BELLADONNA

From a another multiverse, I’ll belong to them

[garfieldsladybird]

Belladonna. ʚїɞ nineteen. infp-t. bell blog! @ladysbirdy. ‘pass the ganja man. hope your pupils aren’t too dilated [ha]- oh dont mine her, that Jane doe just talks a lot.’

Masterlist. Fic rec’s. Events. Celebrations. Rules. Requesting; Open. Wips. Life updates. Tags.

‎© 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗌𝗅𝖺𝖽y𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽 — my works are not to be plagiarized; copied, translated, or stolen.

[midniqhtt]

CLARK KENT • SUPERMAN RECS SIX .ᐟ

꒰ MASTERLIST I DC I D. CORENSWET I 09/26/25 ꒱

a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ

A: angst F: fluff S: smut C: comfort HC: hurt/comfort

go save the world, i’ll be around I @honeypiehotchner I A + F I You and Clark are childhood best friends, growing up just across the field from one another. When he moves to Metropolis and announces himself as Superman, it causes a rift so large that you aren't sure you'll ever cross it. Until Superman comes home, sick and out of his mind, and only two things can help: sunlight and you.

you hide your injuries from him I @staseras I A + F I you’ve been asking your boyfriend to take down a bookshelf for months, but every time he gets to it, something comes up and the world needs your boyfriend. you decide enough is enough, so you decide to do it yourself. it’s going well until you fall and get hurt, and you hide the injuries from him because you don’t want to worry him. he finds out anyway.

office gossip I @blank-potato I S I You have a big crush on Superman, and the whole office knows it, especially Clark. When you can't seem to stop thinking about him or talking about him, it has you asking yourself (and the office): Is Superman good in bed?

that’s so clark kent I @/blank-potato I F + S

clark is jealous of himself? I @glassmermaids I F

blister in the sun pt2 I @moonlight-prose I F + A I the daily planet was the home of gods in a city you never thought might see your presence. a newspaper that won awards, that held the hearts and minds of the best and brightest to exist. yet your boss handed over a job that only a reporter from gotham could do.

broken down and hungry for your love I @/moonlight-prose I F I a conversation leads to kissing him on his couch until oxygen becomes secondary.

everything is meant to be broken I @/moonlight-prose I A + S I there would be no world in which you could live without him. future where he could exist without you. the both of you were intrinsically tethered. and you found that finding yourself beneath him in his bed was inevitable.

stupid glasses I @snooperzz I F I She hadn’t found out the way that he wanted. Not that he ever really had a plan, but he certainly hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

the dint I @imagines-all-day-everyday I F I when clark kent stumbles into a 24 hour vet clinic with his unconscious side-kick, the last thing he expects to find is maybe the only person in metropolis who can handle krypto. It’s an extra bonus that she’s beautiful too.

12 to 12 I @/imagines-all-day-everday I A + F + ~S I clark forces himself to go to a work party with only one purpose - to find you in the crowd. he has no idea if you want to be found or want to avoid him at all costs. the only problem is, neither do you.

the mystery of love I @rosesaints I F + S I 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it

knowing clark’s coffee order I @/rosesaints I F I clark's no stranger to doing the grunt work around the daily planet.

i’ll crawl home to her I @se7entyrell I F I You and Clark just got married four months ago. That's barely enough time to settle into the house, and your new life. So when you take a pregnancy test in solidarity with your friend, the last thing you're expecting is a positive.

put you in a bodybag or in my bed I @bodhiscurls I A + F I clark kent is your mortal enemy; it's been a constant battle between who's going to get front page privileges and clark always manages to top you with superman. when you both get a little too drunk and repressed feelings rush to the surface- surely it can't be real? how could it be real when you wake up naked in his bed, unsure of how you ended up there? when you've accidentally sent the department the doc you made in a rage listing all the reasons you hate clark kent? it can't be real so why does it hurt so much when he calls it quits- when you cry to superman of all people- when everywhere you go reminds you of him?

cause i can see you I @myladybelle I F I it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you

just a super dog I @idk-imjustanerd I F I Clark is trying to get Krypto acclimated to city life when you unexpectedly knock on his door.

enough for you I @teascorner I A + C I Plagued by insecurities, you can't imagine that Clark Kent would ever return your feelings. After weeks of pining, weeks of feeling your heart break more and more, it all comes to a fever pitch. Can you and Clark work it out?

purpose I @wwinterwitch I F I you get back from work to find clark preparing a little surprise for you

virgin!clark I @audreyownsdiamonds I F I making out with you for the first time

bury the lede I @levanswrites I A + F + S I clark kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. he is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man you know. so when your hard-won article gets pulled without explanation, the softest man in metropolis is suddenly ready to raise quiet, righteous hell. because when something’s wrong, he never lets it slide—especially when it comes to you.

i can see you I @stargazsblog I F I you and clark have been secretly dating for three months. no touching, barley talking at work. so why does it feel like everyone knows?

companion I @murdockparker I F I You were an adult, with adult money. You can buy things that bring you joy! Hopefully your boyfriend never finds out about it.

theory of goodness pt13 pt14 pt15 I @messylxve I F + HC

mornings with you I @writing-for-marvel I F + S I The morning after your first night together, Clark still can’t get enough of you.

i never was the good samaritan I @supershit-hits I A + F I a stupid bet between two coworkers with allegedly opposite morals. if all’s fair in love, war, and corporate life, then who’s willing to be kinder for a month?

the tantrums and the chilling chats, i promise I @/supershit-hits I A + F + C I clark takes a picture of you and it leads you to spiral. the last thing you want is for him to see you crashing out, but he’s determined to be by your side no matter what.

villian!reader pt2 pt3 I @maiamore I S I clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.

metahuman-telepathic!reader pt2 I @/maiamore I S I Clark has to enlist the help of his metahuman ex for an interview.

please? I @/maiamore I S I Jealous!Clark Kent finds his mutant!telepath ex on a date.

girl next door I @/maiamore I S I Clark takes care of his neighbour.

manchild! pt2 I @/maiamore I F I Clark saves the life of one of Lex Luthor's lab techs — but doesn't realise what he does cost her everything.

the ‘yes’ list I @/maiamore I S I You get to fulfil your 'to-fuck' list with Superman.

killshot I @/maiamore I S I Clark Kent scores an interview with Bruce Wayne's infamous sister — you. Except you don't make it easy for him.

to good for me I @lomlsatoru I A + F I everytime you remember your life, clark is always there, and now after everything came crashing down, clark thinks he has loved you from the very start.

blurb I @daenysx I F I you wash clark's hair and praise him until he turns red

all pent up pt2 I @honeybunnyale I A + F + S I Clark has been utterly perfect, smart, kind, cute and witty. But a woman has needs and doubts were starting to lead you to a detrimental decision. A breakup. But this Clark guy shows you that he fucks hard and checks all of your boxes.

the way he waits for you I @danitcx I F I You’ve always been shy. Quiet. Invisible, even. But working at the Daily Planet gave you a badge, a desk… and a seat across from Clark Kent. What starts as silent glances and white chocolate donuts turns into a walk, a bar, a moment —where maybe, just maybe, your heart begins to hope he sees you too.

sue me I @fatherjohnmistake I A + F + S I after a nasty breakup, you find your name plastered on the front page of the daily planet, courtesy of no other than your ex, clark kent.

leftover frosting I @navybrat817 I S I Clark bakes you a cake and has a plan for the leftover frosting

undress I @/navybrat817 I ~S I You put on a little show for Clark.

10 things you hate about clark kent I @bitterballad I S I You had just moved to Metropolis from Gotham after quitting the Gotham Gazette. You thought it would be a breeze. But there's 10 things about your coworker that irk you more than you ever thought.

just clark I @larkandpen I F I You live in the same building as Clark Kent. You think he’s sweet but awkward, he carries your bags, helps you build things, fixes issues in your apartment. You joke he’s “like a superhero” for doing the chores your ex never did, and he panics and runs off

best to you I @sunsburns I F + C I clark loves being superman, though he can be away for hours and sometimes days on end. you tend to miss him more than you admit, and you find comfort in wearing his clothes and... his spare superman suits.

baby, it’s just you I @eupheme I S I the suit stays on

clark’s super secret I @celestiababie I F I In which Clark Kent has to face the truth if he wants to get a good night's sleep...

heartbeat I @maikorian I A I clark adores the little thing about you, now he'll never get to experience them again.

superbanned I @arkofangels I S I After one too many, ahem, “incidents,” the Justice Gang slaps Clark Kent with a temporary sex ban. He promises to behave—until one look and a little teasing from you has him breaking every rule he promised to keep.

kanas anymore pt3 I @junleb I F + A I you're bruce wayne's date to a gala and clark starts feeling under the weather

the one with the broken printer I @heartburriedinvenice I F I the five times in which clark made your head spin and the one time you finally got him back. and it all started with a broken printer.

super shy I @fhrlclln I F I in which you’re trying your best to tell him you like him in your own quiet and shy way but clark kent is an oblivious fool when it comes to these things.

adrenaline junkie!reader I @hexedlover I F

hardly discreet I @hearts4hughes I A + F

drabble I @souliloqui I F I you'd like to hear clark curse.

drabble I @/souliloqui I F I you meet krypto

drabble I @/souliloqui I A I you find out clark's secret.

drabble I @/souliloqui I F + A I a building falls with you beneath it. superman calls out your name despite never having met you.

drabble I @laceyfaeryy I S I clark kent is a big titty lover

superman and ultraman I @idksmtms I A + C

4 + 1 I @beentainted I F + S I four times clark kent almost said he loved you, and the one he actually did.

front page I @yasministration I F I clark doesn't care about anyone's opinion more than yours, so when you flick over to the crossword puzzle without telling him what you thought of his article, he worries for a minute.

a cozy interview I @/yasministration I F I when superman is married to an award winning actress and filmmaker, it's no surprise to see him crashing her interviews, and despite keeping his identity a secret, he doesn't keep his affection for his wife a secret. if anything, he flaunts it.

i’ve got a crush on you I @coquettefrancaise I F I oblivious to your coworker, Clark Kent's, obvious feelings towards you, you spiral in self-pity when he brings you flowers and you chalk it up to him being a good friend

tolerate clark, ignore superman I @catbayunthestoryteller I F

shy!reader I @inkdrinkerworld I F

request I @/inkdrinkerworld I F

drabble I @corensology I S I clark eating reader out

mr. superman for the ladies I @vitoriadior I F I Where you, preschool teacher, get the incredible Superman (aka your boyfriend) to come to your classroom for Jobs and Careers Day.

[tsaheylutales]

could you expand more on the early pregnancy w/ dad!clark? i just know he's so comforting

Corn Flakes

Pairing: Dad!Clark Kent x Mom!Reader

Warnings: mentions of sick, but no one throws up, she's just feeling it <3 clark being the best husband everrr

a/n: Hii! i wrote a little about her struggling with morning sickness, i hope it's okay!! dad!clark requests are still very much open! <3

Edit: I just realised I used your request for a blurb, If this was a prompt for some thoughts I’m sorry! I’d be more than happy to do some more thoughts.

Word count: 567

Dad!Clark Masterlist

“Honey, you need to eat something.” Clark says, rubbing a finger over your knuckles, your hand laid out across the table.

You’re only 8 weeks pregnant, and you’re really struggling. Morning sickness hasn’t just been in the morning. It’s lunch time, dinner time, through the night, at work during meetings and interviews. It’s all day, and it’s really taking a toll on you.

For the last week, it’s been pretty awful, so awful you didn’t go into work on Friday. Clark came in that evening to find you asleep on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a blanket from the bed. 

It’s now Sunday evening, and you haven’t kept anything down since Thursday afternoon. 

You let out a choked sob as Clark pushes the plate of plain toast towards you. You shake your head and push it back, crying as your stomach rolls.

Clark hates seeing you upset, and he feels a lump form in his throat as you let out another sob.

“Baby…” He whispers. “Come on…You need to try, just a little bit.”

“I feel sick.” You croak.

Clark sighs, and moves to grab your whole hand in his, the warmth of his hands attempting to soothe you. “I know, I know…Can’t you just have one bite?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to.”

“Sweetheart-“ He begins.

“Clark! I can’t-I can’t eat it! I can’t do it-“ You sob, tears streaming down your face. Your breathing is frantic, and Clark’s slightly worried you’re going to make yourself ill.

“Okay, okay. We won’t have the toast.” He lulls, pulling the plate away from you. It scraps slightly on the table, and it’s the only thing filling the room besides your crying. 

Clark eases out of his chair, and makes his way round the table. He steps beside you, and brushes your hair away from your clammy forehead. You lean into his touch, and your crying subsides as he pulls your head into his stomach, muttering ‘I’m sorry, honey.’ and, ‘You’re so brave, you know that?’

You sniffle, and grab at his shirt with your hands. 

You don’t know that, and you certainly don’t feel it. You feel miserable, and weak, and so so guilty for not enjoying the pregnancy as much as you should. 

After a while, you lift your head from his stomach, and look up at him through your eyelashes. “Can I have some cereal?…”

Clark looks down, face melting at the sight of you all pouty and flushed. “Of course you can, lovely. What kind?” He asks, brushing a stray tear off your cheek.

“Um…” You hesitate. “Corn flakes?…”

You both know you don’t have corn flakes in the cupboard, and not many shops are open eight o’clock on a Sunday night. 

Clark nods. “Yeah, I can get corn flakes. I’ll be like, two minutes tops. Do you want anything else?” You shake your head. “Okay, just corn flakes.” 

He pauses, leaning down to kiss you on the lips. “I love you.” He whispers. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay.” You murmur. “I love you, too.” 

You lean up for one more kiss, and he gently presses a few before speeding off, your hair blowing and the plate clattering against the table as he leaves.

True to his word, he’s back in one minute, thirty six seconds, and for the rest of the evening, he’s spoon feeding you corn flakes as much as you’d like.

[garfieldsladybird]

i’m actually surprised when people are asking me if there’s a part two for this or if there will be. Or when I make a concept and people want me to write it because me genuinely like my writing is not it and I want it to be it. So I have to make sure it’s like perfect before I even upload it.

[garfieldsladybird]

I don’t know if any of you celebrated but happy belated Fourth of July! happy 250th year of America ig even it’s been around longer! I am American (sadly) but I still love that in my area even though it’s illegal, there was so many illegal fireworks. There was so many it was so beautiful. I had such a great time because I was with all my friends :)

[the-muppet-joker]

Tump dies tonight while giving his speech in the hot hot sun. Like to charge, reblog to cast

[garfieldsladybird]

A betrayal type of love with Clark kent X reader.

where reader has like a huge secret maybe where she works with Lex Luther and he doesn’t know it but she also doesn’t know that he’s Superman. how about that?

and she happens to be the one that maybe makes kryptonite. a synthetic kind or works with it.

maybe she comes home and has just like a little speck of it on her but big enough for it to affect Clark still and he gives her a hug or goes next to her and just feels weak.

and then maybe some lines pop up on his face.

huge plot twist right there for both of them.

[laced-in-ruin]

When your whole family hates each other, go to your nearest dollar general and buy a DVD of superman 2025 and watch it alone in the basement, in your superman pj's. I PROMISE you'll feel better.

[two-white-butterflies]

honeybee

Description: You have an argument with Clark about Superman, of all people. Krypto exposes your boyfriend's secret identity.

Pairing: david-corenswet!clark kent x fashion-editor!reader

(established relationship, secret identities)

The wine-dark sky lapped against the windows of your apartment. 

The light from the neighboring buildings provided your room with ample lighting, as it would otherwise be drowned in darkness. A yawn escapes your mouth as you bury yourself deeper in your sheets; you could hear the air conditioner humming from above you. It sounds like white noise teasing you into sleep. 

It’s been three months since you were last home—there’s nothing better than sleeping in your own bed after a hectic fashion season. 

Your eyelids fluttered, threatening sleep, but you kept them open. 

The smell of bacon and pancakes kept you awake. It was a silent reminder that your boyfriend was busying himself in the kitchen, that Clark was counting on you not to fall asleep. 

I missed this. You yawned again. 

“Dinner’s about to be ready in a few minutes! You better not be sleeping, young lady!” Clark yelled down the hallway. 

“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself. 

Fighting against Hypnos’ tempting embrace proved to be difficult, but for Clark, you’d do anything. You reached for the skies, stretching your limbs. Your hands wrapped around the glass of water that was sitting on the nightstand. You brought it to your lips, taking slow sips, hoping to shake away your tiredness. 

Another yawn escaped your mouth as you pried the sheets off. 

Your feet settled on the carpeted floor. 

You stretched a few more times for good measure before making your way to the kitchen. The sound of the evening news flooded your senses before your eyes settled on Clark. 

In your eyes, there was nobody more perfect than your boyfriend. 

He had a square face, soft baby-blue eyes, and a dimpled smile. He looked like the kind of man that you could trust your drink with—and you did! 

You handed him your drink in a speakeasy before going to the bathroom. You couldn’t find him when you came back, but that was only because you’d never forget a man as handsome as him. 

“That looks good,” you hummed while wrapping your arms around him. Your face was pressed against his back, and you could smell your soap on his body. “And it’s legally called pancake.” He winks. 

“None of that hotcake bullshit we ate in Wyoming?” you giggled. 

“Language,” he warns with the tilt of his head. 

A chuckle escapes your lips as you break free from the embrace. 

You walked towards the fridge, pulling it open as you looked for his favorite orange juice. You always had a fresh batch waiting for him. Unlike your boyfriend, you could only show love in silence. 

“We’re in the middle of Metropolis right now, Jan, where Superman defeated a foreign threat. The Mayor’s Office has confirmed that there are no casualties, but the infrastructural calamities are expected to exceed $10 million.” The reporter continued as she walked in the middle of a destroyed square. 

Clark tenses. 

You continued to pour him a glass of juice, settling the glass beside his plate. You walked to the other side of the counter, settling on the stool parallel to him. The cold steel of your chair felt uncomfortable against your warm calves, but you ignored the sensation. 

“Now, Alexis, when are these repairs expected to be made?” The newscaster asked. 

Your eyes were painted on the television to your side. 

“Jan, Luthorcorp has extended their help in repairing Metropolis. In an interview with Lex Luthor a few moments ago, he alleged that Superman is a planetary threat that must be neutralized and that the damage done to the city should be considered an act of terrorism. Superman is yet to release a statement in response to these accusations.” The reporter answered as the screen flashed Lex Luthor’s petulant face. 

Clark reached for the remote control, turning the TV off. 

“I was watching,” your eyebrows merged. 

He turned around and placed a stack of pancakes on your plate. He added more food to your plate, and you smiled. You already know how this is going to end—you’re not going to finish all of this, and he’ll eat both of your plates. 

“I want your complete and undivided attention.” He pouted. 

“You always do.” Your teeth burrowed into your lower lip. 

He sat on the stool beside you. He tilts his body in your direction. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re more interested in Superman than me,” he shrugs while handing you a fork. 

You mumble a quick thank you before digging into your bacon pancakes. 

“Hm, nope. I don’t trust the guy.” You cut through the pancakes with ease, bringing them to your mouth. "—I know that you've done interviews with him, but he's fishy, babe." You shrugged, discussing the Superhero as if he were a celebrity or a politician.

He forned, as if you had personally offended him.

"How so?" He questions, ignoring his pancakes.

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts without hurting your boyfriend (whom you believed to be a friend of Superman).

"He has all the power in the world, and he decides to do good?" You scoffed, believing that notion to be idiotic. Time and time again, people in power have proven themselves to be corrupt—and those are only people with political power.

Imagine what they'd do if they had the power of a God.

"I don't find that hard to believe," he defends.

A sigh escapes your mouth.

"Not everyone is as kind as you are—if you had his powers, maybe, but I find it hard to believe that an alien from another planet doesn't have ulterior motives." You continued to explain.

"If he had any, we would've known by now." Clark snaps firmly.

"I just don't trust him, okay." You huffed.

He's acting weird. You thought while glancing at his features.

He was glaring at his pancakes, deep in thought.

You place a hand on his thigh. He moves your hand away.

His phone buzzes—you glance and see that it's a message from Jimmy.

wish u were here, we having mad fun w/o u 🤪

"I have to go," he places his fork down.

"I thought you were gonna stay for movie night?" You pouted.

"I got a work emergency." He lies—but you don't push it.

"Oh, okay." You nod, leaning towards him for a goodbye kiss, but he just dashes away to reach his coat. "Bye!" He glances over his shoulder to flash you a smile, but you don't reply.

Good morning. I'm at work now. Hope you have a great day!

You stared at Clark's message.

Normally, he'd send you paragraphs with a minimum of three images.

Good morning 🥰 have a great day im here with phoebe today i might drop by your apartment later

You replied.

"Are you okay?" Phoebe asks while aiming her camera at you.

You nod your head, placing your phone inside your pocket. "I'm sorry that you have to do this," you apologized. She probably felt offended at photographing a 'lifestyle celebrity' when she mostly meddled in the city's serious affairs. Has Superman not saved anybody yet?

"Please, you're the most photogenic person I've ever shot—you go before Superman." She compliments, earning a smile from you.

Fuck Superman. You thought about your 'argument' with Clark.

You never thought of him as the kind of person who worshipped the ground of a superhero, but then again, Superman is his close friend. Clark is the only person who's able to get the hero's statement. To him, it was probably like bersmirching Jimmy or Lois' name.

"Have you ever had trouble in paradise, Phebes?" You asked.

"Never been to paradise, but I've had my fair share of ex-boyfriends." She chuckles, taking a couple of shots as you pose in different ways. Your photos were going to be in the September issue of Tattle—not the cover, of course not—and your father has always warned you not to be in Tattle but the magazine would be good for business.

"Democrat girlfriend, piece of shit boyfriend." She jokes.

"It's nothing drastic. I just disagreed with Clark about something, and he's acting so weird about it." You explained to your close friend.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You never disagree with Clark about anything," she points out.

"Just this one thing. I can't help but think there's more to it. I mean, he basically bolted off the moment we talked about it," you hummed.

"Is it a personal thing or...?" She asks.

"No, uh, just politics, or rather just a political figure." You remained vague, and she nodded.

"It's Superman, isn't it?" Phoebe asks, and you nod.

"Just talk it out. Superman is a polarizing figure—Clark is a journalist, and I bet he knows how to practice discernment." She advised, and your lips pressed into a thin line. She basically just described what you were planning to do next.

Your keys jangled as you twisted the lock to Clark's apartment door.

"Clark?" You called out—only to be greeted by silence.

You sat on the sofa, Clark's scent lingered on the pillows.

You were just about to reach for your phone, but the sound of claws scratching against a wooden door caught your attention. "Hello?" you called out once more, and the door to Clark's bedroom burst open. Before you were able to get another word in, a fuzzy piece of white flew in your direction. Yes. Flew.

Arf. Arf.

The dog barked as your back pressed into the soft mattress—as if he were aware that your bones were softer than his—he began to lick you. "Uh, where did you come from?" You placed a hand on his head, softly moving him away from your body.

"Did you just fly at me?" You asked, praying to God that your eyes were just playing tricks on you.

The dog barks and lifts itself off the floor.

"What the fuck," you cursed, and the dog tilted his head.

The dog twirled around a few times before flying towards the kitchen cupboards, where, conveniently, there was dog food.

You reach for your phone once more—hoping to send a message to Clark, but your phone suddenly turns off.

Shit, I forgot to charge. You cursed.

"Doggie, stay." You glanced at the flying dog before bolting towards Clark's bedroom. The dog, uncaring about your command, flew behind you, almost bumping into the wall.

Your eyes darted across the dog's bed, which had his name, 'Krypto,' and landed on Clark's nightstand. You opened the drawer, searching for his charger, but your gaze landed on Superman's UNDERWEAR. Yeah, the one that he wears on the outside.

The gears on your head began to turn.

The missed calls. His cousin, who looked a lot like Supergirl, who was allegedly partying in Ibiza. His sudden offense at your accusations towards Superman. Not to mention the flying dog behind you.

Fuck. Your boyfriend is Superman.

With a deep breath, you sat on his bed—as if on autopilot, you plugged your phone into the charger, and it flashed the charging icon.

"Woah," you stared at the wall.

Krypto sits on his bed, watching you with a confused stare.

He flies in your direction and settles beside your feet. He gives you a few blinks before rolling to show you his belly—begging for rubs.

Your phone opens and pings uncontrollably.

You can't go to my apartment today. I'm getting it exterminated. I got termites. Those wood eating insects. I'll go to your apartment.

You glanced at Clark's messages. "Too late," you mumbled. You glided off his bed and settled on the floor—rubbing Krypto's belly a few times.

You missed a call (65).

You could hear the apartment door open from down the hallway. Krypto doesn't bother standing up, comfortable with your pets. It makes perfect sense. You thought about it.

But still, you didn't know whether to believe your hypothesis.

Clark says your name as he bolts down the hallway, almost bumping into the wall (like what Krypto almost did a few minutes ago).

"Hey," you glanced at him from over your shoulder, and he took a step forward. He glanced at the bed, seeing his underwear lying around.

"I can explain," he takes another step forward.

"You should admit the truth—or it'll just look weird since you have Superman's underwear lying around." You kept your face neutral, still in shock over the revelation.

Krypto barks at the sound of his voice and flies towards Clark—knocking your boyfriend off balance. "Krypto, stop! No!" Clark scolded while standing up. Krypto continued to nibble on his calves.

"You are Superman, right?" You asked with certainty.

"Yes," Clark doesn't lie.

You stand up and face him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" You interrogated.

"I don't want you to get hurt." He walks around his bed, dragging Krypto with him as he stands in front of you. "Is that why you escaped from me last night?" You asked, and he reached for your hands. "Yes," he admits. "—It hurt hearing those words out of your mouth, like I was nobody, and I never want to be a stranger to you." He continues with a sigh.

He avoids looking at his underwear for the meantime.

"I'm just trying to be a good person. I didn't ask to have these powers; I don't know what to do with them, but I promise that I don't have ulterior motives. I just want to help people." He explains himself.

"I'm sorry for being such a pessimist," you apologized.

"No—I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I'm sorry that I had to get caught for you to know." He apologizes too.

"But I didn't know, babe. I didn't know that he was you, or you are you."

There was a moment of silence between you, only broken by a few barks from Krypto. Clark stares deeply into your features, searching for traces of doubt or mistrust, but he sees nothing but admiration.

You are silent for another minute before your eyes meet and a laugh escapes your lips.

His eyebrows furrowed.

"What?" He asks.

"It's just that—this is all too unreal." You answered with another chuckle. You pressed a kiss to his cheek. "—but I'm glad that you're Superman, 'cuz you're the best person in the entire world." You smiled, gaining your composure. "—and you have no dictatorial tendencies."

You made your way down the hallway, presumably to take out the food you ordered from Clark's favorite place.

Krypto flies towards the bed and begins to gnaw on Clark's underwear.

"Krypto, no! Don't do that!" Clark pulls the dog in his direction with a sigh.

A/N: my first dc fic after being a marvel girl for 6 years 😭.

[suprbrat]

good graces l clark kent

clark kent x reader oneshot

summary ; when all the pressure of clark’s double life gets too much, he ends up taking it out on you.

tags : fem!reader, angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, groveling

wc : 5.8k

cw : NOT PROOFREAD, lack of capitalisation, wrong uses of periods and comas, girl idk i do this in my free time i’m no writer

a/n : jesus christ i forgot this was my drafts y’all! lmaoooooo. i’m wrapping up superman summer with this fic. a palate cleanser and a little break from the andrew series lol. i don’t know how to feel about this one, but i hope you like it. i listened to a los of sabrina carpenter when writing this, feel welcome to do the same. my asks are open if you want to chat, give me constructive criticism or have any ideas or requests in mind. remember to treat people with kindness, because that’s the real punk rock!

your friendship with clark kent is something that feels like breathing. easy and natural. you started working at the daily planet around a year and a half ago, where you met this big, clumsy man. a nerd trapped inside the body of a bodybuilder.

entering the building you feel your nerves getting the best of you. thundering heart against your ribs and clammy hands, biting your lip.

the loudness of the place, the frantic pace and the coffee smell was a lot to take in at once, but you took it like a champ…or so you thought.

you don’t last more than two minutes before you turn your heel and accidentally bump into a- wall!? no it cannot be a wall, it’s far too soft to be concrete.

you feel a pair of arms grabbing your arms, stabilising you

“golly! i’m sorry didn’t see you there”

the way you tilt your head back is almost comical, i mean the man is huge! you don’t say anything just stare with wide eyes, trying to make sense of what just happened.

your way of staring is not very subtle. you study every inch of this man’s face. his jet black hair, the way a curl falls over his face like someone had put it there on purpose, his pink cheeks and bright blue eyes covered by those black frames. the way his lip tilts with an apologetic smile. this guy is gorgeous. and that’s an understatement.

before you can say anything, someone is already talking for you.

“you’re scaring the new hire, kent” at the sound of a woman’s voice you finally tear your eyes off his face.

you are met with another pair of blue eyes, but this girl wasn’t as tall as the behemoth of a man than you had just encountered. the deep purple cardigan she was wearing made her feature pop.

she offers her hand, which you quickly shake. “i’m lois lane, this is clark-“ she say as she point that the man in front of you “-i’ll show you around”

“oh- thank you!” you reply, still shaky.

lois shows you around the bullpen, she tells you a little bit about her- well now your- coworkers. jimmy, cat, steve, clark.

“the one that almost pushed you into oblivion is clark. don’t be scared, he’s the kindest guy i know- which gets annoying at times- but don’t let his size fool you. he’s a big softie” you nod in understanding.

at the end of the tour, she drops you off at your new cubicle, in which you spend your entire first day setting up.

at the end of the workday you pack your things, ready to just get a nice, warm shower and go to bed. until a voice interrupts your thoughts.

“hey! i’m sorry for bumping into you earlier. i can get very clumsy at times” you could tell he was flustered.

it was so interesting and captivating seeing such a big and obviously strong man (i mean the way his shirt hugs his arms is insane???) being so flustered and…soft?

“oh don’t even worry about it. i’m just glad i didn’t run into a wall or something” you say as non chalant as you possible can.

“i’m still sorry. how do you take your coffee by the way?” your eyebrows furrow instantly at the question, but you answer it anyway.

“well um….i usually just go for an iced latte” you’re met with silence and a quizzical look.

“all year around?”

“yeah?…i mean im pretty hot all the time, no matter the season, so iced is usually my go to” you didn’t realise your choice of words until you say the deep red shade of his cheeks.

“OH- NO! i didn’t mean it like that i meant that my body temperature-“

“it’s okay, i understood what you said it’s just your choice of words that took me by surprise”

you just smile awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

“well i guess ill see you tomorrow then, miss..?” you fill out the blank space with your last name, which is met with a nod from his side.

“see you tomorrow, kent”

next morning

you were running late thanks to superman. of course he had to destroy the red line last night, making you late for your second day on the job.

you practically run to work. on top of being new and nervous, now you were also sweaty and frazzled.

you push the doors of the bullpen and quickly make your way to your cubicle. you stop in your tracks. there was a transparent plastic cup, filled with a soft brown liquid and ice. condescension running down the cup. a yellow post-it on your desk, next to the cup.

“sorry for yesterday i hope you like it

-c.k”

you look up, in hopes of making eye contact with the person you were hoping for, but he was already looking your way, with that beautiful smile of his.

‘thank you’ you mouth to him

‘no problem’ he mouths back, leaving you with a dimpled smile.

since that day you and clark have been really good friends. the friendship growing deeper, softer and stronger by the day. every shared secret, every shared meal, all those late nights at the bullpen. it all led you to a dead end street. you don’t know where those innocent feelings flowered into something more, something that you could no longer control. 

the type of feelings that make your stomach turn every time he smiles at you and. the type of feelings that makes you look for him in a crowded room. the type of feelings that makes you gravitate towards him. 

you have tried to make those feelings go away. dating apps, blind dates, but everything failed. everything failed because you constantly comparing the guys from the dating apps and the blind dates to clark. thinking “clark would never do that” or “clark would've done xyz instead”. so instead of taking your mind off clark, it just made you think more of him. 

you like teasing him. the way he turns red is quite amusing. you think that he’s just shy and incredibly susceptible to your banter, but everybody else knows that isn’t the case. 

his entire existence is an oxymoron. a tall man with huge muscles that are noticeable even through his blaze and a mess of black curls on top of his head. one single curl always falling on his forehead like a domino. you think that’s insane, being that hot and nice? almost like he’s from a different planet. 

today is just an average day at the daily planet headquarters. two hours into the workday you lean on clark’s desk, as usual. you noticed the dark circles around his eyes and the unusual slouch on his shoulder when he came in this morning, so you walked over to his desk trying to cheer him up, but you see that jimmy had the same idea as you

 “i mean, come on man! how are you single? you’re like perfect” jimmy exclaimed with a knowing smirk on his face. 

clark doesn’t look up. just clicks something on his computer screen a little harder than necessary. jimmy ignores that, of course. “come on, man, don’t give me that. you’re massive — in the way that makes people trip over their own words. that whole farmboy charm? that’s like crack for half the women in this office.”

you see it — the way clark’s jaw clenches, ever so slightly. the way his shoulders stiffen just enough to tell you that today might not be the day for jokes.

“it’s actually astonishing really- “i have my flaws, you just don’t see them because you’re too focused on the good ones” he said, trying his best to not trip over his own words. eyes still focused on the screen in front of him. he was tired, the night before hadn’t been easy. fighting that creature took a toll on him. any other day he would've recovered in the blink of an eye, but today was a gray day, which means that the sunlight was covered by the clouds. he wasn’t trying to brush you off, not at all. he just didn’t know how to behave, even less now when his energy was so low.

“well-” you said, standing straight, ready to make your way back to your desk. “i think you’re a great guy, your girl will come soon enough” a giggle escaping your lips. before he could reply, you started making your way across the office. turning your head you make eye contact with lois. a knowing smirk painted on her face after listening to your interaction with clark. you winked back. 

-

an hour after your little banter break with clark, you saw him walk out of perry’s office. his brows were furrowed and his steps were faster and heavier than usual. worried, you walked over to the coffee station where he was making his fourth cup of the day. his movements were frazzled and aggressive. “woah, is everything okay?” you murmured. a strained “i’m fine” came out of his lips. you were not gonna give up, and he knew that. you leaned closer, trying to not attract attention to yourselves. “hey if you need something i’m here, you know that” that caught his attention, only responding with a stiff nod. and with that, a gentle pat on his arm and a soft smile you left him alone. 

halfway to your cubicle you hear lois. “hey what’s up with him?” she asks with worry lingering in her voice “i don’t know, i’m gonna give him space. he’s probably just tired” lois nodded, understanding. “hey we’re going to o’clubs afterwork, just a couple drinks with it being friday and all. you should come! i think clark is coming” she said, wiggling her brows and giving a you knowing smirk. pushing her arm playfully you replied. “shut up-” a smile drawn on your lips “but yeah sure. i mean i don’t have any plans so” dragging the “o” sound in the end. “great!” she replied, full smile this time “see ya there”. 

-

five hours later that’s where you found yourself. sitting by the end of a table at the pub around the corner with a vodka cranberry in hand. you all sat on a big table, clark sitting on the other end, right across from you. you made eye contact from time to time. sometimes he would just give you a lazy smile, other a knowing nod. you would smile back.

the bar was crowded. people flowing in and out of the bar. you could tell most of them came for afterwork drink, just like you. the smell of beer and fast bar food lingering in the air along with loud laughs and the sound of the different television broadcasting sports games and news channels. 

after a while you see him stand up, making his way to the bar. you figured he was getting a refill. looking down to your drink, you figured you could use one too. 

turning to your left, you lean to lois and speak in her ear “i’m getting another one, do you need anything?” lois didn’t reply, she just shakes her head with a smile on her face. she is definitely tipsy. 

with that, you stand up from the table, making your way to clark. leaning on the the counter you tell your order to the bartender, and quickly turn to face clark. this part of the bar wasn’t as loud as where the tables were situated, so you didn’t need to scream someone’s ear off. “how are you holding on?” you blurt out, trying to sound cheery when in reality you were worried. i mean you were good friends? you felt a tug on your heart at the thought that maybe clark felt like he couldn’t talk to anyone. but you were there! he could talk to you about anything! and yet he didn’t. maybe he got heartbroken by a secret girlfriend no one knows he has and he is too uncomfortable to tell you anything about it because the only thing you do with him is banter. just the thought of it makes jealousy run through your veins.

another strained “i’m fine” came out of him. his voice was deeper than usual. maybe he was sick? “are you sick? you don’t look fine to me, clark. i think you should see a doctor or maybe talk to some-” you didn’t finish that sentence because the unthinkable happened. 

“I SAID I’M FINE! DIDN’T YOUR HEAR ME THE FIRST TIME?” you had never seen clark scream at anyone, much less at you. you flinch at the loud voice, fear taking over your body. a cold shiver running down your spine. you take a step back, shame washing over you “i-i’m sorry clark i was just worried about you- “I said I’m fine! God! not everything is about you, you know? Not everything needs your constant hovering, your… neediness.” 

that word. neediness. it felt like a slap. it landed hard. your stomach dropped, you take. a big step back. you immediately feel the lump in your throat and the sting in your eyes and the way your heartbeat started rising up. unbeknownst to you, clark could hear it. he could hear and feel the way your your heart started thrumming against your ribs and the sudden change of temperature. 

he could practically smell the fear, the humiliation he had caused. and in that moment he’d realize what he’d done. how deep he’d cut. and that pretty much did it, he crashed back to earth. 

he took it out on you. he turned the tiredness from the night before, the frustration over perry’s tantrum, into a white hot ball and threw it at you. you! the last person that deserved any of that. all you had done was check in on him, trying to cheer him up after taking one single look at his tired face. 

and you knew that. you knew that his treatment was far from deserved. whether you had been annoying or not, it doesn't fall on you! he has a mouth which he could have used during one of the MANY times you annoyed with with your “unimportant things" to let you know that he needed space. but he never did. and now you were here. at o’clubs with a yelling clark kent in front of you. one moment he was red and screaming, the next he looked white as a sheet. 

“jesus, i-i’m sorry you didn’t deserve that-” you quickly cut him off. your sadness shifting into something stronger. something like anger. “damn right i didn’t” your voice is cold. cutting. you turn around, leaving him dumbfounded leaning on the counter. you didn’t even wait for the drink. you couldn’t be around him right now. 

making your way over to the table, you felt a sting starting to form tears in your eyes. you had to get out of here before anyone could notice the shift of atmosphere. lois took a look at you, trying to gather your things”. 

“hey, hey, hey! what’s going on? what happened?” your face and teary eyes sobered her right up. “it’s nothing- i’m just tired im gonna go home” you said, your throat was starting to give up on your. “do you want me to come with you?-” you pause “what? no! you’re having a great time. i’m fine. really! i’ll see you on monday” you said, straining a smile from your lips. with an understanding smile she just nodded. 

clark scanned the crowd, but you were already out the door. and it was his fault. he. ouldn’t stay there. he needed to get out. the crowd, the smell, the remorse. everything. it was eating him from the inside out. 

after a couple rounds of half assed goodbyes, he tried to walk away from the table to make his way to the exit, a slap on his arm stopped him. turning around he found a very angry looking lois. “what the fuck did you do, clark?” he opened his mouth but was quickly cut off “she was crying you know that? she tried to hide it but she was crying! you’re lucky you’re a big man because i would hand your ass over to you if i could.” with a finger pointing at his chest she said “you better fix this, kent.” and with that she turned around and walked back to the table, as if nothing had happened. 

later that night, clark will lay on his bed. wishing he could rewind, wishing he could turn back time to a different time where he hadn’t screamed at you. a time where he hadn’t taken out his feelings on the wrong person. the person that cares about him, that always tries to cheer him up. a person that he probably lost. you.

clark doesn’t sleep that night. his mind too full of regret, of remorse and sadness. anger at himself, anger at the world. it wasn’t often he felt that way. but he did now, the difference is that he doesn’t have you to feel better this time. 

across the city, your night was no better. you tossed and turned under the covers, unable to sleep, unable to rest. nothing worked. not music, not journaling, not the cold side of the pillow.

because this didn’t feel like any old argument.

this felt like heartbreak.

the daily planet bullpen. monday, 07:45

you don’t expect to see clark already seated at his desk. he was early. he’s never early. 

you tear your eyes off him, quickly making your way to your desk. you stop in your tracks. a beautiful iced latte sitting on your desk. yellow post it sticked next to it, but there wasn’t a corny note this time. 

“im sorry for yesterday” 

you didn’t need a signature to know who it was from. you feel his burning gaze from across the bullpen. you don’t look up. you don’t smile. you don’t walk over to his desk and bother him with your neediness. instead? you take the note and the drink, walk over to the trashcan and dispose both of them. i can buy my own damn coffee. was it petty? yes. was it necessary? absolutely. 

what you don’t see is that is not only one se of eyes fixed on you. there’s three sets of eyes following your every movement. clark, jimmy and lois. 

their eyes widen at he sight of you throwing it all in the trash. 

“i know that’s right” mumbles lois, earning a glare from clark. jimmy just lets out a dramatic exhale along with a “wow. i’m so happy i’m not clark kent right now” giving him a pat on the shoulder and getting back to work. 

the morning drags. you keep yourself busy, trying to tune everything out. drowning yourself in work. your inbox was full, so that wasn’t a problem. 

last minute edits, quick revisions, a short meeting. you don’t even realise it’s lunch time until you come back from your meeting. your favourite sandwich sitting on our desk. a napkin sitting next to it, something scribbled on it. 

“i know this doesn’t fix anything, but i thought you might be hungry. -ck”

you end up gifting it to cat, not wanting anything to do with it. 

monday passes by, and so does tuesday. 

wednesday stays the same. a coffee sits on your desk, 

then a sandwich at lunch time. on friday you get a bag of those chips you like. you gave everything away every time. your coffees were given to the overworked interns, your sandwiches to cat or daisy, the receptionist. the chips were gladly received by steve. on thursday when you got a donut from the bakery down the street, you handed it over to jimmy. 

clark never said much, but he looked. he looked for a reaction, for an emotion, something. but you were not gonna give him the pleasure. keeping a poker face every time. 

this would be so much easier if he weren’t so..clark-like. this wouldn be so much easier if he were cruel and rude. if he yelled and left it there. but no- he had to go around giving apologies in form of caffeine and sandwiches, sweet notes and puppy eyes. 

so after a whole week of nonsense, you know you have to make him stop. you don’t even stop by your desk, you don’t want to risk seeing another perfect latte with some fucking post it signed by “c.k”. no, you walk over to hid desk instead. 

this takes everyone by surprise, everyone being lois, clark and jimmy. 

“we need to talk” you huff out. 

he looks up from his screen, his eyes are wide. not bothering to hide the shock on his face. 

“uh- yeah! yeah sure” you give him an expecting look “wha- now?”

“yes, kent. now” you never called him by his last name. his heart beat started accelerating. he stands up from his chair, following you into the break room, not before look back to lois and jimmy. both giving him pity looks. “it was nice knowing you, clark” says jimmy, earning a slap on the arm from lois. 

thankfully the break room was empty.

once the door shuts behind you, you cross your arms and turn to him.

he stands awkwardly by the counter, like he’s not sure whether to apologize or brace for impact.

“okay,” he says, voice quiet. “i’m listening.”

you let the silence hang for a beat too long.

then, flatly:

“you need to stop.”

his brows pull together. “stop what?”

“the notes. the drinks. the food. the lingering looks across the bullpen. i don’t want it.”

you watch the words hit him like cold water. he swallows once, hard.

“i get it. you feel guilty, and you’re trying to make it up to me” you swallow, trying to keep yourself together. trying not to break. “but you can stop now. we’re coworkers, and i guess i forgot about that when i talked your ear off about my personal stuff and my neediness” you feel you heart start to ache, but you keep going “you don’t need to pretend that you like me anymore, you’ve made yourself very clear. i won’t bother you anymore, just please stop with the gifts”

clark’s expression is…utterly confused. “what do you mean “coworkers”? we’re more than that” but you start shaking your head “no clark, it was one sided, i thought we were but i guess i read your kent friendliness for something more. you don’t have to pretend anymore. it’s fine, i’m a big girl i can take it” you see the way he shakes his head as he makes your way over to you. 

“no! stop doing that!-“

“doing what? i’m not doing anything. i’m just respecting your boundaries” 

“stop, you’re forgetting the part where i didn’t mean it. i didn’t mean when i said you were needy. i would never think that about you” 

“it’s fine clark really, let’s just not make it awkward. it’s bad enough as it is.” he opens his mouth but nothing comes out. 

“let’s just get back to work, but please stop with the gifts. it’s fine”

before he can say anything out, you slip out of the room. at your desk you find the coffee that he left that morning, before you dragged him into the break room. you give it over to agnes, the intern of the month. 

-

the gifts didn’t stop. they just changed. 

instead of lattes every morning and sandwiches appearing magically by lunch time, you were gifted notes. 

on monday it was a simple “i miss you, i’m sorry”

tuesday “you’re more than a coworker to me, i hope you know that” 

wednesday “i didn’t mean to hurt you” 

by thursday you were losing your goddamn mind. the notes caused you to lose focus. which is why you ended up staying late on thursday, trying to finish up your upcoming article. 

you’re the last one in the bullpen, or so you think. your screen glows pale, you’ve been staring at the same paragraph for- at least- ten minutes.

you don’t notice her, until she speaks. “you need to get yourselves out of this misery” you glance up searching for the source of the voice, catching lois leaning on the side of your cubicle. 

“excuse me?” 

“look, if he had said to me what he said to you, i would’ve dragged him by the tie across the bullpen, you know that. but i think we’re past that, don’t you think?”

“he hurt me, lois” 

“yes he did, and he shows up everyday, coming up with new ways to show you how sorry he is. he shows up everyday, leaving notes and whatnot on your desk, begging for you to hear him. he’s not even asking for redemption. he’s asking you to hear him out.”

“i did hear him out-“

“no you didn’t. you are trying to come up with new ways to avoid getting hurt again, i know you more than you think” you stare in disbelief, she keeps going “there's nothing else he can do, he can’t go back in time and fix what he did. he has done his part, it’s time you do yours. i know you are trying to push him away, but we both know that’s not what you want or need. you’re hurting him too” 

“i’ll say one last thing, it’ll clear the air. i’m not justifying his actions, but he would’ve never lashed out that way unless something really wrong had happened” 

the words wash over you, like a cold bucket of water. “shit” you whisper to yourself. you need to make things right, you need to at least hear him out. 

“i gotta go” you say, turning off your monitor and gathering your belongings as fast as you can. 

“atta girl, see you tomorrow. i want to know every detail!” lois basically screams after you. 

you don’t even bother taking the metro, you catch a cab, telling him clark’s address. 

the drive is quick. you make yourself known to the door man and run up the stairs. you don’t even wait for the elevator. 

you huff and puff as you knock on his door. silence.

you knock again. nothing. 

you press your ear to the door for a second. nothing.

but just as you’re about to step back, defeated- you hear movement.

finally you call off him. “clark? i know you’re home!” 

and then you did something you shouldn’t have, but you would end up being grateful you did. you grab the door handle and slowly twist it. the door was open. of course. 

you step in, leaving your coat and bag by the door, ready in case he kicked you out. “clark? i know you’re in here!” you keep walking towards the living room, and then you see a body laying in the sofa. it started stirring. “oh god. i’m so sorry did i wake you? i’ll lea-“

you stop. 

you stop dead in your tracks. 

because it wasn’t clark kent laying on that sofa, it was fucking superman. 

“superman?” you keep walking closer, curiosity getting the bets of you. 

you blink hard. once. twice. was it the lighting? were you just sleep deprived or was stress staring to make you crazy? but it was unmistakable. the suit cringed perfectly to his body, the red cape serving him as a blanket. 

he kept stirring, and the he opened his eyes. your brows furrowed. because those eyes belonged to clark. you quickly put two and two together. 

“wait- clark?” that completely wakes him, wide eyes trying to make sense of what was happening. 

“darn it- you weren’t supposed to find out this way-“

“you-you’re superman?” 

he looked defeated, didn’t even try to out you a fight. 

“yeah..”

“you’re superman? and you’re also clark?” 

“kind of- yes” 

you start to put the pieces together. the late mornings, the frazzled looks, the constant cancellations. clark kent is superman. 

you’re frozen. “holy shit” he stands from the couch, suit and all. he walks closer to you, slow steps. trying to test the waters. 

“are you..scared?”

“what? no i’m just- i came over to apologise and i didn’t expect to find superman-“

“wait- apologise?”

he’s standing now, fully awake, cape dragging slightly on the floor. the version of him you thought only existed on front pages and emergency broadcasts is now right in front of you… barefoot, hair messy from the couch pillow, voice laced with disbelief.

you nod, still trying to catch up to your own thoughts. “yeah. i mean, that was the plan before this happened—” you gesture vaguely toward his glowing chest emblem. “i had a whole speech, actually.”

“oh.” his voice is soft. he looks a little dazed, like he just remembered he’s in the room too.

“but now i feel like i’m the one who owes you about seventeen more apologies. or… at least a drink. or maybe a sedative, because this is a lot, clark.”

he huffs out a short laugh. it sounds tired. “tell me about it.”

you stay silent for a moment. “why didn’t you tell me? we could’ve talked about it, you know?”

he looks down “i know. but i was scared, it hard enough for me to be around you as clark kent, i didn’t want to mess up as superman too”

you are taken aback “why is it hard for you to be around me?”

he looks up, he looks into your eyes “it was easier pretending it was all one-sided. safer. if you didn’t really know me- all of me- you couldn’t really reject me. and i could keep orbiting you without ever crashing.”

“clark…” your voice is soft now. something in your chest aches.

“but then i crashed, and i took it out on you. i was tired and overwhelmed, and you were there being the sweet and caring person that you are and i just- exploded” 

your eyes soften. this big man, with the weight of the world in his shoulders looked like a kicked puppy. 

“i’ve been trying to fix it. i’m not expecting forgiveness, but i do hope that you can understand that i didn’t meant what i said to you that night.” you eyes starts to sting “i cannot stand the thought that you might go around thinking that i find you annoying or needy, because i don’t”

“when you said we were ‘only’ coworkers, it hurt me because you’re not ‘just a coworker’ to me, not just a friend either” you heart rises higher  and higher. he takes a step closer. “i love you, not in a friendly way. every time you sleep over i can only think about how it would be to sleep next you every night. to feel you stir at night and have your body next to mine. or how a slow morning would look like. i know this sounds silly because maybe you don’t even feel the same, and i’ve just ruined whatever was left of this friendship beyond repair but-“ 

“you haven’t” you feel your heart pounding against your chest, and now you are aware than he can probably hear it too. 

your voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s enough. his eyes flicker with hope, but he doesn’t speak. he waits. you take a slow step forward.

“you didn’t ruin anything, clark.” you pause, trying to steady your breath. “i was angry. i am angry. but not just because of what you said- i was angry because i care about you so much it scared me. i didn’t know what to do with that.”

you look up at him, letting the truth sit heavy in the room. “and i’ve been trying to convince myself that you didn’t care. that you were just being… you. kind. clark. but every time i told myself that, it felt wrong. and when you kept showing up- with coffee, and notes, and dumb snacks- i couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

you keep going. “you said it was easier pretending. i get that. it was easier pretending for me too. but i don’t want easy anymore.”

“what do you want?” he asks. a whisper, brittle and vulnerable. 

you don’t answer him. not with words anyway. you stretch your hand, caressing his cheek, your other hand grabbing the back of his neck, softly. bringing him down to you. 

you kiss him. it’s soft and innocent. vulnerable. the kiss sears for itself, saying those things you’re still afraid to put into words. 

you feel the way his hand sneak around your waist, pulling you closer. tongues clashing. the kiss transform into something deeper. it’s hungry, making up for the time wasted. 

finally you pull away, looking him in the eye. he’s awestruck. his lips are bruised from the kiss, his cheeks flushed. 

“well-“ you say “that’s one way to clear the air” you smirk, teasing him. 

that smile that you’ve missed so much appears on his face. dimples and all. 

you stand there for a moment, arms around each other, letting the stillness settle between you- not heavy, not tense. just full. like something cracked open and finally, finally let light in.

“so… what now?” he asks, quieter this time. “do we just… go back? to the newsroom, to our desks, to pretending we didn’t almost fall apart?”

you shake your head. “no pretending. not anymore. we’ll figure it out- one step at a time.”

he smiles. and it’s so clark. that soft, earnest curve of his mouth that feels like home. 

leaning into him again, your voice soft. “i’m glad i came.”

“me too,” he says. “even if you broke into my apartment.”

“door was unlocked.”

“still broke in.”

you kiss him again, just briefly. “whatever, hannah montana.”

the next morning. the daily planet bullpen 7:55

you step into the bullpen, iced latte in hand. this time, you bought it yourself. making your way over to your desk you feel a presence behind you, sneaking up on you. 

you sit down on your desk, clark lays on your desk as you unpack your things. 

“good morning, kent” smirk on your face. you catch the way lois’s neck almost breaks because of how fast she looks up. 

“good morning” he says smiling. he leans down, close to your ear “lunch later?” which earns him a wink and a nod from you. 

as he walks back to his desk, you see lois and jimmy scurrying over to yours. “okay. what was that?” hisses jimmy. 

before you’re able to answer lois speaks up “did you take my advice?”

“what advice? why does no one ever tell me anything?” 

“shut up, jimmy” both you and lois say in unison. 

finally you speak up. “there’s nothing to say. can’t people flirt with their coworkers anymore?”

jimmys eyes widen like saucers “are you out of your mind?” lois just laughs, playing along. 

“yeah, jimmy! don’t you flirt with cat like- every chance you get?” remarks lois. 

“whatever” he mumbles. 

from his desk, clark can hear the entire conversation, smiling to himself. 

so down bad for this man y’all 💔

[garfieldsladybird]

i forgot if there is anger involved in a fic, i get angry.

[sacrfcialambs]

Someone said this could be a representation of missing persons cases slowly being forgotten about over the course of time, and that’s genius to me

[dismalflo]

ten weeks total

Clark Kent x shy!reader ✩ 5k words

summary: it takes ten weeks for clark kent and a shy, touch starved, you to fall in love. (or, 4 times clark touches you and 1 time you touch him.)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week one

The Daily Planet only seems to employ lovely, outgoing people. You're convinced of it. 

You don't know how or why they hired you after meeting some of the people here. Maybe your interview self had somehow managed to make you seem like you’d fit right for that thirty minutes.

Whatever happened, they hired you anyway. 

For the past week you’ve tried so hard to settle in. To put yourself out there a bit more. It hasn’t helped much.

There's some faulty wiring in your brain, you're sure, that makes you awful and awkward and idiotic around people you don't know. And right now, you don't know anyone. At work or in metropolis as a whole. 

Cat Grant has tried no less than five times to strike up a conversation with you. Which is nice of her and horrible for you. Every attempt leaves you fumbling through responses and replaying every part of it in your head for hours afterward.

To avoid inflicting your shyness on anyone else, you've got into the routine of taking lunch late. By the time you head to the breakroom. Most people have already finished theirs up.

With your head shoved so far into the refrigerator you might as well be looking for the opening of another reality in the back of it, you squint at the shelves. Where the hell is your cherry soda? You know you set it right next to your lunch box so it can’t have gone far. Unless someone took it. But putting it next to your lunch box kind of implies–

“Hey!”

You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.

“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”

You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.

You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.

Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots. 

There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.

“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.” 

You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.

“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”

He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.

“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”

You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply. 

Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent. 

“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”

His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before. 

“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”

Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!

“Was it cherry?”

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”

You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.

When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.

It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.

Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week three

Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.

Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.

At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.

Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.

Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.

 As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.

He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.

 “Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.

Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.

“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.

He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.

“Can I walk you home?”

What is going on?

“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”

You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.

For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.

The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.

It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.

And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.

What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.

“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.” 

Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?” 

He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed. 

“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.

Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.

“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.

It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”

You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.

You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.

“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”

You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building. 

You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.

“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest. 

“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.” 

When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.

This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week five

The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..

Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late? 

Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.

You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward. 

“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”

“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”

As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.

It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair. 

“You look really nice, honey.” 

That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.

“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.

Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”

“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”

As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not. 

Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question. “Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”

There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.

It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.

“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…” 

You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”

Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary. “You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”

You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.

“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”

The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all. 

“Yeah, right.”

“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.” Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning. 

By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.

It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.

“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”

Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice. “Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.” 

The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.

The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“Thank you.” you say quietly.

Clark shakes his head almost immediately.

“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”

Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.

This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week seven

When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?

The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.

 It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy. 

With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–

There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now. 

You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.

The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.

“...For me?”

The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.

“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”

“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”

Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.

“They made me think of you when I saw them.”

Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.

Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.

You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase. 

When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again. 

“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”

You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.

“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”

Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt. 

“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”

“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie. 

When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.

“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”

His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.

“That is relaxing to me.”

“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.” 

“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”

Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.

“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.” 

“Including you.”

All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.

The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you. 

“Oh no.”

You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand. 

The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.

“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”

Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right. 

“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.” 

“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.” 

It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.

“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.

The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides. 

One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.

It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week ten

Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.

He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.

You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain. 

Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically. 

You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.

Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.

“Whats wrong?” he asks.

It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.

His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”

That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.

Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.

There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.

There's no pain in his kiss, only joy.

[garfieldsladybird]

guys Clark still doesn’t own a couch in the Supergirl movie. I’m just saying this guy does not own a couch.

[garfieldsladybird]

I hate the mommy kink trend right now like no. no. no.

[myladybelle]

‘cause i can see you

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong! word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3) note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x

masterlist

You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.

But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.

Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.

Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased. 

Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films. 

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism. 

Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.

Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”

Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke. 

“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you. 

You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet. 

You were still new.

Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.

Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead. 

“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.

You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”

Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve. 

Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.

He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”

“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.

When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you. 

You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.

You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural. 

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing. 

You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.

There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.

It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.

You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.

Maybe.

The office changed at night. 

Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet. 

You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.

He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges. 

Almost like a different person entirely. 

You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes. 

Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway. 

“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.

Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.

He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm. 

Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look. 

“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback. 

It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely. 

Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered. 

Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.

The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.

“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.

His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.

Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”

“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement. 

“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper. 

You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.

You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet. 

Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.

He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.

His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.

You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”

“I thought you liked being late.”

He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”

You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”

“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.

“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.

Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.

You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance. 

His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors. 

He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless. 

And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone. 

Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.

You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.

Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.

That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.

“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”

“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard. 

“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”

You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.

Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”

“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”

He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”

That caught you off guard.

Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”

The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.

You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard. 

Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”

Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”

He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out. 

You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.

You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.

It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.

And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength. 

Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist. 

The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.

“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”

You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”

Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview. 

And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??

You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.

For now.

You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.

Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.

In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C

You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.

The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.

But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”

Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.

Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.

Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.

Until now.

You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.

You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention. 

This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.

This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.

Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.

Something had changed, and you liked it.

Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.

Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.

Clark Kent? Superman?

You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.

You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.

A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.

Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.

You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.

Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.

Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.

By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.

“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”

The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.

You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.

For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different. 

Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.

Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.

Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”

You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”

Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”

You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.

Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”

“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”

You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”

“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”

Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point. 

Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.

Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You blinked, amused. “What?”

“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”

Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”

You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk. 

Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”

You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”

His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.

“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.

And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.

You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.

You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator. 

You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end. 

Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen. 

So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.

Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.

It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.

You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.

You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.

“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”

A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”

Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. 

You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?

Except no, they didn’t. 

You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.

You stared back at the screen.

Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.

You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.

What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—

That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.

Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”

And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.

You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth. 

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.

You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.

Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.

Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark? 

You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.

Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.

Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.

He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.

There was no way they were the same person.

You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.

That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.

You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.

Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.

Unless that was the point.

You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.

You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.

You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.

You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.

And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.

The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.

Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.

The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.

Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself. 

Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city. 

You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.

What exactly were you doing?

You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark. 

Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.

You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.

But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.

And yet.

When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.

Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.

You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.

The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.

Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable. 

You flinched, braced for impact.

But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.

There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.

Nothing so much as grazed you. 

When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you. 

Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.

Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you. 

You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.

You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”

Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.

When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.

Superman was right in front of you.

“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.

Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.

You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system. 

You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.

Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.

But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen. 

The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.

It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.

And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.

Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly. 

But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark. 

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”

“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.

Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”

He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.

Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.

God.

You were losing it.

Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks. 

He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.

Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.

“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently. 

Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.

You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.

The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.

But you knew. You knew.

Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.

This was real.

Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.

The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.

Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.

And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.

You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins. 

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.

The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.

Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere. 

While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.

You glanced up.

Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into. 

It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.

Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark. 

There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose. 

Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.

You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.

Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.

It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.

You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message. 

You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.

Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask? 

The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.

Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to. 

Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.

You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.

Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual. 

There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard. 

The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.

You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.

It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.

This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.

He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.

“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.

You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.

You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.

“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”

You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”

You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it. 

You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence. 

How could the same man feel so different?

Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.

Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.

Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.

Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”

You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”

You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes. 

Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.

Your breath caught.

Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

Still unmistakably Clark Kent. 

And Superman.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”

Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.

It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before. 

It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.

Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.

“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.

He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you. 

“They’re supposed to—”

You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”

Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”

The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.

You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss. 

His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.

“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”

Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”

Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.

“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”

You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”

Clark’s expression faltered.

“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”

“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”

He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.

“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”

You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”

His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”

“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”

“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”

You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”

Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out. 

Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours. 

Clark Kent loved you.

“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”

You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.

“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”

His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?” 

You nodded before your words could betray you.

Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”

Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark. 

He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.

In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”

You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.

The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.

There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.

You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.

It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.

“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”

Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”

Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.

The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips. 

Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.

Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.

Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another. 

The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric. 

You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.

It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman. 

Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”

Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.

You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.

You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”

And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners. 

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.

The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.

In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.

At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.

“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.

Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.

It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.

You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.

And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.

Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.

Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.

“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.

Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.

“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.

You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.

Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.

The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.

Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.

You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.

Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.

“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.

He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.

“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.

Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.

It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”

Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.

Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.

“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”

Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.

You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.

As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.

“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.

Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.

Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.

Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator. 

Everything was back to normal.

Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.

note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭

[teascorner]

enough for you // clark kent x reader

masterlist

Plagued by insecurities, you can't imagine that Clark Kent would ever return your feelings. After weeks of pining, weeks of feeling your heart break more and more, it all comes to a fever pitch. Can you and Clark work it out?

Warnings: swearing, drinking, angst, very vague mentions of smut(like so vague), reader is insecure, Clark is a nervous wreck.

a/n: ahhh my first post!!! this is unbetaed, and only somewhat proofread. contains gratuitous use of em-dashes, ye be warned.

wc: 2549

It didn’t take long for you to realize just how perfect Clark Kent was. 

It started off with the little details. The way he brought coffee and snacks to everyone in the office, how he never hesitated to help someone with an article, and how he offered genuine, thoughtful advice without any expectations of reciprocity. How he made a point to listen, really listen, to what someone was saying, and committed to making them feel seen. On most other people, it would feel performative—a masquerade, concealing something darker. With Clark, it was natural, innately him, and so authentic that it made your heart swell. 

After working with him for a few months and going from colleagues to friends, that esteem shifted to something sweeter. Respect became admiration. Admiration became reverence. 

You almost didn’t notice the change in your feelings; it happened so gradually, until one frantic Monday morning. A busy weekend had you running late, and as you darted through the cubicles at The Daily Planet, you and Clark slammed into one another, coffee cups and loose papers flying. Hot coffee drenched your front, plastering your silky blouse to your skin. The stinging pain of hot coffee on your skin was replaced with amusement when you heard Clark exclaim, “Oh, fudge!” 

That, and the way that he instinctively reached out towards your chest, barely brushing his large hands over the dripping fabric of your top, so close to your skin, before remembering himself and pulling away. As he stammered his way through apologies, a bloom of color covering his cheeks, you realized just how handsome he was when he blushed. You also realized you had never heard an actual swear word pass his lips. It wasn’t anything world-shaking; plenty of people didn’t curse, but something about it solidified your opinion of Clark’s inherent goodness. 

It also made you realize how out of your league he was. 

After that, you took note of how he avoided your eyes when you and Jimmy joked around, trading poorly concealed innuendos in the bullpen. How, when you swore or told a crude story, his face flushed, and he went quiet. 

The real breaking point came a few weeks later, at Lois’ birthday celebration. You’d taken the opportunity to dress up a little nicer than usual, wearing a new outfit that showed off much more than your typical office get-up. You looked good, and you felt good too. Jimmy whistled when you stepped up to the group, taking your hand and twirling you around playfully. 

“Damn girl! Clark’s gonna lose it when he sees you.” 

“What does that mean?” You asked, unable to decipher Jimmy’s tone of voice. He was already a few drinks in, and his words were slurred. 

Jimmy let out an uncharacteristic giggle and shrugged coyly. “I’m just saying, that outfit might upset his…delicate sensibilities.” 

Before you could press for more information, Jimmy was distracted by the song playing over the speakers and dragging Lois into a dance. It wasn’t long before Clark showed up, and to your dismay, he didn’t even greet you. Clark was always willing to chat when you were out together with the group, and his sudden distance was perplexing. 

It wasn’t until you caught him looking at your outfit from across the room, with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, that Jimmy’s earlier remark came back to you. Was Clark offended by your outfit? Despite yourself, your earlier confidence shriveled. You’d never been the type to care what anyone else thought of you, and who cared what a man had to say about your clothes? But still, you were disappointed and embarrassed that once again, you weren’t good enough for Clark Kent. 

After far too many drinks, your happy buzz began to veer towards sloppy inebriation. You decided to call it a night before you could embarrass yourself even more. You quietly said your goodbyes, then stepped out to the curb to wait for your Uber. You were too in your head to notice Clark's attentive gaze on you through the windows of the bar, making sure that you got into your Uber safely. 

Thoughts swirling, you once again reflected on the idea that your bad mouth, skimpy clothes, and overall impropriety had to be something of a turnoff for guys like Clark. You were too crass, too dogmatic, too…you. And though Clark had never given any real indication that he looked poorly upon you or your personality, recollections of previous partners lamenting your indecency flashed through your mind, and something in you shattered. The harsh slap of reality overrode the feelings that you’d been nursing for months at that point. 

It was ridiculous. You knew that Clark was too good for you, but something about that night, that moment, made it impossible to ignore.

Clark Kent wasn’t going to fall for a woman like you. Ever. 

Since that night, you had pulled back, locking your feelings away in a cage and shoving them into a dark, empty corner of your heart. You tried ignoring how your heart fluttered when Clark’s fingers brushed yours as he handed you a cup of coffee(doctored to your taste perfectly, even though you’d never told him how you liked it). Tried to push aside the way that your stomach flipped and twisted into knots when he grinned, or God forbid, when he beamed, his dimples coming out in full force. 

Every smile, every thoughtful gesture, every word that Clark spoke to you threatened to unleash everything you had tried so hard to conceal. 

So, to spare yourself, and Clark, the trouble of your inconvenient emotions, you started avoiding him. At least as much as you could avoid someone you worked with, someone whose friends were also your friends, someone who, no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t cut off completely. 

You didn’t think that Clark noticed the difference in your behavior, or even cared about it. If anything, you thought, he was probably relieved that he didn’t have to deal with you anymore. You never noticed the way his eyes would follow you, a small furrow between his brows every time you kept your distance from him. You never noticed how much he cared about anything you said or did. Until that night. The night. 

You and the Daily Planet crew were all at Jimmy’s apartment. A Friday night happy hour gathering that turned into even more drinks back at Jimmy’s had left you a bit tipsy. You were on the sofa, barefoot and giggly, talking to Cat about a recent date you’d gone on. It was nothing special, just a guy from Hinge who was cute and interesting enough to warrant an evening of your attention. You didn’t mention that if you squinted, he sort of, vaguely bore a resemblance to Clark. Several drinks had left you uninhibited, and you gave Cat more detail than you might’ve otherwise, especially in mixed company. As you recounted the date, particularly the sordid details of what happened after, you made eye contact with Clark. He was sitting across the room, hands clenched around his drink, eyes locked on yours, displaying an emotion you didn’t recognize. You hadn’t thought you were talking that loud, but if the look on Clark's face was any indication, he’d heard every word you said. Shame burned in your gut, and you swiftly changed the subject, trying to forget the look in his eyes. 

It was ridiculous. You were a grown woman. You can do, say, and dress however you’d like. If you want to wear skimpy clothes or hook up with guys from dating apps, you have every right to do that. 

There was just something about Clark, though, that made you want to impress him. Be good enough for him. It was exhausting and terrifying all at once. 

You couldn’t make it more than 5 minutes before making your excuses to leave Jimmy’s, citing a headache as you grabbed your purse and pulled on your shoes. As you slipped out the front door, the one voice you didn’t want to hear called out to you. 

“I’ll walk you home,” Clark stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. You simply sighed and kept walking, keeping your eyes focused on the ground. You told yourself it was because you were tipsy and you needed to focus on your steps. But you knew that it was really because, if you looked at him, you would break down. You didn’t acknowledge his presence, ignoring the warmth of his body as you walked down the block together, his sleeves occasionally brushing against yours, the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and smooth that clouded your senses, ignoring all of it to the point of distraction, a crack in the sidewalk sending you plummeting towards the ground. 

Before you could fall, however, Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back upright. You looked up at him, the streetlights casting his face in shadows. 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice kind despite it all. Another round of mortification coursed through your veins. He must’ve thought you were such a wreck. 

“M’fine,” you muttered, quickly pulling away from his grasp. As you started to walk again, Clark grabbed your hand in his own. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

All the air rushed from your lungs, your eyes welling up at the sound of his voice. He sounded so genuinely sincere, so remorseful without cause. Even though it was all your fault, of course Clark—poor, sweet Clark—would find a way to blame himself. 

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Your response came out strangled, weighed down by months of suppressed sentiments and insecurities. 

“Then why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you look at me—I mean, really look at me?” His gentle hold on your wrist released, his hand moving instead to your chin, tilting your face toward his own. 

The tears fell without permission, streaming down your face with a vengeance. Maybe it was the pleading look in his eyes, and his soft words imploring you to open up to him. Maybe it was the drinks you’d consumed. Maybe it was simply exhaustion. Exhaustion from spending all that time pretending you weren’t totally gone for this man. Whatever it was, you knew you had to tell him something—anything. 

“I just—I don’t want you to hate me,” you choked out, keeping your eyes downcast. 

“Why on earth would I hate you?” He asked you so earnestly, as if the mere idea of Clark Kent hating anyone was inconceivable. Another wave of tears streamed down your face, only to be gently brushed away by Clark’s calloused thumb. “I could never hate you,” he said simply, “and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”

You took a moment to collect yourself, to find the words to explain. 

“I just—you’re so good, Clark. Truly, genuinely good. Sometimes when I’m around you, I feel like a total wreck. I’m not like you. I barely have my shit together—and even though it shouldn’t matter, I care way too much about what you think of me. Fuck—I just want you to respect me. I want you to like me the same way that I like you.” 

Clark’s eyes are wide, and his voice is soft when he speaks. 

“You think I don’t respect you?” 

He takes your silence as an answer and places both hands on your face. “Sweetheart, I’m flattered that you think I have my shit together. But I can promise you, I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing half the time. And I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, if I’ve ever made you feel like I don’t respect you. Because I do. So much. And if you like me even half as much as I like you, then I’m a lucky man.” 

“Oh.” No other words would come out; you were struck speechless. Was he saying what you thought he was? “I just thought—”

“Thought what, sweetheart?” His gentle tone encourages you to open up, to tell him what has you so shaken.

“Well—when we were at Lois’ birthday celebration, you looked like you hated what I was wearing. Like it was too slutty or something. You didn’t talk to me, you barely even looked at me. And tonight, when I was talking to Cat about hooking up with that guy—it seemed like you were put off by it.”

As you say it, you feel absolutely pathetic. Never before had you cared about male validation, yet here you were: practically begging Clark Kent to hold you in high regard. His hands leave your face and clench at his sides as he looks down at the ground. 

“The only reason why I didn’t talk to you at Lois’ party was because I knew I’d make a fool of myself if I tried. I didn’t hate what you wore, I loved it. I just knew that if I spoke to you, if I even let myself look at you for too long, I would only embarrass myself. And yeah, I was a bit put off when I heard you talking about that guy earlier. But not because I was judging you. Because I was jealous.” 

“You were jealous?” You ask, struck dumb by his words. 

Clark only nods, still looking at the ground. Even under the dim streetlights, you can see the flush creeping across his cheeks. 

“Clark, look at me.” 

He does, and now it’s your turn to hold his cheeks in your palms. For a moment, you both just look at one another, your eyes conveying everything you’re both too overwhelmed to say. You let your gaze dip down to his mouth, hoping that he’ll understand what you want—what you need. Of course, he understands, and finally, Clark Kent leans down and presses his lips to yours. 

It’s everything that a first kiss should be. Actually—it’s even more. 

You both lose yourselves in the moment, pulling each other tighter like you just can’t get close enough. It isn’t until a car alarm goes off down the street that you separate. Clark rests his forehead on yours, and for a second, you both just breathe, trading warm breaths in the cold night air. 

“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” Clark says. Then, he presses a trail of whisper-soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your chin. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter. Like I didn’t—don’t think the world of you.” 

All you can do is nod, pressing your own kiss to his shoulder as you pull him into a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I was feeling,” you tell him, “I let my insecurities get in the way.”

You know it’s not perfect. That this is just a start, and there’s so much more that you have to talk about. But for now, in this moment, it’s enough. 

It’s enough for Clark to finish walking you home. Enough for him to press another kiss to your mouth, lingering just a second too long—like he doesn’t want to stop. Enough for you to fall asleep to thoughts of Clark Kent, a smile on your face.

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