your eyes.
Bradley extended a hand towards your friends, “the floor is yours, sweetheart.”
Turning back to your dumbstruck friends, an expression that hadn’t really left their faces for the last ten minutes it felt like, you cleared your throat as you prepared to turn their world upside down for the second time of the night.
“Sorry, Jake,” you said again, “I don’t peg Bradley.” A small laughed escaped you at the word ‘peg’. “Being dominant is not really my style in the bedroom. I’m flattered that you thought so, though I can’t really imagine what made you think that.”
“Are you kidding ?” Jake exclaimed, “you act like a goddamn drill sergeant and supervising officer all day long !”
That got a few approving nods from Javy, Reuben and Mickey.
You didn’t seem to take any offense to Jake’s words or your friends’ reaction, you simply shrugged.
“Well, maybe that’s why I prefer to give control to someone else in bed ?”
“I refuse to believe it.” Jake declared stubbornly, “chicken doesn’t have what it takes.”
A sudden, and honestly ridiculous if you thought about it, urge to defend Bradley took you, prove that he wasn’t the frail and shy boy Jake seemed to think he was, but the steady man that allowed you to fall apart every night and made sure he was there to catch you.
“Bradley is very good. He is caring, patient, loving, very very attentive, like he is so attuned to me, he can be a little mean sometimes but it’s still fun, even when I’m not allowed to cum he—“ you suddenly caught the various emotions passing on your friends’ faces, going from deeply horrified to entirely delighted, “um… he…” you turned to Bradley, the look in his eyes making you stop. A mix between amusement and desire so strong it made your head spin. The realization of your words and just how much you were revealing hit you all at once, “… I probably should shut up now.”
“Please, please do.” Natasha pleaded from her seat.
“Well, that sure was an unexpected turn of events,” Javy chirped from beside Jake, who was still looking at you with utter shock and disbelief, and the tiniest residue of skepticism, the man had a hard time with being told straight up he was wrong.
“It definitely was,” Bradley suddenly stood up, taking your hand in his, “and you guys have wasted enough of our time with your bullshits. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have business to attend to at home.”
Without another word, Bradley led you out of the bar while Mickey very enthusiastically yelled after you both, “enjoy getting railed, Nitro !”, which got him weirded out looks from customers and an even harsher one from Penny behind the bar.
The cool air of the night was a welcomed temperature shock for your flushed skin. Bradley didn’t leave you a second to speak before he pinned you to the Hard Deck’s wall, his lips crashing into yours with a frenzy that matched yours from just the night before. You chuckled into the kiss.
“Bradley, people could see !” You said against his lips.
“Why does it matter now ? The cat’s out of the bag anyway,” he replied, voice husky with desire as his mouth reclaimed yours.
His hands snaked up your waist and you let out a soft gasp into the kiss, relishing in the way his whole body was pressing against yours, his body heat seeping into your skin.
When he pulled back, his hazel irises were almost completely overtaken by his dilated pupils.
“Get in the car,” he ordered, voice hoarse, “tonight we’re not stopping until you fucking beg me to, is that clear ?”
You nodded frantically, excitement and anticipation lightning up your every nerves.
“Use your words, baby.”
You let out a sound that was a strange mix of a giggle and a moan, the sound a testimony to how turned on and affected you were by the man standing in front of you. A man that had never once been embarrassed by the knowledge that all of his coworkers thought he was getting utterly dominated by you in bed, a man that accomplished every one of your desires and even got pleasure out of doing it. A man that was well and truly devoted to you in the best way, well and truly yours. Grabbing his arm, you made a beeline for his car.
Inside the bar, Mickey was still grinning at the door from which you had disappeared with Bradley seconds ago.
Javy stared at Mickey with an unreadable expression.
“It never fails to amaze me how genuinely fucking weird you are.”
Jake was still seated, a stunned and defeated look on his face as he stared off into the void.
“I physically cannot picture him being dominant.”
“But you could picture him getting pegged ?” Snickered Natasha as she was helping Bob counting and dividing the money equally between them, Mickey and Reuben, “that’s a little suspicious, projecting much ?”
Jake didn’t have the heart to dignify her with a response. Bob stood up with a bundle of his winning money, clapping him on the back.
“Statistics don’t lie, Bagman.”
“Oh shut the fuck up, Bob.”
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Author’s note : ahhh sorry for the delay guys !!😭 like I mentioned, I started a full time summer job until July and the schedule is kicking my ass honestly.
Anyway, this little part was prompted by this ask, so to the anon who sent it in, I hope you liked it ! It’s always so fun to write the whole squad being chaotic together.
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”
You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”
He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”
“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”
“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”
“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”
He winced. “When you say it like that—”
“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”
“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”
And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”
“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”
He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”
“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”
Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”
His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”
He frowned. “I don’t fold.”
“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”
“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”
“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”
Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”
“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”
His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”
“See? Believable and romantic.”
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”
You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”
You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”
You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”
Oh God. Here it was—the test.
Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”
Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”
“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”
You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”
He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”
You grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”
“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”
“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”
Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.
“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”
Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”
Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”
“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”
Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”
Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”
“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”
“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”
“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”
He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”
Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”
When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”
Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”
“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”
Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”
You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”
Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”
“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”
Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”
It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”
Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.
“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.
“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”
Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”
“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”
“I don’t,” he protested weakly.
“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”
“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”
“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”
Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”
You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”
“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”
Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”
The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”
“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”
“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”
The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.
“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”
“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.
“You’re doing fine.”
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.
Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”
“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”
His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”
“She’s married,” Clark protested.
“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”
“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”
“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.
“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”
“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”
Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”
“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”
“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”
Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”
“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”
He glanced back at you. “What?”
“It’s coming this way.”
“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”
“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”
“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”
His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”
That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”
Clark winced. “The cows.”
“The cows?”
“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”
“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”
“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”
“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”
“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.
“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”
“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”
“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”
“About all of it,” he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”
Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”
“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”
That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”
“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”
Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”
“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”
His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”
You blinked. “What?”
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”
But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”
“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”
The women descended like hawks.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely.”
“Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?”
“Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”
“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”
Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”
The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”
The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. “So we…?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”
“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”
But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.
It hadn’t felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”
You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”
For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”
“Right.”
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe… thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.
Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”
Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”
“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”
You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”
His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.
“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”
Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”
Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”
“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”
“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”
Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”
Your heart thudded. “Clark…”
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”
Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”
His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”
You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”
summary: you share cookies with your coworker. from that blossoms a cute love story
word count: 9.7k words
content warning: neurodivergent reader, fem reader, tooth-rotting fluff, slight hurt/comfort, baking as an act of love. clark kent is absolutely smitten. lois and reader friendship. reader is an intern at the daily planet. implied size difference and age gap (reader is in her twenties, clark is in his early thirties)
notes: my first fanfiction in a long, long time. also my first clark kent fic. wrote it in 2 days with no beta reading (oops). also i know lois lane's birthday is in august but i took creative liberties with that for the story
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You continue tearing bits from your cookie because you like eating it in crumbs rather than bites and Clark Kent, your coworker, is watching again. The cute one with the thick-rimmed black glasses and the messy curls over his forehead, and the ill-fitted suits over his too big frame. You can’t stare at him for too long because he always notices, and then your face grows hot and uncomfortable. You prefer to steal glances at him like this. It’s safer.
He doesn’t have the same qualms about looking at you.
He’s always staring whenever you eat your lunch at your desk when Lois isn’t available and you wonder if it’s because he’s too shy to ask for a bite. He didn’t seem shy, but you were relatively new to the Daily Planet, and you haven’t found your footing around. People are nice, especially Lois Lane, but you still feel like you don’t belong here yet. Maybe he can feel it too, and he doesn’t really think of you as one of them yet.
“Would you like some?” you ask him. You tear off a big part of your cookie and you hand him the biggest one, the part you hadn’t been tearing at.
He’s startled by your voice, which puzzles you, because he’s been watching you all this time, and he watched you as you tore your cookie in half. Color rises in the tip of his ears, and the sight is slightly endearing for a man his height and his stature.
“Thanks, um, thank you.” His voice isn’t very deep but it’s still deeply masculine, and it sounds like you would expect melted milk chocolate to sound like.
His hand is big and his arm is long as it stretches towards you, meeting your own hand halfway. He’s careful not to accidentally touch you, and you appreciate it.
“It’s vanilla chocolate chip cookie,” you tell him. “But I may have had a heavy hand with the vanilla extract, because it’s all I can smell and taste, but I don’t mind. I love vanilla.”
Intellectually, rationally, you know you’re rambling, the same way you always do when you’re talking about your baking, and you know not everyone likes it when you do that, and you know you should stop and apologize but Clark’s watching you again, and listening patiently, half cookie still uneaten in his fingers, as if he’s focusing all of his attention on you, like what you say matters that much to him, and he has a gentle smile on his face that reminds you of your cinnamon roll dough.
“It’s also very sweet, but not overly so,” you continue. “The chocolate is a little bitter though, so I find that it works well to balance the flavor, even if I personally don’t really like bitter chocolate, but that chocolate was the only one I could find in the store that was in my price range and wasn’t purely sugar masquerading as chocolate, so I got it. I also didn’t think it would be quite bitter, because fifty five percent cacao chocolate didn’t seem that dark to me. But maybe I just have a really bad sweet tooth.”
His eyes are smiling. You’d never understood when people said that eyes can smile but looking at him now, you suddenly get it. If you hid his mouth, his eyes still tell you that he’s smiling.
“I could smell the vanilla from my desk,” he admitted.
“Oh was it bothering you? I didn’t think it would be so potent.”
“No, no. It smelled really good, actually.” He finally takes a bite. “And it tastes just as good. You made them, then? They look store-bought. And uh, that’s a compliment. I don’t mean to say they look fake just… really nice.”
You nodded, pride blooming in my chest until it felt like there is no space left for my breathing. “Yes, I like to bake. I wanted to be a baker, but I like writing more.”
“Lucky for me,” he says, and you tilt your head to the side, trying to figure out what he meant by it. But you didn’t really care all that much, because you were more interested in the fact that you found someone who seemed receptive to your cookie rambling.
“This is actually my sixth recipe. I’m trying to recreate the taste of bakery style cookies without using as much butter. Butter’s one of those ingredients that seem cheap enough until you have to buy it in bulk for your recipes, and then using two sticks of butter for one batch of cookies starts to feel like waste.”
“How much butter is in this cookie?”
“I used one stick of butter for the whole recipe, which yielded about ten cookies, so that’s one-hundred and thirteen grams of butter divided by ten, which is eleven point three grams per cookie, and half of a cookie is around five point… five grams?”
“Five point sixty-five,” he corrects, and you nod.
“Numbers have never been my strongest suite. Unfortunately, baking is a lot of numbers.”
“You’re doing great so far,” he says. “Better than great, I would say.”
“I can bring you cookies tomorrow. I didn’t think I would be sharing today so I only brought one with me, but I still have leftovers.”
And you do. It’s still early enough that the office hasn’t filled yet. It’s only him and you and a couple other reporters by the coffee machine. You bring him five cookies in a white box, the same you get in bakeries, and you tied a pink bow on top. you give him the cookies and he surprises you by handing you a tall cup of coffee in return. It doesn’t look like it’s from the breakroom. It’s an actual travel mug, the kind that costs a lot.
“I don’t like coffee,” you tell him, not wanting to mislead him. It’s only a second later that you realize that you were probably being rude, because he’s obviously gone through a lot of trouble for you. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it. Really.”
“It’s not coffee,” he replies, like he was expecting you to say that, and he winks at you. “It’s hot chocolate, and not the bitter kind of chocolate, but not the sugar masquerading as chocolate either.”
You blink, a little taken aback at having your own words thrown at me. “You listened.”
“I did. I also added marshmallows, but that part was a gamble. I didn’t know if you liked them.”
“I’ve never had marshmallow in hot chocolate. I don’t usually drink hot chocolate, actually. I find it too bitter. I know, I have the palate of a kid but I like sweet things.”
“Take a sip,” he says. You do. You gingerly tip your head back, worried you’ll burn your tongue — you hate when it happens – but the drink is the perfect temperature.
“It’s really good,” you say. You blink again. Like really good. It’s sweet and warm and it tastes like a soft hug from within. “Where did you get it? I’ve never bought a hot chocolate that tasted like this.”
He smiles sheepishly, and you’re struck by how it changes his face wonderfully, like his face was born in a sheepish smile, the kind that smooths out his edges and makes him look like a dream. “I made it. It’s my Ma’s recipe.”
“Thank you. This is the best drink I’ve ever had.”
“Really?”
You nod. “I don’t say things unless I really mean them.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”
He picks up the box and with a wave, he thanks you for them again. You raise your mug in reply. His eyes crinkle.
When you first started out your internship at the Daily Planet, you didn’t know anyone there.
Then, Lois Lane took one look at you and she complimented your pink headphones – the noise-cancelling one that everyone assumes is just for listening to music during work. Lois Lane was one of those people you couldn’t help but admire. Not only was she smart and talented and a wickedly good journalist. Sometimes you openly stare at her, forgetting you didn’t like staringt too much at people, but you couldn’t help it. Her hair was long and soft and curled over her shoulders and fell all the way to her chest in a gentle swoop.
So you baked her a cake the next day as a thank you. You were eager and hopeful and you tripped over your own feet trying to give it to her because you really wanted her to like you and you wanted her to feel the same way she made you feel when she complimented your headphones.
She bought you lunch as a thank you. So you baked her cookies the next day as a thank you. So she bought you lunch again, and you baked her muffins the next day, thinking that maybe this is what you guys did. It became — routine. Lunch with her, and you bring sweets for dessert.
“This has to stop,” she said one day.
“You don’t like my baking?”
“I do, but you need to stop baking me things every time I try to thank you for baking me something. The cycle will never end otherwise.”
“Is that what it was? I thought you bought lunch and I brought dessert. Forgive me if I misunderstood. I’ll stop bringing treats.”
You guys didn’t do it long enough to feel like it was a routine set in your schedule, so why did it feel so painful? You liked your routine, and you liked her company. You thought she was your friend, but she was only buying you lunch because she felt obligated to.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says. “I like this too, a lot, actually.”
So you kept having lunch together every Tuesday and Thursday, in that cute little bakery down the street.
You stay behind again. You didn’t mean to lose track of time like this. You didn’t see time fly by, the way you never do because you’d been in the zone, writing your first draft for your article about [topic]. You like writing because, aside from baking, it’s the only thing that can completely shut your mind off. And when you get in the zone like that, the rest of the world disappears. You disappear. Your desires, your hunger, your exhaustion, your feelings, they all disappear. Only words mattered.
You don’t even notice when a bottle of water is put in front of you. You don’t even notice when Lois tells you good bye and wishes you good luck, but that’s also because you had your noise-cancelling headphones on. (You hope she doesn’t think you’re rude, because you really didn’t mean to ignore her.)
It’s only when your head starts pounding right behind your eyes that you finally come to. Your eyes had been burning and you didn’t notice until the ache turned into a migraine and suddenly you couldn’t look into the screen anymore. You saved your work and instantly shut it off, finally looking at something other than your screen when you look around.
Clark Kent was still there, in the desk right in front of yours. Removing your headphones feels like waking up from a slumber — underwater. You realize now how painful they were starting to feel, like they were pressing against your skull.
There are still some whispers around, other people staying behind, hunched over screens and talking about something or another. The whispers are soft and distant but they make your ears feel like they’re vibrating and it’s kind of painful.
You pinch the space between your eyes with your index and your thumb, eyes closed.
“You okay?”
Clark’s voice feels like a wave washing off the unwanted sounds in my head. You don’t feel like speaking though, so you just nod. Sometimes, when you lost yourself in something, you forgot basic things like taking breaks or drinking water or even going to the bathroom, and you always think you can handle it until suddenly you’re overstimulated and overwhelmed and everything hurts.
“You should drink some water,” he offers gently, head nodding towards the water bottle you hadn’t noticed until now.
He must have put it there.
Ever since you guys had traded hot chocolate and cookies, there’d been a tentative beginning of friendship. You weren’t an expert in friendships and such, but you could probably wager that you and Clark were becoming friends. You wouldn’t bet your entire life on it, but probably ten bucks. That seemed realistic.
“Thank you, Clark.”
He smiles the way he always does when you say his name. You were good at recognizing patterns, and you’d noticed that one the third time he smiled right after you said Clark. It brightens up his entire face.
“No problem. You ready to get out of here?”
It’s like he knew how eager you were to leave this place. You just want to go home with your favorite show on your laptop and ordering three large portions of fries, maybe five, with your homemade mayonnaise. You’re starting to feel the hunger after not eating anything for the entire day.
“Yes.”
You always tell yourself you’re going to start forcing yourself to take breaks every hour or so, but you never do. Or if you do, and you never respect the rules. You always just turn off your alarm and go right back to work, grumpier because you hate being interrupted.
You hate that you can’t wear your headphones right now, because Metropolis is always louder at night, but your head is still hurting, and you’re almost sure it’s because of the headphone. It’s super old and it feels like your head’s gotten bigger over the years and you’re not talking about the metaphorical kind of big heads, although some people would definitely agree that you have a big head.
Clark is quiet at your side. The elevator ride is uneventful. The moment you step foot outside, your shoulders are up to your ears.
He asks to make a stop at the pharmacy and when he comes out, he has earplugs in his hand. You stare at him like he’d grown two heads when he hands them to you.
“It’s for you.”
“Me?”
“I thought they might help.”
They do. You relax instantly the instant the second earplug is in your ear.
“Thank you,” you say. Your voice is muffled to your ears.
“Of course,” he replies, but you barely hear him. The earplugs are that good. Clark is that good.
Next Monday, a marbled chocolate and vanilla cake is waiting for Clark at his desk.
Two months into your internship at the Daily Planet, you are invited to Lois’ birthday. It’s nothing big, nothing fancy. It feels like a birthday party when you were younger.
You bring her a birthday cake, with three levels, complete with funfetti and whipped cream and frosting. You didn’t really know what to get her as a gift so you figured you couldn’t go wrong with a birthday cake.
You only know Lois, Jimmy and Clark. You know the rest of the people only by sight, and some you don’t know at all.
Lois’ apartment is nice. It’s old but quaint and well-lived in. You sit in the three seat couch on the left side, hands on your knees. Clark’s earplugs were in your pocket. You didn’t need to use them but you liked knowing where they were. You also had your headphones in your bag that Lois took from you once you came in.
Lois had looked overjoyed when she saw you come in with a huge cake box. You had to buy a special one because you’d never had to deliver a cake this big.
She takes it from your arms, safely putting in the kitchen before turning towards you again. “Can I give you a hug?”
“Okay,” you reply, because this is Lois Lane who was already part of your routine. Lois who smells really nice and is always smiling towards you even though you’re just an intern and she’s already a senior.
She gives you the hug and it feels like her. Safe, happy, kind.
“Happy birthday,” you tell her. “I hope you enjoy the cake. I’m not very used to making cakes this big, or decorating.”
“Definitely the best gift ever. Thank you so much, love.”
She stayed behind to greet others and talk to her friends and that’s how you found yourself on her couch. You saw Clark and Jimmy when you came in but you didn’t know whether you should go say hi. You weren’t used to social settings, let alone birthday parties.
So you just wait. You don’t know necessarily what you’re waiting for, but you wait.
There is no loud music but there’s an ambient music playing all across Lois’ apartment. And it smells nice, like her, but bigger. There are snacks and drinks on the table and it reminds you of birthday parties when you were a kid. You always thought grown-ups celebrated their birthday parties during the night in clubs, but you’re glad it wasn’t the case for Lois.
“Hey.”
“Hi Jimmy,” you greet back. You like Jimmy Olsen. He has freckles and when he smiles his entire face lights up and his eyes disappear, and it’s adorable. He looks soft.
“It’s nice you could join us.”
You nod. “I wasn’t expecting to be invited at all.”
“Why not?”
You look everywhere but his eyes. “I am not exactly the kind of person you want to invite anywhere. I am an excruciatingly picky eater, I don’t like bright lights or loud sounds. I don’t talk a lot and I don’t know how to do small talk. I hate small talk. See? You were trying to make small talk but I took it too seriously, and now you must think I’m a buzz killer.”
“Honest to a fault, yes, but not a buzz killer.”
“People don’t like too much honesty.”
“Lucky for you, we’re not like most people.”
“I am starting to see that,” you reply, trying for a smile. “It’s — nice. Thank you.”
“Of course.” His eyes flicker up to something behind you and then back to you. “Hey, what do you think of Clark Kent?”
You frown. “Do you want the honest answer or the socially accepted answer?”
“Honest.”
“I think he’s kind. And he has nice blue eyes.” You grab your earplugs from your pocket and gather them in the palm of your hand before showing it to Jimmy. “He bought me earplugs one time, because my headphones hurt and the streets were too nosy. I don’t really wear them all the time, but I like them.”
“Sounds like something he would do.”
“He does that to everyone?”
“Well — yeah. That’s just how he is with everyone. But with you, it’s—” he interrupts himself, and doesn’t continue.
“Oh.” For some reason you had hoped that it meant something – that you were special. “Yeah. I think he’s really kind and I’m glad to know him. You too, of course. And Lois Lane. And everyone at the office.”
Jimmy smiles at you again.
He said he wanted honesty, so I tell him: “I really like your smile. You look really cute. Sometimes it makes me want to pinch your cheeks.”
His face goes bright red, and you can’t help but smile. “You look even cuter like this. No wonder all the girls like you.”
That was true. It’s one of the few things you had noticed, even if you were usually too in your head to notice anything happening. But you always saw girls at the office staring at him and whispering to each other how hot he was.
He coughs and takes a long sip of whatever it is he’s drinking. It’s bubbly. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays red a long time.
A little while later, Lois Lane says she’s feeling generous and decides to share the cake you made with everyone. “Is that okay with you?” She asked you before she did.
“It’s your cake. I don’t care what you do with it,” you replied honestly. If sharing it made her happy, then so be it.
Half the cake’s gone by the time everyone gets a slice. Lois lets you pick the spoon you want from her kitchen drawer, away from everyone else.
“What did you do to Jimmy earlier?” She asks, leaning against her fridge while you rummage through her utensil drawers looking for the perfect spoon – or fork. You’re not very picky.
“I didn’t do anything to him.” It’s true. You didn’t even touch him. You just spoke with him. “Lois, your drawer is painfully untidy. You should let me organize it for you one day.”
“Oh hush, my drawers are perfectly fine. Anyway, I saw the two of you and he left you looking like a tomato. Spill.” Her eyes are glinting with excitement and something else you can’t name. Her cheeks are rosy, and she looks lighter than ever. She is truly one of the prettiest people you’ve ever seen. You find a spoon that’s perfect. Small and symmetrical and shiny. You grab it and close the drawer.
You tell her she’s the prettiest person you’ve ever seen, and she goes red in the face.
“Is that what you said to Jimmy too?”
“No, I didn’t talk about you. I told him he was really cute.”
She chuckles. “If you keep this up, you’re going to end up with half the office in love with you. Have you complimented anyone else today?”
“No. Just you and Jimmy. And I guess I told Jimmy about Clark, but I didnt really compliment Clark, since I just said what I thought of him.”
“And what do you think of Clark?”
“That he has the kindest and prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
you’re sitting in the living room again, except you’re on the armchair this time because the couch was taken by a couple making out. You thought that kind of thing only happened in college parties, not that you’ve ever gone to one.
“Your cake is as good as your cookies, but nothing can top them in my opinion.”
You look up to find Clark already smiling at you. His eyes are smiling behind his glasses. He has a plate in his hand but the cake is untouched.
“You didn’t even taste it,” you tell him trying not to sound annoyed at the blatant lie.
“This is my third slice actually,” he says with a huff, as if he’s saying, do you really think I can lie? “I just got it before Lois could catch me.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem. Can I sit on the arm rest?”
“Sure.”
There were no longer free seats. Someone had braved the making out couple and sat next to them and looked like he was trying not to be dragged into it.
Clark sits and the armchair creaks a little under his weight.
For some reason, you feel better whenever he’s around you. You always look forward to your discussions even if you never really talk about anything serious or consequential. You talk about baking — well, you talk and he listens.
“How’d you make the cake?” he asks, as if he could hear my thoughts. “It’s so… juicy.”
His adjective of choice makes you snort, but you explain to him exactly how you made it anyway. The secret’s all in the syrup, you say. And how much vanilla extract you put in.
“Had a heavy hand with the vanilla again?”
“I had a reason this time. The recipe called for it, this time.”
Your head is buzzing pleasantly by the time you leave the birthday party. You feel mellowed out, like caramel that’s been left in the sun. Not melted completely, just… boneless, if that made sense.
You take the train because Lois’ apartment is far away from yours and you’re feeling too lazy to walk there, even if you prefer to walk everywhere. Subways are dirty and loud and, quite frankly, a little scary. Especially after sunset. You checked on your phone and saw that Superman has been spotted in the vicinity, so you weren’t as scared as you would be.
Before moving to Metropolis for college, you didn’t have any particular opinion about Superman. You weren’t into him nor against him. Tall, big and strong men weren’t high on your list of people you liked. Too much masculinity, too much testosterone – that never bode well for anyone, but you could appreciate the fact that he’d saved the world too many times to count.
Until you meet him. You don’t exactly meet him, but you see him, mid-fight, swooping to protect a kitten from being crushed by a falling tree, even the monster was charging at him. You were so stunned you forgot to rush to shelter, until he was suddenly in front of you, kitten in hand, gently guiding you towards safety.
When you came back home that night, you searched for his name on the Internet. You found yourself on Twitter, clicking on his hashtag. You wanted to see if he’s done it before, if he was known for saving the little guy.
He was. There were countless of videos and pictures and testimonies, all showing how Superman saved their fish or their cat or dog or even their car, or a squirrel.
You wouldn’t exactly say that you were a fan now, but… close. There was something about a 6’4 man who could lift up buildings with one hand saving a tiny kitten that just did things to you. You were too used to heroes sacrificing the little lives for the bigger picture, and while you knew it was impossible to save every single person, it was nice to see that someone tried anyway, rather than just giving up.
Somehow, even Superman had haters. You frowned as you read the seemingly endless hate tweets.
You tweeted I saw #Superman save this tiny kitten mid-fight. NOT #Supershit. And you attached a picture of the kitten in your arms. (Kitten that you’d named Supercat and kept.)
It was the only way you found to show your gratitude, even if Superman was too busy to read fan tweets. He was probably busy saving kittens from trees and helping fish find their way back in the water. He probably didn’t even care for the hate, but still, seeing it was upsetting, especially when you knew for a fact he did nothing that warranted it.
It was stupid, but you’d gone to bed that night with a purring Supercat on your chest and a heart that felt like it grew three sizes inside your chest.
“Hot chocolate coming right up for the lady.”
You look up just in time to see a smiling Clark Kent bending slightly to place a large mug on your desk. He’s not wearing a tie – or a jacket – and it’s unbuttoned at the couple first buttons. He looks – nice. You’re not used to thinking these things about men.
“Me?” you ask, dumbly. “But I didn’t bring you anything.”
“Can’t I be nice without expecting anything in return?”
You frown at that, like the idea had never even graced your mind. “Oh. What’s the occasion, then?”
Today was, as far as you knew, a normal day. You weren’t good at remembering birthdays or special days but you were ninety nine percent sure there was nothing going on today.
“Nothing. Just wanted to be nice.”
You smiled gratefully, sheepishly, and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug. “Thank you.”
He must think you’re weird, for thinking that kindness had to be transactional, but that’s just how you learnt to see the world. People rarely were nice without a reason. You take a small tentative sip, and you find out the drink is the perfect temperature once again.
He smiles, happy that you’re pleased, and he finally goes to his desk.
“Are you not cold?” you ask him. It’s the middle of the winter and it’s not the first time you see him come into work with just a shirt, while everyone else was wearing layers upon layers, including yourself.
His smile turns sheepish. “I forgot to bring my jacket.”
“You must forget it a lot,” you hum. “It’s strange because you never seem to forget other things. Like my hot chocolate or Jimmy and Lois’ coffee.”
He laughs, but it sounds a little strained. “I guess I’m always thinking of others first.”
You hum again. “Maybe I should start bringing you something warm then. Someone has to think of you first too.”
His smile is – heartbreaking.
You bring him a thick and warm comforter, and Clark seems to love it and he wears it like a cape.
The sight is a little silly and weirdly familiar.
He keeps it in his desk all the time.
The break room falls silent when you come in. Lois, Jimmy and Clark look up, and only Clark’s looking like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, and weirdly apologetic. Lois and Jimmy look like cats who each got the canary.
You greet them with a wave of your hand and start filling up your water bottle.
“We were just thinking, maybe we should go to the movies tonight,” Jimmy says, and it sounds like he’s been rehearsing. Lois is trying to hide a laughing fit and Clark looks absolutely distraught.
“Okay?” you say, a little confused but not wanting to be rude. “Have fun.”
“The four of us,” Jimmy clarifies.
“Oh.” That made sense now. “Sure,” you reply. “What movie?”
They each say a different movie. Maybe they hadn’t decided on that part yet. Honestly, you don’t mind any movie, as long as it’s with your friends.
Goddamit, you’re actually excited about it. You don’t like feeling excited, you hate it, because it always ends up in disappointment and you know that and still, you can barely stay still on your chair while you’re doing research.
But you keep thinking about – well, Clark, and maybe sitting next to him, if you find a way to discreetly take the seat next to his, and just being with him for a few hours. Of course, you were happy Lois and Jimmy would be there but you weren’t as close to Clark the way you were close with them.
And you certainly don’t have a crush on them the way you crush on Clark.
“Ready to go?” Clark asks you when the clock strikes 5pm and everyone else is already starting to get ready to go home. There weren’t any looming deadlines so people felt free to go home on time.
“Yes,” you reply, almost too excitedly. You’re looking at the space between his eyes and he looks almost excited too, and a little bit flushed. His eyes are fleeing yours, which is weird, because usually it’s only you who does that. “Should we wait for Lois and Jimmy?”
You peek behind him and notice Jimmy still at his desk, and Lois was nowhere to be found.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Clark says. “Jimmy, you ready?”
Then, like he’s been getting ready to say this, Jimmy turns around. “Oh no, I’m sorry. Lois and I have to stay behind, I’m sorry. It’s all last minute. We’re going to try to finish quick and try to catch up, but yeah, just go on without us.”
You blink, feeling a little disappointed. “Oh,” you say. “We can wait, right Clark? I mean we can stay and help them finish quicker.”
They share a look you don’t get. “Oh no, uh, it’s just that it’s something only Lois and I can work on, I’m sorry. But we’ll be quick, we promise.”
“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to smile but feeling a little hurt at the blatant rejection. They were the one who offered to go watch a movie anyway. “Should we just reschedule?”
“I already got us tickets,” Clark says. “I’m not sure they’re refundable.”
“We’ll be quick, I promise,” Jimmy says.
Maybe it’s the fact that your plan has been thrown off that you’re feeling so upset.
“Sorry about them,” Clark says as he lets you inside the elevator first, hand on the edge of it so it doesn’t try closing. “But you know how Perry gets with his deadlines…”
“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” you reply. “I just don’t understand why we have to go first if they’re going to catch up to us anyway.”
“Maybe they just don’t want us to be stuck at work.”
You’re not really convinced. “They said we would all go out to the movies. All of us.”
“Am I really that bad of a company?” Clark says, a self-deprecating smile on his face.
“What?” You ask with a frown. “No, that has nothing to do with that. It’s just that they said we would all go. I was expecting us to go together.”
“You like it when things go as planned,” he says with a soft murmur.
Your fingers tighten around your bag straps. “Yes. But I feel bad for feeling this way because they obviously can’t help it if they’re held back at work. I’ll deal with it. They’re going to catch up with us soon anyway. And you’re not bad company, sorry for making you think that. I’m just– my brain is weird,” you say the last part lamely, not knowing how to explain it any better.”
He lets you get out of the elevator first again. You don’t notice anything but his warmth next to you and his voice.
“Your brain’s not weird. I think it works perfectly well. You like honesty, you like your routine, and you like things to go as planned. Doesn’t make you weird. Just… a good person to be around.”
You don’t reply, but your fingers are playing with your straps. You don’t dare look at him, because you know he’s looking for your eyes. But that’s too scary.
“We can reschedule, if you want. I don’t mind, and I’m sure neither will they.”
“But your tickets.”
“They’re just tickets. We can always get more of them.”
“I would like to wait a bit first. How long until our movie starts?”
“About twenty-five minutes.”
“We’ve got time.”
“Yeah?”
He’s smiling.
“Yeah. Maybe they’ll finish quickly and we can still go. The movie theater’s not that far.”
“You’re right. Let’s get something to eat,” he says, pocketing his phone after texting something in it. “My treat.”
“Okay.”
Clark Kent is really nice. In all senses of the word. He’s nice to look at, he’s nice to listen to, and he’s plain nice. Although you suppose he’s kinder than he is nice. His goodness seems intrinsic, woven into the lines of his very being.
“You have a cat?” he asks. “Why is that not surprising?”
“Maybe because I am an introvert and all introverts are known to have cats?”
He chuckles softly, bringing a spoonful of ice cream to his mouth. “Something like that. What’s his name?”
“You’re going to make fun of me,” you say, the tip of your ears red.
“I would never.”
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“Try me. Can’t be as bad as me calling my childhood cat Cat when I was a kid.”
You snort. “That’s not embarrassing, that’s practical, and really cute. But what if you’d had more than one cat?”
“I probably would have named them Cat 2 or something.”
“My cat’s name is Supercat,” you confess shyly, hiding your face behind your giant brookie. You don’t know why you feel so embarrassed about it. It’s just a cat name, and it’s not like Clark would suddenly know all about your Superman obsession.
Clark has a moment of pause before he reacts. “Because he’s a caped hero?”
You snort. “Oh no, actually. He’s afraid of mice and insects, and of his own shadow.”
“Why Supercat, then?”
“Because Superman gave him to me.”
“You know him?”
“Oh no, I just happened to be at the right time right place. Superman was fighting this huge alien creature and then he saved a kitten, even though he clearly had other bigger things to worry about, and then he saw me, and I was too dumbstruck to move so he guided me to safety and asked me to take care of the kitten while he took care of the monster.”
“You like him,” Clark says, and he sounds a little smug.
“What? No! What makes you say that?”
You’re red. You know it because your face is burning and you’re trying to look at anything but Clark’s knowning smile. How’d he know?!
“Oh nothing, it’s just the way you completely light up while talking about him, and how I’ve never heard you talk as much in one go.”
“That’s so untrue. You’ve heard me talk longer about baking.”
“Which further proves my point. You only talk a lot when it’s about something – or someone – you really love.”
“Shut up,” you say. “I just… well, he saved my cat, even if I didn’t know he was my cat yet. So of course I like him.”
“Sounds to me like he saved you as well.”
“Yeah, maybe,” you say, even though there’s no maybe about it. He did save you, but it’s him saving the cat that marked you the most.
“I, uh, I actually know Superman. Kind of. I do interviews with him from time to time.” You knew that because you’ve read every interview there was on Superman, and you’d quickly noticed that it was the same journalist every time. Clark Kent. “I could talk to him about maybe meeting you? I’m sure he’ll want to know that the kitten he saved is safe. And that you’re safe too, of course.”
He looks earnest and shy, and a little awkward, and it’s painfully endearing.
“I don’t know…” you say, even though your heart is beating faster at the idea of meeting Superman and properly talking to him. “Isn’t it a bad idea to meet your heroes? I’m worried I’ll mess up the memory I have of him.”
And honestly, you couldn’t really think of anyone else when Clark was talking to you, even if it was Superman.
“No rush,” he says gently. “If you change your mind, the offer’s still standing.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. Come on, Lois and Jimmy said they’re already there. Seems like they managed to get away with work.”
You’re sitting next to Clark Kent.
Lois and Jimmy were bickering and before they knew it the seats around you and Clark were taken, so they had to go to the front.
“This is all your fault, idiot,” you hear Lois tell Jimmy as they shamefully walk to the front of the room.
“Should we join them?” you whisper.
“You’re kidding? I don’t want to lose the best spots for them.”
You giggle. “Okay.”
“Beside it’s their fault for not quickly deciding on who got to sit next to you.”
“That’s stupid, when there was literally a free seat next to you.”
You look at each other and dissolve into a fit of giggles.
“Can I walk you home?”
“I live in the opposite direction of your place,” you remind him patiently, even though there are butterflies inside your stomach that are doing a lot of damage to your nerves.
“I quite frankly don’t care about that. I just want to walk you home. Can I?”
“But why?”
Why is he acting like romantic leads did in shows? Surely he doesn’t like you. He’s probably just being really kind and thoughtful. But he didn’t offer Lois to walk her home, even though he knew her longer. Maybe it’s because you’re younger and he thinks it’s his responsibility that you get home safe?
“Because… I am not ready to leave you just yet,” he confesses – because that’s what it sounds like. A confession. His voice is lower, softer, yet sure. He’d never sounded this sure.
“Why?” you ask, dumbly. Or maybe you just wanted him to keep talking about you this way.
“Let me take you home and I’ll tell you,” he replies. “Maybe.”
It’s only because you’re so curious that you say yes. No other reason.
And maybe because his face lights up like you’d just given him the Pulitzer prize.
The walk home is quiet, a little awkward, but it feels – nice, good, safe. Just like Clark Kent.
He instinctively takes the road side of the street, and he gently guides you away from a puddle when you don’t look where you’re going. He’s patient when you check fourt times before crossing the streets.
In the subway, he uses his entire body like a shield between you and the rest of the commute. He grasps the handle with one and he lets you use his bicep as your handle, since you’re too short to reach the bar.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and it still baffles you how you don’t need to look at him anymore to know when he’s smiling.
You blush, realising he must be looking into your phone.
“Whenever I take the subway I check if Superman’s in the area. It, uh, makes me feel safe.”
His bicept flexes underneath your fingers. It’s easy to forget it, because he rarely reminds you of it, but Clark’s really strong and muscular. His biceps are so big you would need your two hands to wrap around the muscle.
“What do you need Superman for when I’m right here?”
“Are you… jealous?”
He scoffs, like the idea itself is ludicrous. “Of course not. Why would I be jealous of him?”
“Because you’re right here with me and I’m still searching for him.”
You don’t know where that came from. You’re not usually this bold or even this teasing. You’re about to retract back what you said but then you see his reaction.
“You’re right, I would be jealous. If it wasn’t my arm you’re holding right now, if it wasn’t me you’re looking with that delicious blush.”
Then, he blushes too, as if just now realizing what he’d just said. You stare at each other, both blushing. At the same time, you both look away, but you don’t remove your hand, and he doesn’t stop protecting you from the people pushing in.
The rest of the subway ride is quieter. Nicer.
He walks you right up to your front door. He obviously wants to see inside, so you invite him in. You tell yourself you’re just being polite.
“I want to see Supercat,” he says, like it explains why he really wants to come in.
You open the door.
“Please come in. Make yourself at home. I think I have some scones, if you want? I made them last weekend.”
Your apartment is humble, which is an euphemism for small. You’re still a student, and despite interning at the Daily Planet, you’re not rolling in dough. So your apartment is more of a glorified room that has a small kitchen area and a tiny oven you bought specifically for your baking (you rarely use it for your meals, since your safe meals usually only need pans). It’s a definite far cry from Lois’ really nice apartment, and what you guessed Clark’s to be. But, this was home, and has been for the past four years. You don’t feel as ashamed as you would usually be, because you know Clark isn’t the type of person to judge.
Supercat is, unsurprisingly, sleeping on top of your dirty laundry. He opens a lazy eye to see whether I brought him any treat, before closing it back, clearly uninterested in the new stranger.
“See? He’s no hero, if you were an intruder right now, he barely would have batted an eye,” you say, though you just sound fond, not annoyed at all.
“Maybe he just instinctively knows I don’t want to cause you any harm.”
“I doubt it – not that I don’t believe you when you say you’re harmless. It’s just… well, I wouldn’t trust him with my life. Come on, come on in. Don’t just stand there. I know my place is small, but not so small it couldn’t fit you.”
He flushes sweetly. “Oh God, no, it’s not–”
You nudge him with your elbow. “I’m teasing you. You can sit on my bed, since I don’t have a couch.”
He obeys, and the sight of him, big limbs and large presence, trying to navigate my tiny apartment is endearing. He looks out of place, like a giant in a dollhouse, and still, completely at home.
“It’s really – cute, here,” he says while you take out cookies (turns out you’d ran out of scones without realizing).
“Thank you. I like it too. My only issue is that it gets too small for baking sometimes.”
“Ah yes, this is where the magic happens.”
The way he says it makes it sound like you’re conducting scientific experiments and creating miracles.
“It’s just cookies.”
“Not just any cookies. Only the best ones I’ve ever had.”
“You’re just saying that because –” Because what, because he likes you? You quickly look down to your hands, embarrassed at the thought.
“Because?” he presses. When you look up, he’s right there, just in front of you. You hadn’t even noticed him moving.
He moved like a big cat. Silent, agile, and deadly.
“Because you’re you,” you say instead. “Because you’re kind. That’s what you do.”
“You think I’m only nice to you because I’m kind?”
“Yeah. Because I’m the new kid and the youngest, and you have strong protective instincts that makes you want to take care of everyone, like it’s your job to do so.” He doesn’t sound convinced and you get desperate trying to convince him, so you add: “Jimmy said you’re like this with everyone.”
“Did he? Did he say that I walk anyone home? That I spend thirty minutes every day making my Ma’s special hot chocolate drink for anyone? That I stay up late at work just to make sure they’re not overworking themselves again?”
“I…”
Clark smiles, and it’s like the sun peeking between two dark clouds.
“You..?”
“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Do you… like me?”
“Yes. I have ever since you tore your cookie in half just so I could taste it, and you spent twenty minutes talking to me about how butter content can either make or break the recipe, and how you go through vanilla extracts like people go through coffee.”
Your brain short-circuits. He wasn’t supposed to just… agree, like it was that easy.
“Why?” you ask.
“Do I really need a reason? It’s just you.”
“I guess… I’m just a little confused. No one’s ever liked me before. Or they do, until I start rambling about recipes and ingredients and how many times I have to make a recipe before I’m finally satisfied with it. Or until I go nonverbal because everything is too loud and everything hurts and I refuse to be touched. But you knew all this, and you still… like me?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I still like you.”
“Why?” you ask, and you realize you’d already asked why before.
“Because it’s you. Because baking is your love language and there’s not a single person in the office that you didn’t bake anything for, and because you’re adorable with your pink headphones everyone thinks you use to listen to music but you use it as a noise-cancelling device. And because you smile like an angel, and write like a devil, and you bake like nostalgia. And because from the first day I saw you, I knew I was a goner.”
You chuckle nervously, looking around, as if waiting for Jimmy or Lois or both to pop up from somewhere with a camera.
“You like me,” you repeat, as if tasting it on your own tongue helped you understand it.
“I do. And I should have told you before, but I was a coward, and Jimmy and Lois were tired of me whining about how much I liked you and not doing anything about it.”
“The movies,” you say, like an euraka moment.
His eyes go soft. “Yes, the movies. They were trying to set us up. I told them I didn’t like the plan, it felt too deceptive, too manipulative, but…”
“I’m glad they did it,” you interrupt. “But you’re right. It was kind of manipulative, and I was really sad when I thought they weren’t coming. It’s just — I like it— no, I need people to do as they say. Otherwise it messes with my head and I don’t like it, but still, I guess they were just trying to help. You texted them, didn’t you? You told them to come.”
“Yes. As soon as I saw how much it upset you, I told them to come back.”
“And you still like me.” It isn’t a question. You just like to repeat facts, as if repeating them a hundred times would make them truer than if you’d only said them once. “Despite all of this.”
“I still like you. All of you. Your quirks and your habits and your preferences.”
“Thank you,” you reply. Are you supposed to kiss him now? You weren’t sure. No one ever told you how love confessions are supposed to go.
He looks a little scared, a little vulnerable, and it’s not right. It doesn’t look right.
Oh. You are supposed to reply to his confession.
“I like Superman,” you say. Your brain’s not right. “But I like you better. I liked him because he saved animals and because he made the city safer, it’s why I follow blogs about him and search for his whereabouts. But ever since I met you, I didn’t do that as much anymore. So you really don’t need to be jealous of Superman.”
You’re not really sure where you’re going with this, but for some reason you thought mentioning Superman was a good idea.
“You like me better than Superman,” he repeats. Maybe he needed to taste the words himself to believe them better too. The look of fear melts from his face. It leaves only pure, unadulterated, boyish joy behind. He looks — pure. Like the sun.
“Yes. I feel safe around you the same way I feel safe when I know Superman’s near.”
“I’m glad. You deserve to feel safe all the time.”
“Thank you. So do you. Do you still want cookies? They must have thawed a bit since then, but I can still put them in the microwave for a bit.”
He chuckles. “Yes please, I would like some of your cookies.”
You turn around, your cheeks still burning hot. You just confessed to Clark Kent, after he confessed to you first. He likes you. He likes you and you like him.
You both sit down on the edge of your bed, thighs close but not touching. He’s so big he could easily take up the whole space, but he’s making himself smaller so he doesn’t intrude on your personal space.
“Listen, I, I’ve never done this before so excuse me if I’m making a fool of myself but…”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to go on a date with me? A proper one, this time, and not a subterfuge.”
He looks earnest and hopeful, and once again scared.
“Okay. I would love to go on a date with you, Clark.”
────୨ৎ────
Clark didn’t know whether he should thank his friends or ignore them for the rest of his life after the little stunt they’d pulled around you.
He knew that they were just trying to be helpful in that meddling yet endearing way of theirs, but he truly thought his heart was going to stop beating the second he saw you get upset at the unexpected change of plans.
If he didn’t already have no chance with you before this, he definitely didn’t anymore.
You were always physically impassible, eyes shining only when you’re talking about something you liked — baking, cats, Superman. He was used to having to dig deeper to truly understand how you felt, but at that moment in the elevator, he could see your emotions clear as day.
And it broke him.
He was only glad that the night ended the way it did, otherwise he probably would have flown him, Jimmy and Lois into the sun if they’d accidentally hurt you.
A little after finishing your cookie, Superkitten, the cat Clark still remembered saving a couple of years ago, finally moved his spot and graced him with his attention. He sniffed him at first, looked at him suspiciously before continuing his thorough sniffing.
“He is trying to figure out where you’ve been and what you smell like,” you explained to him. Clark felt his heart settle the way it always did when he heard your voice.
“He’s a nosy little thing,” he replied.
“It’s strange, because he’s usually not. There must be something about you that intrigues him enough to get him moving.”
Clark lifted an eyebrow at that, giving his attention back to the slightly obese orange cat who was sniffing his socks now. He was a slip of a thing, really, when he saved him. Too weak, too small to move, to even notice the piece of concrete that was about to kill him. And now, happy and fat and serene and lazy because he knew he had the best owner in the world. No, Clark was not jealous of a stupid cat.
Maybe Superkitten remembered him too. It wouldn’t surprise him. After all, cats often saw things human couldn’t.
“Maybe he just knows I’m special.”
You snorted. Even your snort was endearing, a work of art. “Don’t flatter yourself, Clark. He must smell food on you, that’s all.”
He bent down slightly, telegraphing his movements so that the cat had time to move if he didn’t want to be touched, and he started scratching him softly under his chin. Superkitten started purring almost instantly.
He definitely remembered.
When he looked back at you, you were watching them with a strange look on your face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” you replied. You were being honest, he could tell. “It’s just… I think I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this. I need time to process change. Everything feels a bit surreal. I always have a difficult time with reality, especially after dark. Everything feels like a dream.”
“A good dream, I hope.”
“Yes. But a dream nonetheless. Something that ends the moment you open your eyes.”
“I’ll still be here, tomorrow morning, when you wake up, when you open your eyes.”
“I hope so,” you replied. “I’m already getting used to the fact that you’re here. I would be upset if you disappeared.”
Clark Kent would rather die a thousand deaths than hurt you.
He wanted to kiss you, hold you. Anything to ease the worry off your eyebrows, to show you that he was here, there and now and for as long as you wanted him.
“Does this mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?” you ask, and the changement of subject is so jarring it leaves Clark a bit dazed, before he felt his entire body flush at your words. His entire being was attuned to you.
“I, uh, yes, I mean, definitely yes, if you wanted. I was waiting to ask you officially once we’ve had our first date but… this definitely works too.”
You smiled. “Okay. I know labels aren’t for everyone but they help me.”
He nodded. “Anything you need.”
“Should we kiss now?”
God, yes, he wanted to say. “Do you want us to kiss?”
“Yes. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to kiss you.”
He was lucky he didn’t need his heart to live because it always skipped beats around you. You wondered what it would feel like to kiss him? He wanted to know when and where and why, and what he can do again to make you wonder that again.
“You did?” he asked, voice hoarse. Tell me more, tell me everything. Tell me every single thought you’ve ever had about me.
“Yeah. Mostly when you eat something I’ve baked. I keep wondering how it would taste on your lips, if it would make it better, sweeter.”
He smiled. “I just had one of your cookies. Want a taste?”
“Can I?” you asked.
Of course. Anything. You could do anything to me.
He nodded.
And then your lips were on his. Tentative at first, always soft. He can feel your hands on your bed, fingers grasping your bed sheets, your shoulders angling towards him, your head tipping slightly back so you could reach him.
And Clark felt like he was reborn. You were the sun and he was the sunflower, chasing the sun rays on your lips and the warmth of your body.
He didn’t know how; he certainly didn’t think it, but somehow you were closer, knees close to his thigh, and his hands were on yours and he’s lifting you gently until you’re straddling his thighs and through it all, the kiss hasn’t been broken once.
He could keep going like this forever, but he knew you needed oxygen.
You were focused like you did on an article when everything else in the world disappeared, and you forgot how to even blink or take a breath.
He broke the kiss reluctantly.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
You took a huge breath. Your pupils were so wide and dark they ate up your irises. Your eyes looked like black holes Clark would willingly get swept into.
“Wow,” you said.
Clark felt the same way he did whenever he helped someone and they looked at him with gratitude. Pride bloomed in his chest. He did that. You liked his kiss so much you forgot how to breathe.
“How was it?” he asked even if he already knew, because he was selfish and greedy and full of himself.
“I got distracted,” you replied. “By your kiss. I forgot to taste my cookie and compare.”
Clark couldn’t keep the smugness out of his face even if he could. “Let’s kiss again,” he offered, like he was doing you a favor. “You can try again.”
