You and Cortis keep ending up in the same cities. You're in Europe? they’re there too. Asia? they’re there too. Same arenas, same cities, always just missing each other by timing. But the fans? Oh, they notice everything. It starts as jokes, threads, coincidences stacking a little too perfectly. Until one day, same arena, same time, you leave something behind and somehow it ends up with Cortis. When Seonghyeon casually flashes it on live? the fans don't just connect the dots—they decide this was never a coincidence to begin with.
Why can't you say that you want it too? I'm flyin' intercontinental with you!!
📞 idol!seonghyeon x popstar!reader, written+smau, profanity, angst, rumors, fluff, kys jokes, mental stress, burn out, ib by stateside, crack, corny jokes, sorta slowburn, yns artist profile is pinkpantheress
When you accidentally leave something backstage and when Seonghyeon picks it up, he doesn’t just keep it—he shows it off on live, calling it his ‘new & hot find.’ So what happens when fans finally figure out who it actually belongs to?
🎶 stateside by pinkpantheress
Status -> completed
🎤 series taglist closed.
iro's notes: based off of stateside becus YES IM STILL OBSSESED WITH THAT SONG
SYNOPSIS you and seonghyeon have been best friends for so long that no one remembers a version of you without the other. you fight like siblings, compete over everything, and live by one very clear rule never befriend the enemy. teasing him is your favorite hobby. denying everything is his. he insists there’s nothing romantic between you. never has been. never will be. he especially hates when people joke about it because maybe if he rolls his eyes hard enough, the weird feeling in his chest will go away. it works for a short while until you start getting closer to the one person he can’t stand. It’s easy to tell himself that he doesn’t care. it’s harder when he realizes someone else is taking his place besides you and seonghyeon has never been good at losing.
seonghyeon x reader — smau, ft. woojin+louis from lngshot+ ella from meovv+iroha from illit frenemies to lovers, profanity, kys jokes, teen being teens, seonghyeon is easily ragebaited, huge denials (slow burn??),misunderstang&miscommunication, purely fiction!
→ this is lowk inspired by my ex situationship (yo run it back frr👀) guys i’ll be committed to updating this one deadahh, the posting schedule might be all over the place tho. taglist is open! but BOII WE LITTT🔥🔥
summary: four times you and Clark didn't ruin your friendship, and the one time you did.
pairing: female reader x clark kent
warnings/tags: mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, coming of age, lowkey kinda cheating implied but not really? it's in a high school 'relationship' context, fluff, angst, mentions of alcohol and reader gets drunkkkk, swearing, a family pet passes away in this so pls be mindful!!!
notes: I think this is my fave fic I've written for Clark so far, go me. This song is one of my favourites off life of a showgirl, Taylor always gets me in my feels. Hope you all enjoy :)
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
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masterlist
one
You remembered the first time you saw Clark differently.
You had just turned ten, and it was school camp. You sat in the car, peering out at the monotony, your fingers danced on the sill of the car door as you drove under a grey overpass.
The September rain made the grass glisten, like tiny diamonds twinkling back at you.
Your mum had dropped you off, loaded you up with your sleeping bag and snacks, pressing I love yous and have funs into your youthful skin.
You stood there resembling a packing mule, waving her off as she reluctantly reversed out of the car park. You were doing what kids do, putting on a brave face and trying not to let her see how nervous you were, but like all parents, she knew.
Your smile dropped the second she rounded the corner. Your backpack suddenly too heavy, the back of your knees slicked with sweat.
Then you saw him.
Clark Kent, your best friend since first grade. As reliable as the sun rising and setting, he was always there next to you. A part of you. Like your shadow.
He was leaning against the trunk of a tree, his camping gear discarded at his feet, like he had been waiting a while. He was wearing a vest that was miles too big for him, a baseball cap concealing his mop of curls.
His smile widened at the sight of you, like it stretched for miles.
You felt it then, the way the beat of your heart jumped erratically. Your stomach flipping, anxiety curdling in your bones. You didn’t quite understand what it meant in that moment.
“You excited?” He beamed at you as you approached him.
“Yeah, the quad biking looks awesome.” He loaded his stuff up onto his spindly shoulders, grabbing one of yours off you before you could say anything.
“Mum bought me snacks, I reckon we eat them after dinner in our tent.”
“Boys and girls can’t share tents.” You both turned to see your classmate Susie Jenkins appear around the tree, a gaggle of her loyal followers behind her. She crossed her arms over her tiny body, her eyes gleaming.
“Why not?” Clark’s forehead furrowed in confusion.
The girls looked at eachother and giggled. “You might do things, like k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”
Your nose scrunched up, “why would we do that?”
Kissing was gross. Only adults like your parents kissed. Or in Disney movies.
“Because that’s what boys and girls do when they like like each other.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, like she knew everything there was to know about feelings. Maybe she did, she was two months older, which in the mind of a ten year old might as well have been decades.
Your cheeks grew crimson at the accusation. You dared a glance at Clark to see him growing a similar shade.
“We don’t like like eachother.” You snapped back quickly in defence of both of you.
The girls giggled again and exchanged looks, like they knew something you didn’t.
“Come on, we're playing cops and robbers!” A boy from your class ran past, shouting at the top of his lungs as he tried to rally as many kids as he could.
The girls' attentions shifted in the blink of an eye. Playing with the boys was much more interesting than teasing the two of you.
“You and Clark are going to be k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” Susie sing songed, sticking her tongue out at the both of you before scampering off to join the flock.
You and Clark stood still for a moment, the red slowing draining from your cheeks under the autumn sun.
“That was stupid.”
“Very.” You agreed quickly.
“Anyway.” Clark shrugged. “You want to share snacks tonight?”
You paused, Susie’s words still ringing in your ears.
“Maybe- maybe we shouldn’t share a tent." You suggested, twirling a strand of your hair between your fingers as you avoided his gaze. "We don't want everyone thinking we like like each other, right?"
A look your young brain hadn't learnt to decipher flashed across his features, before settling into one you did know. Disappointment.
You felt it then, something shifted between you two. Like a coat of your innocence had been permanently stripped away. Looking back, you guessed it was because it was the first time you'd been put in a gender shaped box and Clark had been put in a different one.
"Yeah, maybe that's a good idea."
You looked up at him. Your stomach did that strange flipping thing again, like it couldn't decide if it was nervous or excited, or both.
"Come on, I'll help you set your stuff up."
You watched him curiously as he hauled your bags up onto his shoulders. Boys were very annoying. And had germs. Clark was a boy, yes, yet he’d always been the exception. But you'd never felt anything like this before when you'd looked at him.
He looked over his shoulder at you and shot you a grin, "you coming or what?"
A thought popped into your head as you smiled back at him, one that left you rethinking your whole world view.
The thought that maybe kissing wouldn't be that gross...depending on the person.
two
The wooden floors of Smallville High's gymnasium had been polished so aggressively that you could see your reflection in them.
The aging hall had been decked out with streamers and balloons. An old disco ball twirled half heartedly in the centre, casting everything in cheap neon hews of pinks and purples.
The air conditioning puttered weakly, trying to unsuccessfully cope with the mass of teenage bodies clustered together.
Beads of sweat pilled at the base of your skull. Your wilted corsage dangled from your wrist as you wrapped your arms around the nape of your date’s neck.
“I know I’ve said it like a hundred times, but you look really pretty.”
You giggled as you mumbled your thanks, averting your gaze as your cheeks flushed.
Over your date's right shoulder you caught a glimpse of him.
He was already looking at you.
He had always been taller than the other boys, a mess of gangly limbs and black curls. But as he stood there in his tux he somehow looked even larger, heroic even, a Clark shaped diamond in the rough of acne-ridden hormonal teenagers.
You had caught him off guard, not giving him enough time to hide the raw cut of his features. You noted the tick of his jaw under the disco light, the crease of his brow, the look in his eyes that - if you wanted to be hopeful and perhaps delusional - you would say looked something like longing.
It happened so quickly you thought you might have imagined it. You blinked and his features had gone neutral, like he'd slipped a mask on. He shot you a grin from across the dance floor before slipping back into the crowd of creased tuxedos and poofy dresses.
"You ok?"
You hadn't realised you'd been staring. You looked back up at your date. Owen McIntyre, the Smallville High quarterback, sweet, respectful.
Not Clark.
The reminder was like an unexpected smack in the face. The room suddenly felt far too crowded.
"Um- yeah it's just hot in here."
His face pinched with the perfect amount of concern. "Do you want me to go get you a drink?"
"Thank you but I think I might just pop out and grab some air." You squeezed his arm gently, as if it might soften the blow. "I'll be right back, I promise."
"Ok." He nodded, "I'll be here." You felt flushed with guilt as you shot him one last smile before leaving him in the middle of the dance floor. The pink sparkles of your dress winked back at you from the wood as you moved.
The cool spring air was a welcome relief on your skin as you slipped outside. The music and laughter of your classmates faded into a dull roar behind you. You picked up your dress and descended down the back steps towards the football field.
He turned lazily to face you, almost like he knew you would find him out here. Perhaps he did, you both always seemed to find your way back to one another.
"Needed a break too?"
"It's like a sauna in there." You complained as you sat down on the bench beside him, internally praying that your dress wouldn't get marks all over it.
"I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did."
He watched as you kicked off your heels, planting your throbbing feet on the dewy grass. You sighed, tipping your head back as you let the breeze blow through you.
"I can fly to yours and grab you another pair of shoes."
"Thank you but these ones go best with my dress and unfortunately beauty is pain. Besides aren't you meant to only be using your powers at the farm?"
He shrugged. "What Ma and Pa don't know won't hurt them."
You shot him a bemused smirk before letting your eyes flutter shut. "Since when were you such a rebel?"
"Blame yourself. Ma always said you were a bad influence."
You snorted at that, "nice try. That woman adores me."
"That's true." He admitted softly, your closed eyes giving him a chance to admire you freely. "You're having a good time?"
"Yeah I am."
"And Owen he's-" You peaked one eye open at that to see Clark looking at you like he half regretted even opening his mouth.
"Owen is behaving himself don't worry." You teased him. "Very gentlemanly...for a football player."
He chuckled at that, although his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"That's good. You deserve it."
You ignored the way your heart fluttered at that. You'd become a master at it, pushing those feelings deep down into a little box and throwing away the key.
"Susie looks like she's enjoying herself." Another thing you'd mastered. Deflection, distraction.
"Yeah I think she's having fun."
You snorted at that, making Clark jerk his head to look at you, a ghost of a smirk threatening to twist up onto his lips. "What?"
"Nothing it's just- I can't believe you're going steady with Susie Jenkins of all people."
The tips of his ears turned pink. "Susie's nice." He protested. "And we spend a lot of time together."
"No I get it, all those late nights working on the next issue of the Smallville High Chronicle or the debate club, it's romantic stuff, I mean who wouldn't fall in love?"
You laughed as he lightly shoved your shoulder playfully. You swung back his way, nudging his ribs.
"If that's your way of telling me I need to take her on a proper date, don't worry I'm working on it."
Your stomach felt familiarly nauseous at that.
"Also like you can talk." His eyes met yours once more. "The quarterback and the head cheerleader? Talk about predictable."
His words weren't designed to hurt, but they did, hitting you square in the chest. Another reminder of the stark differences between you and him, the rift between you that you felt deepen more and more everyday.
You did well at school sure, but Clark? He was one of the best and brightest. Chess club, science fair, debate club - he did it all. Alongside Susie Jenkins. They made perfect sense on paper, hell even when you saw them walk down the halls you had to admit to yourself that they looked like the perfect couple. Like their photos belonged side by side in the 'most likely to succeed' section of your yearbook.
There'd been a part of you that had hoped he might ask you to prom, that you could fall back on the promise you'd both made when you started high school. The promise that if you didn't have dates, you'd go with eachother.
But then he started holding Susie's hand in the hallway and sitting with her at lunch. So when Owen asked you, what else were you to do other than say yes?
"Alright fair play Kent." You raised your hands up in mock surrender. "Touche."
A heartbeat passed between the two of you, just enough silence to make you genuinely laugh at the way Clark delivered his next words so incredulously.
"And who says going steady anymore?"
He watched you as you laughed, memorising the way your mouth split open, the way the corner of your eyes crinkled.
"I do. Trust me, I'm bringing it back."
He knew you had no idea how true that statement actually was. That you could make any phrase you wanted a trend. He saw what you didn't. The way others orbited around you, hanging onto your every word. The longing glances the boys shot you in the hallway, and the envious ones the girls made behind your back.
If you hadn't been friends since childhood, would you even spare him a glance? You probably would, because you were, well, you. The kindest, most generous person Clark had ever met.
His heart hammered traitorously in his chest as you casually leant your head on his shoulder, your eyes fixed on the constellations hanging above you. He supposed there was one perk of living out in the country. You let out a cute yawn. Ok, two perks.
"Should we go on a double date?" The words blurted out before he could stop them. Like his brain was trying to remind him that you both were indeed here with other dates.
You pulled your head off his shoulder to look up at him in disbelief. "Why on earth would we do that? Susie hates my guts."
"She does not!"
You raised a brow sceptically. "She doesn't exactly try to quieten her voice when she calls cheerleaders 'brainless bimbos' during gym."
Ok, you might sort of have a point. Susie did kind of hate you. But it wasn't because you were a cheerleader. It was because Clark had accidentally let slip that he was thinking of asking you to prom one night while the two of them had been working on the paper together.
In Clark's defence, they hadn't even really gone on a date yet when he said it. But Susie had kept that locked in the unbreakable vault that was her brain and had never let him forget it.
It was a stupid idea anyway. The second he had heard Owen talking about his plan to ask you to prom with his football friends, he'd completely scrapped it. You were you, Owen was Owen and Clark was Clark. You deserved to go with someone like Owen, headstrong and equally as dynamic and adored. They might as well have already handed out your crowns for prom king and queen.
Thankfully, the faint hum of a familiar song spared him from having to respond to you.
You sat up excitedly, "I thought Eric specifically banned the Mighty Crabjoys from the prom playlist?"
Clark shrugged, unable to hide the smile on his face at your excitement. "Guess he changed his mind."
You didn't need to know that Clark had bribed Eric from chess club and also the DJ for the evening with the offer of doing his homework for the rest of the semester to get him to play this song just for you.
He rose to his feet, trying to fight the tremors in his hands.
"Would you-" He swallowed down his nerves. "Would you like to dance?"
Your attention was fixed on him then. A slow smile spread across your lips as you looked up from his extended hand to his face. "Thought you'd never ask Kent."
Clark felt like he was floating in that moment.
You must have been a sight. The two of you awkwardly twirling around on the field, your grass stained bare feet stepping clumsily on his boots, your head tipped back as you laughed.
You weren't exactly sure when the song had ended. But even when you realised that it had, neither of you made an attempt to move.
You suddenly became painfully aware of his hands on your hips, the feeling of his hair at the nape of his neck curled around your fingers.
"You're beautiful."
You weren't sure if he'd meant to say it out loud. He said it so quietly, bordering on reverently. In that moment, you knew that no one had ever looked at you like that before and perhaps they wouldn't ever again.
You knew in that moment that if you kissed him right now, you were almost certain that he would kiss you back. It would be inconvenient, messy, but possibly the best mistake you could make.
But then you thought about Susie and Owen, the look on your parents' faces if things didn't work out. The fact that you were pretty sure your heart would give out if he rejected you, or even worse, if you lost him as your best friend.
You could tell he sensed it was coming by the way his hands stiffened at your waist and his face hardened ever so slightly, like he was bracing for impact.
"We should probably head back inside."
"Yeah." He nodded. You felt empty without the weight of his hands on you.
You watched as he knelt down to pick up your shoes.
"Um- there's something I have to tell you." You tentatively took your heels from him, clutching them against your chest as you waited for him to keep speaking.
"I found out today that I got a full ride to UM."
You blinked as you processed his words.
"Like as in, a scholarship? For journalism?"
He nodded, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.
"Oh my god Clark!" You shrieked as you jumped on him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
Whatever moment you'd just shared was discarded, lying next to your heels abandoned once again on the freshly mowed grass. Right now you were back to being just the two best friends that you always had been.
He chuckled into your hair, catching you with ease as he squeezed you back.
"I can't believe this! Why didn't you tell me!" You exclaimed as he placed you down gently.
"I wanted to wait for the right moment."
"I'm so happy for you. You deserve this so much." It was true, for as long as you could remember Clark had dreamed of going to the University of Metropolis, he had a banner hanging up in his room for crying out loud.
"I can't believe you're going to be living in Metropolis."
"I know, going to need to start looking into insurance policies."
It wasn't lost on you in that moment what this meant. You'd applied for a bunch of colleges, but none were in Metropolis. In a few short months the two of you would be the furthest apart that you'd ever been. You couldn't imagine it, what your daily life would look like without Clark Kent in it.
You realised it then as you looked up at him. He wasn’t your shadow, he was your sun.
You forced a smile onto your face. "Well, sounds like you’re going to be needing to invest in a good foldout sofa."
three
It was a Wednesday and you had just gotten back from class when your phone rang. You glanced down to see your mum’s face staring back at you.
You were running late for your shift at the liquor store. Usually in these circumstances you would just let it ring out, figuring if it was particularly urgent she would call you again. But some inexplicable force tugged at you, making you press accept.
“Hi mum.”
“Hi honey.”
You froze at her somber tone. Your mum was never somber, she was practically a walking ray of sunshine. The last time she'd been this serious was when she had to break the news that she hadn't had time to bake a pumkin pie for thanksgiving.
“Is everything ok?”
You heard your mum let out a small sigh. “I just wanted to call to let you know that… well honey, Daisy passed away.”
You slowly took a seat on the edge of your bed. "Oh."
“You know she was nearly 20 which is an extraordinarily long life for a dairy cow and-“
“When did she uh- when did she pass?”
“A few days ago. It was very peaceful.” She reassured you.
Your mind reeled.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner I just know how busy you are with classes and work and I thought maybe Clark would have told you so-"
"No that's ok Clark didn’t tell me, we um-" You bit the inside of your cheek. "We haven't talked in a little bit."
"Oh, I see." You could hear it in your mum's voice, the way she was fighting to hold herself back from asking if you were ok and if something had happened between the two of you.
The truth was, nothing significant had happened. The two of you were almost on opposite sides of the country and both leading very busy lives. Clark had gotten an internship at the Daily Planet, a newspaper in Metropolis and you were working two jobs to support yourself through college.
Over the last couple of years your contact had dwindled, weekly phone calls turned into fortnightly and then just on special events and then none. You still sent each other the occasional text, for birthdays and holidays mainly, but for the most part you'd lost track of each other.
Given all of that, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he hadn’t told you about Daisy, but it was. It was an ugly wake up call as to how much the pair of you had drifted.
"Well Martha mentioned they're just going to have a small little funeral tomorrow, Clark's flying over for it, so that will be a nice way to say goodbye."
"I'll be there." The words left your lips before you had time to think them through.
You knew it wasn't an invitation. But the string that connected you to Clark was finally tugging at you firmly after being loose for so long. You needed to see him, needed to re-enter his orbit.
"Honey are you sure-"
"I'm sure." You hurried over to your desk, putting your phone on speaker as you plonked into your desk chair.
"What about your classes and work and-"
"I'll sort it out." You opened your laptop to start looking at flights. "It's Clark, mum." You added, just a touch too softly for it to be casual.
You heard your mum emit a small sigh through the receiver. "I know darling."
That's how you ended up on the Kent's doorstep less than twenty four hours later, your duffle slung over one shoulder and sleep caking your eyeline.
The 'welcome to the farm' doormat was still spread on the wooden deck, although slightly faded now. The wind charm you and Clark had made in primary school clinked pleasantly in the afternoon breeze.
You felt doubts start to creep in as you stood there, your hand hovering over the doorbell. Was he going to want to see you? Was he going to think you were crazy for flying all the way over here? Maybe if you turned and ran right now you could get back home in time to go the college party your friends had begged you to go to, with Clark never knowing that you had been here.
The possibility of running away was squashed under the sound of footsteps crunching on the dry leaves that littered the driveway.
You heard him before you saw him.
“I’ll get it from the truck Pa!”
You turned just as he appeared from around the side of the house. He froze as his eyes landed on you. He was wearing a white shirt under an unbuttoned and faded flannel that was rolled up to his elbows. His hair was windswept, framing those painfully familiar blue eyes which were wide in shock.
All doubts flew out the window at the sight of him. The sound of your duffel thumping onto the porch made a few pigeons scatter. You took a few tentative steps forward, and before your brain could catch up to your legs, you were running.
He met you halfway, your body crashing into his, his outstretched arms pulling you straight into him. You could feel his taught muscles ripple underneath his shirt. He’d filled out dramatically since you’d seen him last.
He nuzzled his face into the crown of your head. You were wearing a new perfume, a more refined scent. He inhaled deeply, he could smell traces of the same shampoo you’d used in high school underneath.
“I’m so sorry about Daisy.” You murmured into his chest.
The realisation hit him square in the chest then. You’d flown all the way home just to be there for him. He squeezed you tighter, like he was trying to prove to himself that you were real.
You twisted up in his arms to look at him. His eyes were brimming with unshed tears.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
You smiled softly up at him. “You better believe it Kent.”
The rattle of the front flyscreen door creaking open made the two of you pull apart.
“Well well well, do my eyes deceive me or has our other city slicker finally come to their senses and remembered to pay us a visit?”
Your grin widened at the sight of Martha and Jonathan standing at the doorway. Clark loosened his grip to allow you to hurry towards them, embracing them both tightly.
“Come in come in, there’s leftover blueberry pie in the fridge.” Martha ushered you inside. She ran a hand over the back of your head under the guise of being endearing, but her eyes were sharp and assessing as always.
She frowned. “Have you been feeding yourself at college? You know I hear these horror stories of students living off cans of tuna and that is something I simply will not allow.”
You turned back around to look at Clark, pulling a face that signalled “help me”. Clark let out a laugh as you got dragged inside.
The funeral had been short and intimate, only you and your family, the Kent’s and a couple of other locals gathered outside under the large oak.
You and Clark had locked eyes a few times, slow tears rolling down both your cheeks as you remembered all of the afternoons you’d shared running around with Daisy in the fields as Martha desperately tried to corral you inside for afternoon tea.
As the sky began to be brushed with golds and pinks, the others filtered home. You and Clark sat out on the back porch watching the cows lazily chew at the reeds.
Martha was cooking up a storm in the kitchen, the scent of thyme and rosemary filtering through the open windows.
Your head rested on his shoulder, a half drunk glass of wine beside you. Cicadas chirped around you. The two of you had caught up over lunch, and although there were endless things to say, you were both content sitting in the quiet of dusk, enjoying each other’s company. Now that you were together, it was like no time had passed, that deep crevice separating you two sealed up like a distant memory.
You felt so at ease that you were pretty sure if you closed your eyes, you’d slip into a slumber.
“Do you miss home?” Your voice eventually broke the peaceful silence.
“In moments like this, yeah.”
You blinked up at him lazily, a soft smile on your lips. “Me too.” You reached for your wine.
“I should visit more often.” You confessed after a few moments.
You felt him nod. “So should I.”
You sat up to look at him properly. “Maybe we make a pact.”
“This isn’t going to be like that time we made a pact to dye our hair blue and only one of us followed through is it?”
You gave him a pointed but playful look. “No, but thank you for reminding me of that. I’ll have to get mum to find the photos she took.”
You laughed as he elbowed your ribs. “I’m serious, a pact to visit home more, to keep each other accountable.”
“Ok.” He nodded seriously. He stuck out his pinky.
“And a pact to not let us go this long without talking again.” He added as you entwined your finger with his.
Your smile faltered, guilt tendrilling around your heart as you nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
Neither of you looked away, your fingers still interlocked.
You tried not to think about all the memories you’d missed out on making, all his friends you didn’t know, the fact you didn’t know if the Mighty Crabjoys were still his favourite band, or if he still had a glass of milk before bed every night.
“I’ve missed you.” You confessed.
You felt his pinky tighten around yours. His eyes were swimming with so much emotion that you couldn’t decipher between them all.
“I’ve missed you too.”
You had no idea how much. Clark thought about it then as you looked up at him. The fact that he could lean forward and kiss you, spill years of locked confessions to the altar of you.
The entitled ring of your phone beside you was like water on a flame.
“Sorry.” You apologised. Clark felt like a part of him had been ripped away as your finger untwined itself from his.
Clark didn’t miss the way your face faltered when you glanced down at your screen.
“Everything ok?” He studied your face intently.
“Um yeah.” You answered unconvincingly as you picked up your phone.
“It’s Mark- my um- my boyfriend.” You tacked on quickly when you saw the confusion flash across his features.
“I should probably answer.”
Clark took a heartbeat too long to respond, his brain frazzled at the revelation.
“Oh no problem.” He stood up hastily. “I’ll um- I’ll give you some privacy.” He jerked his thumb awkwardly to the back door.
You shot him a grateful smile that looked half pained, before pressing the phone to your ear.
“Hi babe.”
Clark shut the door behind him before he could hear anything further.
“You need help with anything Ma?” He rubbed his sweaty palms on the back of his jeans.
“All good honey.” Martha waved him away dismissively. She peered out the window over the sink,
“Who’s missy on the phone to?”
“Her boyfriend Mark.”
Your father and Jonathan looked up over their newspapers to exchange glances.
“Oh.” Your mum didn’t try to hide the distain in her voice as she took a break from peeling potatoes to peer out the window beside Clark and Martha.
Martha tutted and shook her head.
“What?” Clark asked her.
“We do not like Mark in this household.”
“We don’t?"
Your mum shook her head.
Why?” Clark tried and failed miserably at hiding his excitement.
“Because he’s a loser.” Your mum stated matter-of-factly. “He’s in finance or something and never makes anytime for her but expects her to drop everything when it suits him. They’re constantly fighting.”
Sure enough, you were now pacing back and forth on the back patio. Your voice was raised, your features twisted into a grimace as you gesticulated wildly with your free hand.
Clark knew he should give you your privacy, but he found himself unable to look away.
You hadn’t mentioned you had a boyfriend this entire time. He couldn’t ignore the flicker of hope that sparked as he wondered to himself, was that omission on purpose?
Martha and your mum leant back to exchange knowing smiles behind Clark’s back.
-
Your mum dropped you to the airport the next morning. You had been quiet on the drive, your nose stuck in your phone as you exchanged a flurry of angry texts with Mark.
He was upset that you had gone home "on a whim" when you'd agreed to go to the party with him. You thought you'd sorted it on the phone yesterday, but apparently not.
You sighed, chucking your phone into your lap in defeat as you pulled into the drop off zone.
“Thanks so much mum. I’ll text you when I land.” You twisted around to grab your duffle from the backseat.
She cleared her throat. “Sweetheart." You froze mid arm reach, caught off guard by her intense expression.
"I know it's not really my business and that you and Clark have been friends forever but-"
"Mum-" You began in protest.
"Just let me say this one thing." She held up her hand sternly and suddenly you felt like you were eight years old again being scolded for playing up.
“I know that staying just friends is safe.” She paused as she watched you. “But that doesn’t mean that you should.”
Your mum’s words haunted you the entire flight home, then followed you on a loop into the taxi, up the stairs and into your apartment.
You sat on your bed cross legged staring at your phone. Clark’s contact stared back at you. You leant forward, finally about to work up the courage to press the call button when your phone vibrated and his photo filled the screen, making you jump slightly.
You hastily accepted, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach as you pressed it to your ear.
“Hi.”
You couldn't help but smile at the sound of his voice. “Hi stranger.”
“I was just calling to see how your flight was.”
“Funny that, I was just about to call you.” You answered, shuffling around on your bed to lay on your back, flopping your head down onto the pillow.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” You stared up at the ceiling.
“I realised I went the whole visit without asking you how your powers were going. Quite rude of me.”
Clark chuckled. “My powers are getting stronger everyday, actually I- well this is going to say crazy but I went to Antarctica-“ He cut himself off.
You opened your mouth to ask a million and one questions but he beat you to it.
“Actually.” His tone was different this time, a bit more pensive, almost nervous. “Why don’t you stay with me for the weekend and I can show you. I did buy that foldout couch for a reason, you know.”
“Yeah, I’d love to.” You said it before you could think about what plans with Mark or your friends you might have, or even what shifts you had rostered. But you didn’t care, you'd choose him every time.
“I’ll have to see if there’s any flights though.”
“Text me your address.” You could hear his smirk over the phone.
Your brow furrowed in confusion at his statement, but you complied regardless.
“Be right back.” You pulled your phone away from your ear at the sound of the tone indicating he had hung up.
You had just started typing another message to him when there was a soft tap on your balcony window.
You let out a laugh in disbelief as you came out into your living room.
Clark was standing on your balcony, his hands behind his back and a mischievous grin on his face. You slid the door open, shaking your head as he bowed dramatically with a sweep of his hand.
“Your flight is ready for departure ma’am.”
four
“I think maybe we flip the couch around again so it’s against that wall.”
“So… how we had it originally two hours ago?”
His tone wasn’t pointed, it never was. It was a skill of his, the ability to sound unassuming and innocent. It was only when you really knew him that you could pick up the subtle traces of sarcasm.
“Yes Clark exactly like we had it originally two hours ago.” You smiled, mockingly patting his shoulder.
You would have felt guilty about using Clark as your free furniture removalist, except you knew that picking up a couch was the equivalent of picking up a feather to him and the fact that he had dragged you to a bottlecap museum and held you captive there for 3 hours last weekend.
“We’re going to be late you know.”
“No we’re not, I just have to change into my dress.” You called out as you hurried down your hallway, dodging the land minds that were your unpacked boxes, which were currently taking up about half the space of your shoebox apartment.
You had been in Metropolis for two weeks now. After a couple of years in an unhappy job and months of Clark insisting, you’d finally bitten the bullet, handing in your resignation before packing up your life to move across the country the very next day.
With the rest of your friends dispersed around the country and the rest of the world, you only had Clark here. So naturally you’d jumped at the suggestion of meeting his closest friends from work.
“Best you meet my day job friends before my other work colleagues.” He’d insisted when you’d asked him if the ‘justice gang’ would be invited.
“Ok we can go.” You announced as you made your way back into the living room.
You were wearing a new dress and heels, a little gift that you’d bought yourself for moving to a new city.
Clark looked up from the couch, struck dumb as he blinked slowly, taking you in.
“Is it too much?” You frowned, glancing down at your tight dress. “I thought the bar we were going to was meant to be quite nice.”
“Uh no.” He shook his head feverishly as he rose to his full height, wiping his palms on the front of his pants.
“Definitely not. You look- you look really beautiful.”
You shot him a grin as you smoothed down the front of your dress.
“You ready?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Oh wait.” You watched as he fished out his glasses from his back pocket, sliding them up the bridge of his nose.
“Now I’m ready.”
You still weren’t used to it, the alter ego of it all. You remembered the first time he'd walked out in the superman suit. The way his shoulders rounded out, his spine straightened and chest puffed. Even the way he talked, his voice deep and rich in confidence. It was like he was a different person.
You always knew he was destined for extraordinary things, but seeing your best friend transform into the superhero that carried the weight of the world on his shoulders was something you don’t think you’d ever fully get used to.
You hadn’t expected to feel nervous, but as the two of you stood outside the bustling bar you felt a flutter behind your ribs.
Clark had a whole life here that you weren’t a part of. You couldn’t help but worry that you weren’t going to fit in, that your presence would be like an ill fitting puzzle piece, trying to clumsily jam its way into this space in his life.
Wordlessly his warm hand engulfed yours, squeezing it gently.
“They’re going to love you.”
You smiled at him, squeezing his hand back. He always knew what to say, even if you didn’t know you needed him to say it.
You let Clark guide you inside, following him to the back of the bar to a corner booth.
They spotted you at the same time you did them. Your eyes grazed over them. A freckled face with a wide, welcoming grin. Jimmy. A platinum blonde with flawless makeup, Cat. Lastly, a dark haired woman, with piercing, analysing eyes that were looking you up and down. Lois.
“Hey guys.” Clark greeted as you reached the table. As he introduced you, their smiles were friendly, but you could tell they were sizing you up. They were being protective, and you were glad for it. Clark deserved people that looked out for him.
“So, what was Clark like as a kid?” Jimmy was the first to jump in as you slid into the booth.
“How much time have you got?”
“Ooh any embarrassing stories?” Cat asked eagerly, ignoring Clark’s groan of protest.
“I’ll do you one better. Buy me a couple of drinks and I’ll show you photos. I believe there’s one out there somewhere of him dressed up as Doc Brown from Back to the Future?” You turned to Clark, shooting him an overzealous wink.
“This was a mistake.” He groaned, burying his head in his hands.
Jimmy chuckled, a devilish grin on his lips as he took a sip of his beer. “Oh yes, you’ll fit right in.”
As the night wore on and the drinks flowed, you found yourself getting more and more comfortable.
You loved watching Clark like this too, laughing and relaxed, completely in his element. You’d always known it, but tonight confirmed it, Metropolis had brought him to life.
“I get it now.” Lois announced as you came back to the booth after going to get her and you another round.
“Get what?” You asked her, noting the ghost of a smirk on her lips as you slid her drink across the sticky surface.
“Why Clark doesn’t shut up about you.” You couldn’t control the way your face flushed, which you were sure is what she intended.
“Well when you grow up in Smallville, there’s not that much to talk about other than the people you grew up with.” Her eyes narrowed slightly at your deflection, meeting your gaze as she assessed you.
She brought her drink up to her lips. “so, Clark said you were dating someone right? A Mark or a Jack? A financier or something?” Her voice had raised slightly, just enough that you felt Clark’s knee tense under the table.
A change in tactics.
You kept your face neutral, unreadable as you picked up your drink and took a casual sip.
“Mark was my college boyfriend, I was with Jack until recently for a year. Both were in finance.”
She nodded, like she didn’t know all of that already. Clark was right, she was formidable.
“Was?”
“Yeah we broke up a month or so before I moved here. Clearly didn’t learn my lesson the first time about dating men in finance.” You remarked.
“So, you’re single?”
You did it before you could stop yourself. A glance at Clark out of the corner of your eye. His jaw was clenched, face taught, like he was trying not to look like he was listening. The two of you caught eyes briefly, before yours flickered back to Lois in embarrassment.
The interaction lasted less than a few seconds, but you knew she’d caught it by the way her eyes glimmered in amusement.
You cocked your head slightly, quirking a brow up as you smirked at her. “Why? You interested?”
She let out a genuine chuckle at that before raising her glass. “I like you.”
You grinned. “Feeling’s mutual.” You clinked your glass against hers.
Clark couldn’t stop looking at you as the night went on. You still didn’t see the way the others radiated around you, clinging onto every word as you held court, telling stories and anecdotes. Even Lois was enraptured. You slotted in so naturally, like you’d known them your whole life.
He couldn’t describe the feeling of seeing his two worlds blend so seamlessly together.
The two of you kept finding eachother’s eyes. Clark would usually get embarrassed at getting caught looking at you, but something was different tonight. He got the familiar flutter of nerves, but he didn’t have the urge to quickly look away. Instead the two of you held each other’s gazes for a few moments, like you were having an entirely seperate conversation to the one going on around you.
The two of you were finally alone for the first time when Cat and Lois went to the bathroom and Jimmy went to go order another drink.
“You didn’t tell me you and Jack broke up.” You nearly jumped when you felt Clark’s hot breath on the shell of your ear.
“Didn’t I?” You said innocently, glancing up at him.
“No.” Clark stated. “I would have remembered that.”
Had he been sitting this close the entire time? You swallowed, letting the alcohol steel your nerves.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You couldn’t tell him that the reason was that it would suddenly make the fact that both of you were single at the same time for the first time in a long time very real. And for some reason, that scared the shit out of you.
You shrugged nonchalantly. “Must have slipped my mind with the move coming up.”
Clark looked like he was about to say something else, probe further, but he changed his mind last minute.
“Well I’m glad, he was an asshole.” He muttered into his beer.
You snorted at his blunt words. “Yeah he was.”
You twisted your glass around on the liquor stained table as you muttered, “Maybe I’ll have more luck in Metropolis.”
When you looked up at him again, something unreadable had shifted in his gaze, something that made your heart leap into your throat.
“Maybe you will.” You swore you felt the ghost of his fingers brush your thigh.
“Who’s ready for shots!” Jimmy’s voice barrelled in between the two of you.
You laughed at Clark’s face at the sight of 10 tequila shots being slammed down in front of him. Lois and Cat arrived shortly after, eagerly grabbing a shot each.
“To new friends and new memories.” Jimmy raised his glass. You all echoed his words, clinking your drinks together before downing the liquor. You winced as the tequila burned your throat, desperately reaching for the relief of the lime wedge.
Clark watched in amusement as you grabbed the next one far too quickly. You shot him a playful glare when you spotted the judgment on his face.
You were finally living in the same city as your best friend, if that wasn’t a reason to let loose, you didn’t know what was.
Unfortunately, you’d never been great a handling your liquor. A couple of hours later you were a giggling, slurring mess and feeling nothing short of euphoric.
You waved goodbye to your new friends, who were in a no better state, as Clark guided you off the dance floor of the club you’d all ended up at.
“Ooh we should fly home!” You exclaimed excitedly once the pair of you spilled out onto the empty street.
“I don’t think your stomach could handle that.” Clark chuckled. “Besides, it’s not far.”
You pouted your bottom lip, but were quick to forget his indiscretion as you stumbled towards home.
“I love your friends. And Metropolis. And life. God I love life! Life is so good.” You babbled as you slung an arm around his waist.
“They’re your friends now too.” He reminded you, fighting back laughter as he watched you. “And I’m very glad to hear that.”
He guided you up to your apartment, leaving you to change into your pyjamas as he grabbed you a glass of water and some preemptive painkillers from the kitchen. Thankfully you were a compliant drunk today, and when he returned to your bedroom you were changed and tucked under the covers.
“Come lie with me.” You patted the spot next to you as he placed the makeshift hangover kit on your bedside table.
“It’s pretty late…”
“Please.” You begged, batting those irresistible eyes at him.
Clark withheld a sigh, how could he ever not indulge you?
“Ok, but only if you drink some water.” He bargained.
“Deal.”
He withheld a laugh as you sat up and eagerly gulped down half the glass. He slid his shoes off before tentatively perching on the other side of the bed.
You frowned at the distance. “I don’t have cooties.”
He did laugh breathlessly at that, but of course still complied, shuffling closer to the centre. Content, you slid back down horizontally, twisting so you were lying on your side facing him.
He was lying on his back, his thumbs twiddling on his lap as he looked up at the ceiling. You grinned at his awkwardness.
“Come here.” He turned to look at you, blinking in surprise as you leant forward and eased his glasses off his face gently.
“Woah wait!” You gasped. “You’re Superman?”
“You’re an idiot.” He remarked dryly yet was unable to fight the grin on his lips.
You giggled, placing his glasses on the pillow beside him. You fell into silence, your eyes scanning his face.
“I like you without your glasses.” You whispered with surprising softness. His eyes flickered to meet yours again.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You look more like my Clark.”
His heart skipped a beat at that.
“And I can see your eyes better.” You continued, alcohol loosening your tongue.
“I love your eyes. I could stare at them for hours.”
“I love your eyes too.” His voice was barely a whisper. He was trying not to let that all too familiar flicker of hope spark into a flame. You were drunk right now, he had to remind himself repeatedly.
“You’re lucky I’m a great secret keeper.” You changed the topic only as quickly as someone drink could. You twisted the pillow under your head around you as you studied him. “Your secret identity is under lock and key. I’m a vault.”
“Oh yeah?” He smirked. “What other crazy secrets have you got hm?”
Something flickered across your features then, like his innocuous question had triggered something inside you.
“I can’t tell you. It would ruin our friendship.”
His stomach dropped, completely caught off guard by your unfiltered confession.
He swallowed nervously, glancing up at the ceiling again, finding himself unable to meet your gaze as the next question he was almost too scared to ask formed on his lips.
“Why- why would it ruin our friendship?”
A few heartbeats of silence passed, enough to make him think you were working up the courage to formulate your next words or that you might not have heard him.
He turned to look at you to repeat the question. He let out a shaky breath of laughter. You were fast asleep.
He learnt forward, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and out of your eyes. He lay there for a few moments, admiring your features. Your face was the picture of serenity, completely unaware of the emotional upheaval you’d just caused.
“Sweet dreams baby.”
The next morning you were woken up by a thumping headache, your throat scratchy and sleep gluing your eyelids together.
It took a few minutes for you to realise the incessant thumping was not just in your head, but was also the sound of someone knocking on your front door.
“I’m coming!” You moaned, rubbing at your eyes as you dragged your heavy limbs out of bed.
“Morning sunshine.” A way too chirpy Clark greeted you as you swung open the front door.
“Ok, we need to dial down the positivity by like 50%.” You winced, rubbing your temples as you tried to stay upright.
“Don’t you mean dial it up by 50%, I brought greasy breakfast bagels.”
You blinked as Clark brought up a paper bag, waving it in front of you. The smell of greasy bacon hit you square in the stomach.
“I don’t even know if I can eat that, but thank you.” You shuffled zombie-like into the kitchen, Clark trailing after you.
“You should eat, it’ll make you feel better.”
You sighed as you flopped down onto one of the bar stools. You reluctantly pulled out a bagel, unwrapping it like it was a bomb about to explode.
“How much of last night do you remember?” He asked casually after a minute or so passed.
“Not much after we left the first bar.” You confessed. “I remember you walking me home, but that’s it.”
You glanced up at him after a few moments. There was an odd look on his face, something that resembled disappointment.
“Why?” You asked sharply. “Did I say something stupid?”
“No no.” He said way too quickly for it to be anything but suspicious. “You were very well behaved.”
Your eyes narrowed as you tried to decipher his expression. You wracked your brain as you tried to think of what you might have said, but you were drawing a complete blank.
There was a small voice in the back of your head telling you this topic might be best left alone, like your subconscious knew something that you didn’t.
“Ok, if you’re sure.”
He nodded in response, although the odd expression on his features lingered.
“Well in that case I’ll only have mild hangxiety for the rest of the weekend then.” Your nose wrinkled as you tentatively sniffed the bagel, your stomach lurched.
“You still want to go furniture shopping?”
He laughed at the look of pure horror that crossed your features.
“Or…. we could have a movie day and rot on the sofa? And before you ask, yes we can watch 10 Things I Hate About You.”
Even after all these years it still scared you sometimes just how deeply he understood you.
five
It was a normal Friday. You had offered to cook dinner at yours so you and Clark could celebrate the end of the work week.
You were hovering over the stove, glass of wine in hand. Clark was sitting at the kitchen counter behind you asking you about your day. You tried to ignore how beautifully domestic this scene must have looked to an observer.
The news was playing on the television in the living room. It had become a habit for you, so you could keep up with whatever intergalactic villain Superman was battling, and more importantly so you knew if Clark was going to be late to whatever plans the two of you had.
You sensed him move in the chair behind you as he suddenly went quiet. You saw it when you glanced over at him, the physical shift that you had started getting accustomed to. The sharpening of his jaw, the laser focus, the puffing of his chest.
The tv was suddenly all you could hear as silence enveloped you both. You looked at it over his shoulder. A giant monster running rampant downtown, the usual.
Your gaze flickered to him. Neither of you needed to say anything, the slight inclination of your head towards your balcony was enough.
“I’ll be back before it gets cold.”
You blinked and he was gone, the only evidence of his presence was the half finished glass of red on the counter and the slight flutter of your balcony door curtains.
You tried to ignore the bundle of nerves that always pooled in your veins. He went and faced this sort of thing all the time, he was always back within a couple of hours.
Except this time, he wasn’t.
You were glued to the broadcast, your dinner long abandoned and burnt to a crisp on the stove.
This opponent had been stronger than normal, that was evident to you the second you saw the streak of red and blue take a dive into the concrete surface of downtown.
The justice gang had shown up not long after, but even with their forces combined they were on the back-foot.
A gasp caught in your throat at a shot of him lying motionless in the rubble, his cape in tatters, crimson dripping from his mouth.
Nausea curdled in the pit of your stomach. He wasn’t getting up. Clark always got up.
You were frozen - stuck between flight or fight mode. You were going to run to him you decided, find him amongst the chaos and somehow make him better.
But just as soon as that thought had formed in your head, shouts of victory seeped through the speakers.
The monster had been defeated and Metropolis was safe once more, the reporter emphatically declared. You watched as footage cut together, showing the justice gang waving at cheering crowds, the emergency services flooding in behind them to help those that had been injured.
No sign of Clark.
You tried to cling onto some hope. Sometimes when his energy had been depleted enough he’d fly to his fortress to restore himself to full health. But he would always text you to let you know he was ok, it was a promise he’d made you at the beginning when you’d told him you didn’t know how much stress your heart could take in these situations.
You stared at your phone, willing for it to ping. You weren’t sure how long you sat there. Dread was seeping deeper into your bones, cementing you in place.
You knew he wasn’t entirely, but in your mind Clark was totally invincible. That thought was like a comforter, cushioning the stress you burdened when he donned his suit.
But as you sat there time wore on you finally let yourself think the unthinkable - what if he wasn’t coming back?
You could feel yourself spiralling. What would a world without the sun be like? The thing you drew your life force from, shared everything with. Well, not everything, a snide voice inside you piped up.
Were you going to spend the rest of your life asking yourself what could have been if you hadn’t been so afraid to tell him the truth? Now you might never have an answer, all because you were too afraid to ruin things.
You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t call Jimmy or Lois or Cat, and you didn’t have the heart to call Martha or Jonathan, you couldn’t be the bearer of insurmountable grief just yet.
There was only one person you could call. Your shaking hand reached blindly for your phone. You could barely make out the screen, tears blotting your vision.
Your bottom lip trembled as you pressed it to your ear.
“Hiya, you’ve reached Clark. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone, please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. And remember, it’s a great day to have a great day!”
The shrill beep that followed mocked you. You didn’t have time to overthink, your body was so desperate for release that the words flowed out of you before you could stop.
“Hi.” You winced at the way your voice wavered. “I um- I’m just sitting here and I just wanted you to know that I’m- well I’m kind of angry at you because you said you’d be back before dinner got cold and now- now it’s all burnt and ruined because you had to go be an amazing hero and save people, which is really kind of selfish of you when you think about it.” A delirious laugh strangled itself out of your mouth.
“And uh- I guess I’m also kind of angry at you because-“ You cut yourself off as tears spilled down your cheeks.
“Because I’ve had to admit to myself that I’m a coward. And I’m a coward because I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember and I’ve never done anything about it, even though I think maybe you might even love me too. So please-“ Your voice cracked again, a soft whimper emerging from the back of your throat.
“Please don’t make me live the rest of all time regretting that I never did anything about it and asking myself what if. I can’t do this without you. Please.”
You threw your phone at the couch, shoving your head into your hands as your body racked with sobs.
You weren’t sure how long you sat like that, folded up in a ball. The tv was still on in the background. You could hear the city below you getting quieter as most of its inhabitants turned in for the evening.
If you had to guess, you’d say it was around 3 am. That was when you felt it. The subtle tilt in energy that your body had become so good at sensing, the gravitational pull of the soft thud of something landing on your balcony.
You heard the balcony door slide open gently, like he was afraid to disturb the room. You rose from the couch, your legs weak underneath you.
It was raining, a soft mist clouding the city skyline behind him. He was still wearing his suit, his cape leaving a fine sprinkling of water on the wooden floor as he moved. You could tell he had healed, but even his fortress couldn’t wipe away the black smears under his eyes that revealed pure exhaustion.
The slight widening of his eyes gave away his surprise at seeing you on the couch.
You were trembling still, but you managed to move towards him. He met you halfway, his arms ready for you, like they always were. He lifted you up like you weighed nothing, your feet dangling in the air as you threw yourself into him.
His suit was still damp. You nuzzled your face into his neck. He smelt like a mixture of rain, smoke and metal with just a trace of the cologne you’d bought him buried underneath.
This was real. He was here, safe.
You let out a strangled sound, something halfway between a whimper and a sigh of relief. His large hands fisted your pyjama top in response before his palms flattened against your back in comforting strokes.
You pulled away, still cradled in his arms. He exhaled a shaky breath as you brought a hand up to cradle his jaw, your eyes running over every inch of his face for signs of discomfort.
“I’m ok.” He reassured you, his warm breath fanning your face.
“The creature had traces of kryptonite in its powers. It knocked me around more than normal.”
His eyes shifted to the mess on the stove. “Have you been up this whole time?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know if you were-“
You couldn’t even say the words out loud. His features softened even further. “I’m sorry.”
You shook your head fervently. “Don’t you dare apologise. You’re safe, that’s all I care about.”
A smile ghosted on his lips as he studied you. “Have you eaten?” He placed you down gently.
“No I couldn’t do anything other than-“
The realisation hit you square in the chest then. That your deepest secret was sitting innocuously in his phone, just waiting for him to discover it in a voicemail.
You took a step back, your throat suddenly dry as all the air inside your lungs disappeared.
Clark’s brow furrowed at your sudden change in demeanour. “What’s wrong?”
“I- have you checked your phone?”
“No, I flew here as soon as I could. Why?”
You were backed into a corner with no way out, like a spooked animal.
“I left you a voicemail.”
“Ok?”
“You shouldn’t- I don’t think you should listen to it.”
He stiffened up at that. “Why?”
Your brain was working overtime, desperately trying to think of an excuse. You knew deep down that if you asked him to delete it without listening, he would. That was the kind of person Clark was, integral almost to a fault.
But your mum’s words were holding you back. You had always played it safe with Clark, but should you play it safe this time?
You thought about the blind panic you had felt only moments ago. The dread that you might have to go your whole life without knowing what could have been. And now you’d experienced that, you weren’t sure you could go back to pretending anymore.
You tried to still your shaking hands. Your safety net was hanging on by a thread, and you were about to unravel it.
“I… I said some things that would ruin us. Our friendship.”
He paused, digesting the gravity of your words.
“What things?” His question was slow, tinged with hope and caution.
“Are you really going to make me say it?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.
You knew that he knew it then. You could see it on his face. He took a step towards you, that invisible string pulling so tight it felt like it was about to snap.
“Yes.” His voice was throaty, his bottom lip quivering.
“I-“ Your cheeks dampened as fat tears slid down to drop onto your collarbones.
“I said that I was a coward because I have spent practically my whole life loving you and have never done anything about it.”
Clark looked down at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.
“I hate that it took you nearly dying for me to tell you.”
Now that you’d started, you couldn’t stop. It was addictive, the feeling of unburdening yourself of years of emotional baggage.
“But all I could think about while I sat here was all the times I should have not worried about ruining the friendship and just kissed you anyway. And the fact I might have gone the rest of my life regretting that was something I couldn’t handle.”
Clark was crying now too, his hands full of tremors as he brought them up to cradle your face. He touched your skin so gently it was like you were made of glass.
“Sometimes… sometimes I think I was sent to earth by my parents not just to protect humans, but also to love you.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“Loving you is engraved into my soul. It’s part of who I am, and it always will be.”
In the soft yellows and blues of the moonlight and the lights of Metropolis shading your living room, you kissed him.
You could taste the salty brine of your tears mixing with his as your lips moved in sync. Your hands threaded into his damp hair, years of pent up feelings making the two of you almost feverish.
You finally pulled apart when you could no longer breath, your chests heaving in time with one another, your bodies trembling.
You stared at each other, like you were both trying to figure out why this had taken you both so long to do.
You could feel his smile against your mouth as he spoke, his nose bumping yours as he held you tight.
“So, friendship ruined I guess?”
You let out a breathless giggle against his lips as you nodded, “Yeah, friendship very much ruined.”
He grinned, stealing one more kiss and then another and then a third for good luck, before answering you.
“Finally.”
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
summary: you're used to your co-worker doing everything and anything for you. until one day he decides to take advice from jimmy olsen and discovers willpower you didn't know he had.
pairing: female reader x clark kent
notes: clark is the leader of simp nation and you can't tell me otherwise. thanks again ms carpenter for the fic inspoooo, I've had this whole album on repeat nonstop. also this ended up being so much longer than I originally planned oops... enjoy!
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
Clark had three main rules when it came to his professional life.
Always remain objective.
Maintain friendly but strictly professional (and definitely not romantic!) working relationships with his colleagues.
Never take advice from Jimmy Olsen (again).
Although Clark liked to think he approached each of his stories with a level head and neutral position, he knew that the first rule had been broken the second he started interviewing himself as Superman.
The second rule had lasted for about a week until he'd ended up letting an extremely drunk Jimmy Olsen crash on his sofa after Friday night knock off drinks. Upon getting wind of Clark's inability to say no, each of Clark's colleagues - including Cat, Lois and even Perry once - had all had a drunken sleepover at Clark's.
Despite this, there'd been absolutely no romance involved, so he'd given himself a pat on the back for that one. He was comforted by the fact that maybe there was an argument that he'd only kinda broken rule two.
That was until you happened, you’d walked right into the Daily Planet on your first day and spun Clark’s world right off its axis and suddenly there was no argument about rule two.
The only thing that Clark could hang his hat on was that the sanctity of rule three had remained very much intact.
Rule three was mandated after Jimmy had convinced Clark that the only way to get a girl was to walk around drenched in Lynx Africa. After that Clark had sworn he would never ever take advice from Jimmy Olsen on any subject matter ever again.
“You’re doing it again.”
Clark jumped in his chair, his glasses knocked askew at the action. He swivelled around to find Jimmy peering down at him, his chin resting on his forearms that were leant against the divider of Clark’s work cubicle.
“What?”
“You’re doing the thing again.” Jimmy repeated.
"What thing?"
Jimmy smirked. “The thing where you count how many sips of coffee she's had so you can perfectly time your trip to the coffee machine and casually offer to get her a refill."
Clark dared a glance over to your desk. Brow furrowed, face pinched, a ballpoint pen clenched between your teeth. Breathtakingly beautiful as always, and most importantly, blissfully unaware of the two sets of eyes currently on you.
“If you weren’t you it might be considered creepy.”
“I’m just trying to be a friendly work colleague.” Clark defended.
“You don’t do that for me.” Jimmy shot back. “You also don’t stare at me longingly across the bullpen like I’ve hung the moon and stars.”
Clark’s face flushed. Subtly had never been in his wheelhouse, but he thought he’d at least being doing an ok job at hiding his infatuation.
Truth be told, he was in much deeper than Jimmy realised.
Jimmy didn’t know that he’d memorised your coffee and sandwich order within a week of you starting so that he could make sure you ate lunch when you handcuffed yourself to your desk and inevitably forgot to eat.
Jimmy didn’t know that he always kept an extra raincoat and umbrella under his desk just in case you forgot yours when the clouds of Metropolis inevitably split open and caught you by surprise.
Jimmy didn’t know that he’d started taking the bus of all things to get home because it meant he had an excuse to walk an extra ten minutes with you before your commute paths diverted, despite it adding an additional 40 minutes to his trip home.
Jimmy didn’t know that whenever he wasn’t thinking about saving the planet as Superman, he was entirely consumed by thoughts of you.
“You don’t bring in freshly baked goods for me every week.” To further emphasise his point, Clark held up a plate in front of him containing only the remnants of a chocolate chip cookie, which may or may not have been one of the best things he’s eaten in his entire life.
You’d recently picked up baking on the weekends, having told Clark that you needed something to distract you from your work. This meant the entire office was now spoilt with a new baked good every Friday, so much so that Cat had started complaining about her waistline.
Jimmy’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “Whatever you say buddy.” He rapped his knuckles on the divider before sauntering back to his desk.
Clark slumped in his chair, which felt like a vortex - slowly pulling him down further into an all familiar spiral. He would have preferred Jimmy to stand there and argue with him. He knew Jimmy was probably trying to be nice, but that made it so much worse because that meant Jimmy pitied him, like he was a puppy abandoned on the side of the road waiting for someone to show him a shred of kindness.
Maybe it was finally time for him to pluck up the courage and ask you out. He'd been dancing around it since you'd first started at the Planet all those months ago. He could do it. He was Superman gosh darn it. He'd tackled world eating monsters, asking you out to dinner should be a cake walk.
"Any feedback on this week's batch for me?"
Your sweet voice cut through Clark's internal dialogue, acting like a shining light that guided him back to reality.
He looked up at you through his glasses. You were standing in the spot where Jimmy had been only moments ago. Your eyes darted to the plate still lying on his desk before you looked at him expectantly.
"Oh-" Clark started, straightening up in his seat as he adjusted his glasses. "They're um- yeah they're really good. Did you do something a little different with the batter this time?"
Your smile widened. "Yeah I tried using brown sugar, I think it adds a nice twist to it."
"That's what it is. The brown sugar." Clark nodded. "Really delicious."
"Very glad to hear it." You smiled down at him, tilting your head ever so slightly. "You coming tonight by the way?"
"Tonight...." Clark trailed off. You rested your chin on the palm of your hand as you shook your head and tisked.
"Don't tell me you forgot." You teased.
Clark felt his cheeks redden under your stare as he desperately racked his brain. He was hopeless. One look from you and all thoughts flew out of his head like they were fleeing an approaching storm.
"Uh-" Then it hit him. "Oh right. End of financial year party, how could I forget."
"Duh, and it's at good old Duke's. Going to be the party of the year."
Your eyes narrowed when you noticed his expression falter. "You're not thinking of ditching are you Kent?"
"Well-" Clark stammered as he stole a glance at his computer screen. "It's just there's this story that Perry really wants to get out and-"
"-No no no." You cut him off. "I'm up to my ears in this never ending corruption scandal and even I'm finding the time to come. Besides, you work your ass off and deserve some fun. If Perry has a problem with that he can go through me."
In Clark's eyes, you might as well be classified as an angel on earth. You seemed to have a permanent glow, radiating your perfect features. And when you got fired up, that glow burned even brighter.
You could see that he was still wavering. "Please." You pursed your lips. "It won't be the same without you there."
Clark couldn't believe it. You were pouting. Literally pouting those perfect lips and batting those long eyelashes at him. How was he supposed to say anything other than yes? You were his kryptonite, more so than actual kryptonite.
"Ok." He nodded. "I'll be there."
You shot him a radiant smile, enough to make the possibility of pissing Perry off worth it a thousand times over.
"Good." You pushed yourself off the cubicle divider, "hope you're ready for me to drink you under the table Kent."
A bemused smirk twitched up on his lips. "We'll see about that."
Who was he kidding, there was no way he was ever going to get up the courage to ask you out.
You smiled to yourself as you turned away and felt Clark's eyes following you all the way back to your desk.
You knew Clark had a crush on you. It was so obvious even the cleaning lady could probably tell. It made coming to work just that little bit more exciting. Whether it was wearing a new slightly too short for work skirt or brushing your hand seemingly innocently against his when you went to hand him a pen, knowing it would make the apples of his cheeks go red and the sentence he was uttering fall apart on his tongue.
If you were being honest, the feelings were definitely not one sided. How could it be when Clark was well, Clark. But that's all it was. A harmless, fun, not debilitating in the slightest, crush.
You finally let yourself glance up at the clock. Half an hour until drinks. The day had been dragging on excruciatingly slow, like time had fallen asleep at the wheel.
It seemed that everyone else felt the same way. The usual thriving hum of the newsroom had quietened to a dull roar, unenthusiastic keyboard taps and monosyllabic exchanges. Motivated by the optimistic idea that making a coffee might kill time, you forced yourself up and onto your feet.
You shoved a mug under the spout and pressed the button that grumbled the machine to life. You tapped your foot as you waited for the life giving elixir that was espresso to pour out. It seemed even the coffee machine had taken an early mark.
"You're going to give that boy a heart attack one day."
Cat appeared beside you, reaching up in her stiletos to grab a mug.
"You're going to have to be more specific."
Cat looked at you deadpan. “Really?”
You shrugged.
She pouted out her bottom lip and dramatically batted her eyelashes.
"It won't be the same without you."
You couldn’t hide the grin that spreads across your lips as you roll your eyes playfully.
“It’s true.”
“Uh huh.” Cat smirked as you moved over to let her use the machine. “You have that poor boy wrapped around your finger and you know it.”
You stole a glance over your shoulder to make sure Clark was no where to be seen before taking a sip of your coffee. Your nose involuntarily wrinkled as the burnt roast singed your nose hairs.
“So I may like to get him a little flustered… what’s the big deal?”
“Oh, I like nothing better than making a man squirm believe me.” Cat wriggled her eyebrows. “But there is the slight complication that he’s completely in love with you. And he's your coworker."
You felt a pang of guilt course through you. You couldn’t lie, half the fun was the way Clark doted on you. He was always noticing when you got your hair done or bought a new dress. He was the first to compliment you on your articles, but he'd also give you honest feedback if you asked for it. If you were ever off sick he'd call and check in on you, always offering to bring you soup or medicine.
He’d even trusted you with the biggest secret a person could harbour. His secret identity.
It was selfish, but you liked the fact that you could get the self esteem boost without the commitment. You flirted but never took it too far, never let him in through the solid walls you’d built up around yourself. Because if you kept him at arms length, there was no risk of him dismantling them.
Was that leading him on? You supposed it was. You winced at the thought of his adoring smile as he offered his shoes when you wore painfully high stilettos that you hadn’t broken in yet, or his umbrella when he didn't have a spare, leaving him standing out in the rain.
“Am I terrible person?”
“Oh god honey no.” Cat shook her head. “That’s not what I meant to imply I’m sorry.”
You frowned, deep in thought as you took a sip of your coffee. Your lips curled in disgust. Why did you think it would be better on the second sip?
“Forget I said anything ok?” She said hastily. “I more just meant… well...what are you going to do if he finally finds the courage to ask you out?”
You froze. You’d never thought about it, never even imagined the possibility that sweet, nervous Clark would actually take the next step.
Cat patted your arm sympathetically when she noticed the frazzled look on your face. “Aren’t you glad we’ve got drinks tonight?”
The Duke was a hive of activity. Corporate suits all suddenly brought to life by the promise of the weekend. It was packed wall to wall with patrons eagerly downing their drinks, excited to celebrate the work week coming to a close.
You were two white wines in and feeling much more relaxed, your corruption investigation now only a gentle hum in the forefront of your subconscious.
You were crammed into a booth, strategically sandwiching Clark between you and the wall. Your skirt had ridden up so the flesh of your thigh was pressed against Clark's under the table. The warmth of his body radiated into yours and the music pulsed through you as you fought to be heard over the din of the bar.
"You've finished your drink."
You looked over at Clark amusingly, "very observant of you Mr Kent."
His brow pinched, his lips pursed ever so slightly in response to your teasing. But the way his eyes brightened gave away his true emotions.
He leant in ever so slightly, his mouth angling towards your ear as he spoke. "Careful, I might have to rescind my offer to buy you your next round." You fought off a shiver as his voice reverberated up through your spine.
You tilted your chin up slightly so you could look up at him through your lashes. "Well luckily I would have rejected your offer anyway. You bought my last two drinks."
His brows jerked up, a casual smile hanging from his lips. "Here I was thinking you appreciated my generosity."
You laughed, leaning in closer just a fraction. "Of course I do, I just think it's time I repay that generosity by buying the next round."
With that you twisted around to sidle out of the booth. This was where the strategy came into play. You'd learnt from previous nights out that if you were against the wall, Clark would never let you past to buy yourself a drink.
You felt a large hand gently envelope your wrist. You turned around on the seat to see him frowning at you.
"You don't need to buy me a drink."
You giggled at the seriousness on his features. "I don't need to, but I want to." You tapped his forearm teasingly. "And I'n not taking no for an answer." Your tone was stern, but lacked any real bite.
He studied you and for a brief moment, the roar of the bar and the chatter of your friends faded into the background, making it feel like it was only the two of you in the room. Your skin encircled by his grip felt like it was on fire.
"You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"Nope." You smacked your lips obnoxiously. He tried to maintain a serious expression but failed, his mouth twisted up into a smirk as he shook his head in defeat.
"Fine. But I'm coming with you."
You felt triumphant in your defeat. "Your company is welcome."
You slid out of the booth towards the bar, Clark hot on your heels. You couldn't control your giddy smile as you felt his hand gently brush over your lower back. It wasn't in a controlling way, it never was, but more of a quiet reassurance that he was there with you.
You loved when he got like this. Slightly more relaxed and touchy, even more clingy.
“What can I get you?” The bartender asked.
“Can I get two lychee martinis please.”
You felt Clark shift to stand beside you, his fingertips grazing across your back as he moved.
“Lychee martini’s huh?”
You looked up at him, your features twisting in bemusement. “You act like you love beer in front of Jimmy, but I’ve seen your eyes light up when us girls order our fruity cocktails.”
“Master of deduction all of a sudden are we?”
“No.” You looked up at him innocently. “I just know what you like.”
Even in the dingy lighting you could see the apples of his cheeks grow pink. “Really?” His voice faltered ever so slightly, revealing his nerves.
“What else do I like then?”
He was looking at you so intently, like he was waiting with bated breath to hear your response. This time it was you turn for your cheeks to flush. You suddenly became very aware that his hand was still on your lower back.
Shit. Maybe your liquid courage had made you overshoot this. You were wading on the edge of uncharted waters here, tiptoeing the line between harmless office flirting and something much more real.
What scared you the most was that a part of you wanted to dive in head first.
“There you are!”
Lois’ voice was like cold water over a hot flame, pulling the two of you apart and extinguishing any moment that might have been.
“Do you know what time it is?” Lois’ eyes were wide as she glared at you, it was like Clark didn’t even exist. You forgot how scary she was when she was mad.
“Uh…” You hastily check the time on your phone. “8:37?”
“Oh my god.” Lois muttered. “You don’t remember what I organised for you tonight, do you?”
You stared at her helplessly, desperately racking your brain for a hint of what she might be talking about.
“Oh.” It hit you like a train. “Oh fuck.”
“Oh fuck is right.”
“What is happening right now?” Clark asked, his eyes darting between the two of you.
“Lois organised a blind date for me and I completely forgot.” You inwardly cursed yourself as you fished your lipgloss out of your bag.
She was never going to forgive you for this.
“A date?”
“The restaurant is just on the next block over isn’t it?” Clark’s query got drowned out by you and Lois.
“Yes. He’s been sitting there for like 40 minutes you know.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” You hastily reapplied your gloss before throwing it back into your bag.
You finally turned your attention to Clark. “I’m so sorry, I promise I’ll be back.” You looked over sheepishly at Lois. “On the bright side, you now get a free lychee martini.”
You were so frazzled that you missed the clench of his jaw and the grimace set on his features. Unfortunately for Clark, Lois did not.
“Ok bye!” Not wanting to have to see Lois’ judgmental glare again, you turned on your heel and made a beeline for the door.
Lois shook her head and mumbled something under her breath as she pulled out her phone. "I better go call him to make sure he doesn't leave before she gets there."
She looked up at Clark. "You ok?"
Clark flinched at the way her tone softened, it was as gentle as Lois got, like she was worried he might break. "Why wouldn't I be?" The question came out harsher than he'd intended.
Lois raised a brow but didn't say another word as she pressed her phone to her ear and moved to find a quieter pocket of the bar.
His shoulders slumped as he felt his good mood deflate like a popped balloon.
"Here you go." The bartender plonked the two lychee martinis in front of him. He stared down at them. It felt like they were mocking him, reminding him that the cloud nine he had been floating on had been snatched from him so quickly.
"Yo, did you order these? Wait let me guess, they're for Y/N." Just to dig the knife in further, the universe had sent him a tipsy Jimmy Olsen.
"She ordered them for us but she left."
Jimmy's brow knitted together. "Where'd she go?"
"On a blind date that Lois organised for her."
"Oh."
"Yeah." Clark didn't care to mellow the bitterness on his tongue as he picked up one of the glasses and took a deep sip.
"I'm sorry man."
There it was again - the pity. Jimmy Olsen didn't do pity, which could mean only one thing. Clark was well and truly screwed.
He glanced over at Jimmy to see him surveying the bar, his eyes glassy and his balance slightly off kilter. Jimmy never had any problems with women. In fact, he seemed to have problems with getting them to stay away from him.
He felt himself waver. Rule three was the only one of his rules still unbroken and that was for a reason. Was he really about to stoop this low? Destroy whatever dignity he had left?
The memory of the heat of your leg against his and your wine flushed cheeks invaded his thoughts, compromising his senses. He could never think logically when it came to you.
"Jimmy I-" He stopped himself. The words were thick and heavy on his tongue, like they were desperately trying to claw their way back down his throat. He was going to have to force them out.
"Yeah?"
"I need your help."
Jimmy looked like he'd hit the powerball in that moment, but was quick to throw on a mask of indifference as he leant casually against the bar.
"With?" Jimmy knew what. He just wanted to hear him say it.
Clark sighed in defeat, "with Y/N. I don't know what to do."
"Buddy, I have been waiting for you to ask me for Jimmy's help." His grin was almost impish as he clapped a hand onto Clark's shoulders. "And luckily for you, I have already thought of a solution."
"Which is?"
"Simple." Jimmy shrugged. "Just act like you're not interested." Before Clark could protest he lurched forward and snatched the second martini off the bar.
"Act like I'm not.... interested?" Clark watched as Jimmy downed half the liquid in one gulp.
"Yeah."
Clark blinked, "uh-" He cocked his head slightly. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means no more planned coffee refills or lunch deliveries or detoured commutes which yes-" He held up a hand to stop Clark from interrupting. "- I know all about, because I know everything about everyone. The point is, you can still be your nice Smallville self but strictly no boyfriend activities."
"But I'm not her boyfriend."
Jimmy nodding enthusiastically. "Exactly. She doesn't get to redeem boyfriend privileges on a friendship membership."
Clark just felt more and more confused the longer Jimmy kept talking. "Right, ok." He nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he tried to decipher Jimmy Olsen code.
"How will I know if it's working?"
"Trust me. You'll know."
"I just-"
Images of you invaded his thoughts again. Heat coursed through him at the thought of the look you gave him as he slid his hand down the small of your back or when he complimented your baking or writing.
"I don't know if I can."
"Clark." Jimmy clasped onto his shoulder dramatically. "You have the drive to break some of the biggest stories in Metropolis, you have the discipline to ask the right questions at the right time and the patience to wait out a witness or a source, the dedication to craft a story so it practically jumps off the page."
Clark was mesmerised, tipsy Jimmy was never usually this prophetic.
"Take a dose of self-restraint and harness the willpower I know you've got in you."
He nodded, totally absorbed by Jimmy's emphatic display. "Ok, I will."
"That's my boy." Jimmy clapped his back. "Oh and-" He hiccuped. "Best we don't mention this conversation to the others, Cat and Lois will run straight to her. Girl code and all that."
"Good point."
"Hey jackass! Did you drink my martini? Y/N promised it to me." Lois appeared between them, her arms crossed as she glared at the empty glass in Jimmy's hand.
Clark tuned out as they began to argue, the cogs of his mind spinning at how he was somehow going to muster up the strength to resist being at your beck and call for everything and anything. He was Superman, surely this couldn't be too hard - could it?
"Clark Kent on willpower.... got it." He muttered to himself.
You'd woken up on Saturday with a dull pounding in between your ears and sharp sleep in your eyes. Monday had rolled around way too soon after a weekend of bed rotting, but at least you were feeling back to your usual self.
You strolled into the chaos of the bullpen that always greeted you, coffee in hand and handbag jolting against your hip. Cat and Lois were already at their desks. Surprisingly, so was Clark.
"Morning."
"Morning sunshine." Lois greeted, not looking up from her computer.
"How was your hot date on Friday night?" Cat wiggled her eyebrows as she twisted around in her desk chair to face you.
"Not so hot." You answered, dumping your bag underneath your desk. "He was lovely but it was just..." You trailed off as you tried to find the right word.
"Boring?" Cat suggested as you sat down in your chair.
"He's Lois' friend, impossible for him to be boring."
Lois' mouth quirking up slightly was the only sign that she was indeed listening, and agreed.
"No it was just, I don't know, more of a friend vibe. I don't think he really felt the connection either."
"Oh no he was into you." Lois chimed in. You swirled around to look at her in disbelief. "Was never going to admit it when you ended the date with 'so.... friends?' though."
"Ouch." Cat laughed.
"Why'd you have to tell me that?" You whined.
"Just keeping it real."
You groaned as you turned around to face your computer, deciding that it was better to do some work then continue on this conversation any longer.
Cat tutted from her desk, "you should know better than that honey, girls that look like you don't get friendzoned."
You couldn't help but steal a glance over at Clark. He was staring intently at his computer screen, barely even blinking, like he was trying too hard to act like he wasn't hanging on to every single word.
You didn't notice it at first, the subtle shift in the Daily Planet continuum.
You were so caught up in your work that you didn't clock that it had gotten to mid morning and your coffee cup hadn't been refilled, or that after lunch a sandwich hadn't magically appeared on your desk.
In the mid-afternoon you finally got a chance to talk to Clark when the pair of you reached the coffee machine at the same time. The two of you were so busy it wasn't unusual that you'd barely speak some days.
"I didn't see you at Duke's when I came back." You opened the cupboard and reached up on your tippy toes to grab one of your favourite mugs.
"Oh yeah I decided to head home, needed to do some things early on Saturday morning." Clark reached up and grabbed the mug for you with ease.
You went to take the mug from him, but he placed it on the counter before you could.
"Thanks." You smiled. "Well you made the right decision, I should have gone home about four hours before I actually did."
Clark let out a short, polite laugh before picking up his mug and heading back to his desk. You didn't think anything of it, sometimes when Clark got deep into a story he ventured into nonverbal territory.
At the end of the day you habitually looked over at Clark's desk to see if he was ready to leave so the two of you could walk part of your commute together, but he was already gone.
By Wednesday, you were starting to notice something was off.
You realised that Clark had started taking a different route to the kitchen, bypassing your desk entirely. It was the shorter route, so you initially figured that maybe he was trying to be more time efficient. But on the flip side this was the same man who was consistently late and would disappear for hours at a time in the middle of the day to go superhero-ing.
When your stomach growled you looked up from your article to see him sitting and eating lunch at his desk. It was from the same place he always went to, except this time he hadn't brought back a sandwich for you.
You also realised that Clark hadn't called you on the weekend to check on your hangover, or sent you any perfectly curated instagram reels.
At the end of the day you made sure to pack up at the same time as him, so you could casually wonder over to his desk and ask, "you ready to head off?"
"Oh you shouldn’t wait for me, I've started taking a different route home. Saves me like forty minutes each way."
“Ok no problem, see you tomorrow then."
You'd tried to ignore the wave of disappointment that washed over you as you made your way towards the elevator. You really enjoyed your walks home together, catching up on everything you hadn't had time to say during the day. Talking about movies or books or office gossip. Now you just had your airpods as company.
And now that you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing it.
It was like a loose thread, and now that you'd tugged on it the whole thing had begun to unravel - splitting the rift wide open.
At first you thought you were going crazy, reading too much into things.
He was still pleasant and kind, of course. But there was something missing. It was like someone had filled your connection up with cement and sealed it over. There was no depth anymore, every smile and conversation was clipped and surface level. No more inside jokes or shared glances. No more hovering at your desk for the off chance you might want to have a break and have a chat.
When you brought in a freshly baked batch of cookies on Friday you made sure to make his favourite, but all you got was a polite thank you and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He also never handed you anything anymore. He just put it down on whatever flat surface was between you two, almost as if he was ensured that there was no chance of the two of you even slightly brushing fingers.
When you took a few days off sick all you got was a polite, some might even describe as courteous, text message checking in to make sure you were ok. No random drop by to bring you soup or daily check ins to see if you needed anything from the pharmacy.
He also hadn't touched you since the night at Duke's when his hand had brushed along your lower back. And now it was all you could think about.
You felt like waving at him and saying 'very funny Clark! The joke can be over now!'. But what could you actually say without sounding insane?
'Hi Clark, I noticed you've stopped brushing your fingers against mine when you hand me a pencil or conveniently walking past my desk when I need a refill, everything ok?'. You might as well just say ‘so, why aren't you obsessed with me anymore?'
But saying all of those things would mean that you'd have to first admit that there was something between the two of you, and then secondly that you missed whatever had been between the two of you.
You sighed and flopped down on your couch. It was a Friday and you had no plans except for a date with a glass or two of wine and chinese takeout. That was when an idea popped into your head. Maybe he was just so busy that he'd forgotten you had existed. And if that was the case, you could very much remind him.
You pulled out your phone and opened up your contacts. Clark's name stared back at you, illuminating your face in the dark of your apartment. This was such a stupid idea, but the wine had already gone to your head and before you could overthink further your thumb had pressed onto his number.
You chewed the inside of your cheek as you pressed your phone to your ear. The ringing dragged on for so long that you were convinced he wasn't going to pick up. You had just moved your phone away from your ear to hang up when the ringing abruptly stopped.
"Hello?"
"Clark, hey - it's me." You internally cringed. Of course he knew it was you idiot. "Is there any chance you're still at the office?"
"Unfortunately for me, yes."
"Yeah I kind of figured you might be... hence why you were the first call." That loosened a short chuckle from him.
"The reason I was calling is because I accidentally left some reports on my desk that I was hoping to look through tonight... any chance you could drop them over? I appreciate it's a really big ask so totally fine if not."
You could practically hear him having a struggle with himself about what to say through the silence on the phone.
"Sure, I'll head over now."
You beamed, "thanks Clark. I'll pay for your taxi over."
His breathless chuckle crackled through the speaker, "you really don't have to do that. I'll be there soon."
"Ok see you soon."
The second the call disconnected you sprung up and practically sprinted into your bedroom. You rifled through your dresser until you located your cutest pyjama set in the bottom draw. A cream cami set hemmed in pink frills with matching pink hearts dotted all over it.
The second it was on you hurried into the bathroom. You ran your brush through your hair and dabbed on some blush and clear lip gloss. Just enough so you could say 'why yes Clark, I do just naturally look this rosy cheeked and glowy when I'm laying around at home.'
The doorbell ringing seemed to snap you out of your psychosis. What on earth were you thinking? This whole plan was insane. But it was too late now, he was here and you were dressed like this. Might as well make the most of it.
You ran your fingers through your hair and puckered your lips one last time before opening the door.
"Hey I wasn't sure which ones you wanted so I just brought-" Clark's eyes practically bulged out of his head when he looked up from the stack of papers in his hands.
"I- He swallowed as his eyes involuntarily darted down over your figure. "Golly sorry I just- it's been a long day."
You shot him your signature smile as you leant against the door, jutting your hip out. It was working.
"That's ok, thank you so much for bringing them over."
"Don't mention it." He muttered, his cheeks growing red as he hastily shoved the papers into your awaiting arms.
"You want to come in? I feel like I’ve barely seen you recently.”
"Sorry I can't I uh - I've got this urgent deadline." He jerked his thumb haphazardly over his shoulder as he took a step back from the doorway.
You frowned. This was not part of the plan. You thought you had him hook, line and sinker.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah it's um... urgent." You watched as he began to back away from the door towards the elevator. The chances of you reeling him in were rapidly dwindling.
“I’ve got leftover cookies and wine. My way of saying thanks.”
“No sorry it’s just- yeah I’ve really got to go.”
"Ok well, I'll see you Monday." You tried to hide the disappointment in your tone. "Thanks again."
"Anytime. Have a good weekend."
Clark waited until he was outside before he pressed his back against the brick of your apartment building and let out a shaky breath. He pressed his phone to his ear and glanced down at his feet.
"Gosh darn it." He cursed, bringing his satchel over the front of his groin to hide his growing excitement.
"Buddy, what's up?" He ground his teeth at the jovial tone of his best friend.
"Jimmy, I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this."
"Woah wait, what happened?"
"I'm going crazy." He snapped. "She just rang me asking if I could bring some documents over to her place that she forgot and of course I couldn't say no and when I answered the door she was standing there in these-" He pressed his bag firmer into his groin as memories of your pyjamas taunted him.
"-these lacy pyjamas and I nearly combusted right then and there." He hissed, glancing around to make sure no one else was in earshot.
"Lacy pyjamas?" Jimmy let out a low whistle. "Geez I didn't think she had it in her."
"Jimmy." Clark bit out.
"Sorry, but I don't know why you're freaking out. This is great."
"How is this great?"
"Because... it means our strategy is working. Think about it. Have you ever known her to just 'forget' something important that is work related?"
The receiver crackled slightly as Clark processed Jimmy's words. He had a point, you forgot a lot of things, but never anything in relation to your work. You were a gun.
"The point is she doesn't. So, she either intentionally forgot them or didn't actually need them."
"But why would she do that?"
Jimmy sighed. "Honestly Clark, your naivety is endearing but also so concerning at the same time. She wanted you to come over and see her in those pyjamas."
Clark glanced up at your apartment building, "you really think so?"
"I know so. This is her trying to remind you that she exists. To tempt you."
"Oh golly... I definitely know she exists." You were literally all he thought about.
"Yes but she doesn't know that. Trust me, it's working. Just keep doing what you're doing."
Clark sighed, "How long do I have to keep doing this?"
"Until she cracks."
"And when will I know when she cracks?"
"Oh, you'll know."
"I don't understand, he used to be literally obsessed with me."
"I'm pretty sure he still is."
You glumly look up from your coffee at Lois. "Something's changed. This is a version of Clark I don't even recognise." You pause as you lift your coffee to your lips. "I want a refund." You muttered into the liquid.
"Maybe he's playing hard to get." Cat suggested.
"This is Smallville we're talking about. Playing hard to get would be physically impossible for him." Lois remarked.
"True. Maybe he's just... going through some stuff."
You sighed and slumped into your chair. "I don't know what I did, but he hates me."
"He definitely does not hate you."
"How do you know?"
"Because, I see the way he looks at you from his desk when you're not looking." Lois raised her brows. "Trust me. It's sickening."
"Then what do I do?"
"Well." Lois leant forward over the table. "Firstly I think we need an answer as to why this is bothering you so much."
You crossed your arms over your chest. "Because Clark is my friend and he's acting weird."
Lois' eyes narrowed, her face sharpening into that interrogative look she often got when she was about to blow a story wide open.
"You're a terrible liar."
"Let's just cut to the chase. We both know you like him." Cat interjected.
Your eyes darted between them nervously. "Why do I feel like this is an interrogation?"
"It's not an interrogation if we already have the answers." Lois said smugly.
"Ok let's just say hypothetically I did have some...feelings for him." You began. "It takes me back to my initial question which is, what do I do?"
Thankfully they were both kind enough not to shout 'I told you so' in your face, but you knew they both desperately wanted to.
"Well the logical answer is to tell him how you feel but obviously you don't want to do that because that would mean you would have to admit your feelings and lower those walls you've built around yourself."
You glowered at Lois. "I don't remember asking to be psychoanalysed."
"Yeah ease up Sherlock." Cat rolled her eyes. "Although she has a point, I agree it's a big jump to outright say anything. I think he just needs a nudge, a reminder that you exist."
You winced. "What if I've already tried that?"
There was a pause as Cat and Lois blinked insync before leaning forward. "What do you mean?"
Your cheeks flushed as you recounted the pyjama incident. Even Lois' infamous poker face faltered at points. Silence enveloped the three of you once you finished as the girls digested what they'd just heard.
"Shit. This is worse than I thought." Lois finally spoke.
"See why I'm stressing! My slutty pyjamas aren't even tempting him."
"You're down bad." Cat tutted and shook her head.
You shot her a glare, "not helpful."
"There's no need to stress yet. Clark's a gentlemen and as innocent as a lamb, he might have not picked up on anything or was too flustered to react."
Cat nodded in agreement. "Clark is hopeless. It needs to be something that gives you guys a chance to spend more time together, like working on an article or going to a work event."
"There is the gala that's coming up, the one Perry invited us all too." You suggested meekly.
"Yes that's perfect."
Lois nodded at Cat's answer in agreement.
"Ask him to go with you, you don't need to suggest it as a date or anything, but even Clark's not that clueless. And if for some reason it went pear-shaped, you can just say something like 'oh I meant like a group of us all go together'."
You looked at them intently, "you two are geniuses."
"Tell us something we don't know." Cat winked.
"Oh and be confident. One smile and bat of your lashes and he's putty in your hands. You're the prize, remember that." You smiled as a rare glimpse of affection crossed Lois' face.
She was right, you had him wrapped around your finger. You could dissolve his willpower in a matter of seconds if you wanted to.
"I can do that."
You finally got your opportunity the day before the gala when you wandered into the break room and realised it was just you and Clark in the tiny space.
"Hey." You smiled.
"Hey." He muffled out as he awkwardly tried to shove the mouthful of egg salad sandwich that was currently glued between his teeth down his throat.
You tried to control your nerves as you confidently crossed the room.
"I can't believe Perry's dragging us to one of those galas again." You commented casually as you grabbed your lunch out of the fridge.
"Yeah I know. Hopefully the food's better than the last one." He'd just confirmed that he was planning to go. Off to a good start.
"Surprised we didn't get food poisoning." You remarked as you shut the fridge door with your heel.
Clark chuckled in agreement before taking another bite of his sandwich.
"So I was thinking..." You trailed off as you perched on the table, swivelling your torso around so you were looking down at him. You swallowed as you caught a whiff of his cologne. This was the closest you two had been in weeks.
"You and I should go to this thing together, you know as a preventative measure to try and mitigate the inevitable boring conversations." You made sure your face was the perfect image of calm, with the addition of a soft smile and a flutter of your lashes.
Clark spluttered at your words causing his food to get caught in his throat and for a second you thought he might actually be at risk of choking.
"Clark are you ok-" You leant forward to touch his arm gently.
He jerked his arm back so quickly you were surprised he didn't get whiplash. The movement was so violent you felt the table shake underneath you.
"Sorry I-I can't."
You recoiled like you'd just been slapped. You felt nausea pool in your stomach. Could he really not bear for you to even touch him? It was like you were a leper and even your presence repulsed him.
You forced a tight lipped smile onto your face. "Got better plans huh?" You were aiming for a teasing tone, but instead it just came out pained. You prayed that he didn't catch the way your voice wavered at the end.
"I um- I'm already bringing someone."
Suddenly it all made sense. The complete shift in attitude, the lack of interest. He'd met someone else. You supposed you couldn't really be mad, you'd gone on a date yourself not that long ago. And yet, you were. You felt the rage bubble in the pit of your stomach, seeping into your bones.
You both had still been friends. Good friends in fact. Or at least you'd thought so. Was that all it ever was? He was attracted to you and then when he found someone better, you were just discarded? That didn't seem like the Clark you knew, your Clark.
Then again, you supposed he wasn't ever really yours.
"I see." You nodded. "I'm looking forward to meeting them." You shot him a smile that you knew didn't reach your eyes.
You pushed yourself off the desk and hastily made your way to the door, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.
Your hand hovered over the handle, your heart rooting your feet into the ground. Something inexplicable forced you to twist around to face him. He was still staring at you.
"You know... I actually hate baking."
You laughed bitterly as you thought about the hours you'd spent cursing the kitchen as you measured the ingredients and rolled dough.
"But you mentioned once that you hadn't had a good cookie since you'd left Smallville and I thought what the hell, I can give it a go. And then after your reaction.... I just kept going."
You forced your voice to stay steady as you kept your eyes locked with his.
"Now that I think about it, maybe it was my way of giving you a piece of me without realising it."
The silence between you was taught but Clark's jaw was slack as he tried to make sense of what you'd just unleashed.
"I'll see you tomorrow night."
Without another word you shut the door, giving you the much needed separation. You exhaled a shaky breath as you forced yourself to keep walking back to your desk.
You hadn't realised how much you would miss him. Yes, you still technically saw him everyday, but having him be present and having his presence were two very different things.
He'd always been so reliant. He was like a steady current, always keeping you afloat even when you felt your confidence waiver.
Now you felt like you were a ship lost at sea, floating aimlessly in the still water, your walls well and truly under siege.
The gala was exactly as Clark had predicted. Packed with boring donors who all walked around with stiff upper lips and perfect postures. The waiters were carrying around plates of food that looked like they'd be more suited to be served on Krypton than Earth.
But according to his heart rate, this was the equivalent of taking on an intergalactic threat. He fiddled with his bowtie as he scanned the room. He still hadn't spotted the reason for his rapid pulse.
He'd barely slept last night. Your conversation in the break room playing on a loop as he picked through it, sifting through the inflection of your speech and the micro expressions on your face.
The second he'd said he was bringing someone else, he wanted to take it back, to collect those words up and stuff them back down his throat. He had no idea why he said it. But the look on your face when you’d tried to make a joke of the situation had made him so close to blurting out everything that he'd just said the first excuse that had popped into his head.
He'd wanted to run after you, to drop onto his hands and knees and explain that he'd meant none of it. But when you'd turned and looked back at him, he froze with his mouth open, like a pathetic clown at one of those fair stalls.
He noted the beautiful chandelier and the antique paintings and décor peppered throughout the ballroom. You would love it. He wanted to point it out to you, to tell you how the shimmering chandelier reminded him of you. How it was nearly as effervescent as you - but not quite, because that would be impossible.
"There you are Kent!" Cat and Lois approached him. No sign of you.
"Where's Y/N?"
Clark frowned, "she's not with you?"
Lois and Cat exchanged a look. "She didn't ask you to come with her?"
Clark's cheeks reddened. "How do you know about that?"
Another look was exchanged. Clark got the feeling they were having a conversation right in front of him.
"So you said...no?" Cat folded her arms in front of her chest.
"I-" Clark glanced between them, swallowing nervously at their piercing gazes.
"I told her I was bringing someone."
"And did you? 'cause I sure as hell don't see anyone."
"No." He admitted quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Explain. Now."
Clark felt himself beginning to unravel. "Well Jimmy told me that I should-"
"Well well well, don't we all scrub up nicely!"
The three of them turned to see Jimmy sauntering towards them. He froze when he saw Cat and Lois' murderous expressions. He gulped at the sight of Clark's terrified one.
"You know I kind of feel like I'm interrupting something so I'm just going to-"
"No." Lois' voice cut through the tension like a blade. "I really think you should stay."
"Clark was just about to tell us why he told Y/N he couldn't come with her tonight and that he was bringing a date."
"Wait what-" Jimmy balked.
Lois held up a hand, "continue Clark."
Clark's eyes darted to Jimmy nervously before looking back at her. "Well Jimmy suggested that I act less interested, to stop acting like I was her 'boyfriend'."
"You what-"
"It was just so she could realise how much she would miss him fawning over her." Jimmy protested. "I didn't tell him to turn her down if she asked him out."
Clark winced under Jimmy's glare. "I just panicked, but after everything she said in the break room yesterday, I've decided that I'm going to tell her how I really feel."
There was a pause as everyone processed his words.
"Clark." Lois said slowly, her voice eerily calm. "What did she tell you yesterday in the break room?"
"She told me that she actually didn't really like baking but saw how much I liked it and that... that it was a way for her to give me a piece of her without realising it."
They all looked at him in disbelief. Clark thought Lois might actually punch him.
"Jesus Clark." Jimmy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Remember when I told you that you'd know when she cracked?"
There was a pause as Clark swallowed nervously, "that was her cracking, wasn't it?"
Clark swivelled around and felt his heart nearly burst out his chest at the sight of you. The polished floors reflected the shimmer of your floor length pale yellow gown. You turned to grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter, revealing the low cut of the dress at the back.
You met his eyes from across the room. An unreadable look crossed your features as you took a sip of your drink. Clark blinked and you were gone, lost in the sea of attendees.
Clark turned back to see Lois' eyes fixed on him. If looks could kill, he'd be a dead man. He gulped.
"Fix it. Or else the Planet's headline tomorrow is going to read 'Journalist brutally murdered by co-worker over his inexplicable stupidity'."
You had no idea why you were here. It must be some sick and twisted new form of self-flagellation that your brain had concocted. The second you saw Clark standing there in his tux you had felt what little resolve you'd patched up over the last twenty four hours crumble. The only saving grace was that you were yet to see his date. That might just be your last straw.
You should have brought someone as revenge. You’d thought about it. But you didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.
You watched a server walk past you, your face scrunching in disgust. If you were speaking to Clark, you would have asked him if he'd flown to Krypton to supply the food at this thing.
Within ten minutes of walking in the door, you'd been cornered by an older man who was claiming to be incredibly interested in your line of work. You watched as his eyes moved down your body. More like the line of your underwear.
"I don't understand how someone like you could be here alone." He purred. "You have to let me take you out onto the dance floor. I won't take no for an answer."
And there it was.
"I'm not-"
"She's not alone."
You didn't need to turn to know who it was. The way his voice crept up your spine was enough to give away his identity. You stole a glance up at him. He towered over you, even in your heels. The heat that radiated from him was enough to make you weak in your knees.
You were close enough that you could see the tick of his jaw as he clenched it. His blue eyes piercing holes through the man in front of you.
"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realise." He stammered, cowering under Clark's glare.
He glanced at you and muttered, "Have a lovely evening."
"You too." You answered, shooting him a sarcastic smile as he scurried away.
"Creep." You grumbled under your breath.
His eyes were already fixed on you when you looked up at him this time, like he was trying to mesmerise every detail of your face.
"You look beautiful."
You tried to unscramble your brain as you studied him. The proximity that you had been craving for weeks was clouding your judgement, sending your senses completely off kilter.
"Would you... like to dance?"
The yes that you wanted to say was desperately trying to leap off your tongue. He studied your face like it was a work of art. You could sense his hand hovering over your skin, threatening to touch you. The yes was on the precipice now.
"I'm bringing someone else."
His words echoed in your brain, shoving you back into reality. He'd turned you down and now he had the audacity to do all of this without an explanation?
You took a step back, his outstretched hand falling limp at his side immediately. Your face hardened as you stared at him.
"Actually, I think I need some air."
His lips began to form your name but you turned and made a beeline for an exit before they could reach your ears. The satin fabric of your dress clung to you as you weaved through the crowd, which all suddenly felt much too suffocating.
You went through the closest door you could find, spilling out onto a small balcony overlooking the city. The room that the gala was being held in was so soundproof it was easy to forget that you were right in the heart of it. The combination of the harsh sounds of a humming Metropolis below you and the crisp night air hitting your exposed skin was a shock to the system.
You gripped onto the rail, exhaling a shaky breath as you tried to make sense of what had just happened.
You squeezed your eyes shut at the sound of the door opening and closing behind you. You didn't need to turn around to know who stood behind you. You could feel his presence, sense the way that the energy slightly shifted. Like time stilled around you just for a brief moment.
The sound of your name coming from his lips made you ache. He said it softly, just loud enough that the wind could carry it to you.
"Please just let me-"
"Enough mind games Clark." It was supposed to come out as a demand, but it came out more like a plea as you turned to him.
His glasses were in his suit pocket, leaving his face raw and exposed. The face that you knew only a select few got to see. The one that carried the weight of the world on its shoulders. The one that had thrown your life into disarray.
"For weeks you wouldn't touch me with a twenty foot pole and now you're looking at me like you never want to let me go." Your voice was painfully wobbly as your grip tightened on the rail, like it might somehow steady you in the storm of emotions.
"I know.” He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I've really screwed up. But I can explain." His expression was desperate, his eyes shining with a mixture of emotions.
He took your silence as permission to continue. "I didn't have a date for tonight. I made it up because I was so close to telling you the truth and it was the first excuse that popped into my head."
"The truth?"
He inhaled a deep breath. "After the night at Duke's when you left to go to your date I kind of... spiralled. I broke one of my golden work rules and I..." He looked like he was physically in pain from what he was about to admit, "I took advice from Jimmy."
You blinked in surprise. "You took advice from Jimmy?"
He nodded.
"Clark." You spoke slowly as you tried to process what he’d just said. "what advice did Jimmy give you?"
"He told me to pretend I wasn't interested in you and to stop doting on you, something about 'no boyfriend privileges on a friendship membership'."
Despite everything, you let out a snort of laughter. "Oh my god."
"I know, it's stupid. I'm a jerk. I'm so sorry."
You shook your head in disbelief, "no, you're not. I'm the jerk. Or I guess- maybe we’ve both been jerks.”
You let out a defeated sigh at his confused expression. If he was going to be honest with you, it was about time you returned the favour.
"I knew you had a crush on me. I knew for a while. And I enjoyed it. I liked the attention but not having to commit because that meant-" You felt a breath catch in your throat. "-that meant it wasn't ever going to be anything real. That I couldn't get hurt."
He took a step towards you as you felt your voice waiver again. "But then all of a sudden you weren't there anymore and I- I couldn't handle it. And it wasn't about the five refills of coffee a day I used to get without leaving my desk-"
His lips twitched up in amusement at that.
"It was about the fact that I missed our walks home together, the calls on the weekend after a new episode of our show came out, the way our hands would brush when you'd hand me a coffee cup. I just missed you."
You couldn't believe the words that were flowing out of your mouth, but now you'd started spilling your confessions to him, you couldn't stop, like you could feel yourself getting lighter as you unburdened yourself.
"I've missed you too. So much.” He breathed out. "It's why I was acting so strange. I couldn't risk you touching me...because I knew that if I felt your touch I wouldn't be able to hold myself back.” He let out a humourless chuckle.
“Heck, I couldn’t even bear to even really look at you properly. This has been- this has been torture for me. I’ve been on the edge the entire time.”
Your breathing hitched as he took another step towards you. "And don't get me started on that night I dropped those documents to your place."
You swore his eyes darkened for a split second as he looked down at you. You felt the energy crackle and pop as it shifted between you. You knew then. You weren’t on the edge of uncharted waters anymore, you were up to your neck in it.
"I thought I had you dead to rights there." Your tone was light, the side of your mouth quirking up.
He caught his lip between his teeth as he moved forward again. You were almost chest to chest now, so close that you could feel his body heat desperately reaching out to engulf you.
"Believe me, I had to use every last bit of my self control."
"Luckily for you, they're still in my drawer."
His face bloomed red at that. "Don't tease me."
"Who said I was teasing?"
You let out an audible gasp as he finally closed the gap between you, snaking his broad arms around your waist to bring you flush against his chest. You felt warmth bloom across your lower back as his fingers gently brushed your exposed flesh, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
He let out a shaky breath as he admired you. "Now that I've touched you again, I don't want to ever stop."
"Then don't." You murmured. Pleaded.
His breath fanned your face as he leant up to cradle your jaw. He tilted your head up so he could press his forehead against yours.
"I love you." He said it reverently, like he was swearing an oath at the alter of you. You squeezed your eyes shut as you processed his words. "I have since the first day you walked into the Planet. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner.” When you opened them again, his eyes were glassy. You swore you could see the ocean in them.
"I love you too. I'm sorry it took me so long to admit it to myself, even when I've known it deep down this whole time."
Then his lips were finally on yours. If he hadn’t been holding you so tightly your knees might have buckled. The kiss was much like him, warm and steady, safe.
You knew it then. Your walls were well and truly down.
But you'd found your safe harbour.
The two of you only broke apart when you needed air, your chests ragged, Clark's bowtie askew.
"What?" Clark asked when he noticed the amused smile playing on your lips as you curled your fingers into the hairs on the nape of his neck.
"Nothing, I just can't believe Jimmy's advice actually worked."
"Me neither." He breathlessly chuckled.
"He can never find out." You both said simultaneously. You both broke into a fit of giggles, your noses bumping against each other as you clung to one another.
"Do you think we should go back inside? The others might be wondering where we are." You murmured against his lips.
Clark shook his head.
“I’ve used up all my willpower when it comes to you, I’m not spending another minute in there when I can have you out here all to myself."
“Good.” You grinned. "Because I’ve realised that I like my Clark Kent with absolutely zero willpower."
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
Summary: While moving in together, you find something Clark never meant you to read yet.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The new apartment smells like cardboard and fresh paint and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne. Clean, warm, familiar. The kind of scent that settles into your lungs and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
Home already, somehow.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by half-opened boxes and crumpled packing paper, when Clark straightens up in the kitchen doorway. He’s holding an empty cabinet door in one hand, brow furrowed in concentration, until he notices you looking at him.
That sheepish, boyish smile appears. The one that still makes your chest flutter even after everything. After years. After knowing him in ways the world never will.
“We forgot paper towels,” he says, solemn. Like it’s a confession. Like this might be the thing that finally proves neither of you is qualified to live like an adult.
You blink at him for a second. Then laugh.
“Of course we did,” you say, shaking your head. “We remembered the coffee maker but not paper towels.”
He winces slightly. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s on us, baby,” you say. “This is a shared failure.”
He laughs softly, relief easing his shoulders. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promises, already reaching for his jacket. “Ten, max. I’ll just run downstairs.”
He hesitates before leaving, eyes lingering on you in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s committing the image to memory, your hair pulled back messily, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose on you, surrounded by boxes labeled Kitchen and Bedroom and Our Stuff in his careful handwriting.
He steps closer, crouches down in front of you.
Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t rush toward the next moment. Just affection, given freely.
Like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
“Don’t unpack anything suspicious without me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.
You snort. “No promises.”
That earns you a grin—fond, hopelessly in love—and then he’s standing again, slipping on his jacket, glancing back one more time before opening the door.
The lock clicks behind him.
The apartment goes quiet.
Not empty, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that exists only when you’re building something with someone. When silence isn’t absence, but comfort.
You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, just taking it in. The light filtering through the windows. The way the space already feels shaped around him. Around you.
Then you turn back to unpacking.
Clark’s boxes are… exactly what you expect.
Neat. Carefully taped. Every one labeled in that slightly slanted handwriting you know so well. You open a box marked Kitchen and find everything wrapped meticulously, towels folded evenly, utensils bundled together with rubber bands.
You smile to yourself. Of course he did this.
The next box reads Books (Misc.).
That one draws your attention immediately.
You open it and begin lifting out familiar spines—journalism textbooks from college, thick hardcovers with cracked spines, novels he insists he only read once but you’ve caught him rereading late at night more times than you can count. There’s a battered paperback with a folded corner you recognize; he’s had that one since before you met.
Each book feels like a quiet reminder: I know you. I know this life.
Then your fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel like the others.
Smooth. Cool. Leather.
You pause.
Nestled between two hardcovers is a notebook. Dark blue. Leather-bound. The edges are worn, the spine softened like it’s been opened and closed many times. Cherished.
You lift it carefully, like it might be fragile.
Your brow furrows.
You’ve been dating Clark for a while now. Long enough to know his habits. His routines. Long enough to know he’s not the kind of man who leaves things unexplained—not intentionally, anyway.
And he doesn’t keep a diary.
You’ve never seen him write in anything like this. Never noticed a notebook tucked away. Never seen him carry it, never heard him mention it in passing. For someone who’s otherwise so transparent with you, this feels… different.
Private.
Your thumb rests against the edge of the cover.
A small voice in your head speaks up, gentle but firm.
This is private.
You hesitate, the weight of the notebook suddenly heavier in your hands. You imagine Clark’s careful way of holding things he values. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The trust between you—earned, mutual, precious.
You should put it back.
But curiosity slips in—not sharp or invasive, just confused. Tender. The kind that comes from closeness, not entitlement.
Why has he never mentioned this?
You glance once toward the door, as if he might somehow already be back, watching.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the cover.
Just a peek, you tell yourself. Just the first page.
The paper inside is thick, slightly yellowed with age.
And then you see the handwriting.
Clark’s.
Careful. Earnest. Familiar.
Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first line.
For my wife, Y/N.
Your heart stutters so hard you actually have to put a hand to your chest.
For a second, you think you’ve misread it. That your eyes are playing tricks on you. You blink once. Twice.
The words don’t change.
Wife.
The room tilts, just slightly—not enough to knock you over, but enough to make everything feel unreal, like the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You sink back onto your heels, the notebook heavy in your hands, heavier than any box you’ve lifted all day.
Wife.
He hasn’t proposed.
You’ve talked about the future—carefully at first, like people do when they’re afraid to hope too much. Conversations that started with someday and maybe and eventually grew into when and we. You’ve talked about living together, about places you might want to travel, about growing old in ways that felt half-joking and half-serious.
But this?
This feels like peeking behind a curtain you weren’t meant to see yet. Like stepping into a moment that was supposed to belong to another day. Another version of you—dressed up, heart racing, standing across from him while he asks the question out loud.
Your hands tremble as you turn the page.
The paper whispers softly, like it knows it’s holding something sacred.
I’ve held this diary since the moment I met you in the Daily Planet lunchroom. November 30th, 2021. The day my world changed color, suddenly brighter, like a rainbow I didn’t know I’d been missing.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat.
November 30th, 2021.
You remember that day. The awful salad. The broken microwave. The sandwich he offered you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You remember thinking he was kind in a way that felt rare, disarming.
You didn’t know you’d changed his world.
Tears blur the ink almost immediately. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, then stop—afraid of smudging the words, as if they might disappear if you’re not careful enough with them.
I’m giving you this on our wedding day. I don’t know what our lives will look like then, or how many ordinary, beautiful days will have passed between now and that moment, but I know this much with absolute certainty.
If one day, any day, you ever feel like I don’t love you, like I’ve grown distant or the world has tried to convince you otherwise, I want you to open these pages and see how completely, how endlessly, you are wrong.
Every word here is proof of how I fell in love with you and how I kept falling, again and again, without ever meaning to stop. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my life.
Yours forever,
Kal-El
Your chest aches in the best, most devastating way.
It’s not the sharp kind of pain. It’s warm and overwhelming, like your heart has grown too big for your body. Like something is blooming inside you without asking permission.
Never stopped falling for you.
You press the notebook to your chest for a moment, breathing around the emotion, trying to steady yourself. The apartment feels impossibly quiet, like it’s holding its breath with you.
Then, slowly, reverently, you keep reading.
Every page is dated.
Every entry is a memory you recognize.
11/30/2021
I think I met the love of my life today.
I don’t know if that’s ridiculous. I don’t know if it’s too soon to even write that sentence. But if I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll convince myself later that I imagined how it felt.
Daily Planet lunchroom. Same cracked tile floor. The microwave was broken again. Someone burned popcorn. Perry was arguing with someone down the hall. It was just… another day.
And then she was there.
She was sitting by herself at one of the small tables near the window, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a salad like it had personally wronged her. She looked exhausted. Not just physically, like the world had asked too much of her lately. There was something about the way she sighed that made my chest tighten.
I don’t usually act on impulse. I think too much. I hesitate. I measure consequences.
But today I didn’t.
I walked over and held out half my sandwich before my brain could stop me. I didn’t even introduce myself first. Just said something awkward about how the salad looked like it needed backup.
She looked up at me, like really looked, and for half a second I thought I’d made a mistake.
Then she smiled.
Not polite. Not small. A real smile that reached her eyes. She laughed and said I was “brave but misguided,” and suddenly the noise of the room faded into nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like the air changed density. Like the world sharpened into focus around her.
We talked. About nothing important. About everything. She teased me gently. Asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers. When I told her my name, she repeated it like it mattered. When she told me her name, I repeated it because it did matter.
When she went back to work, I stood there for a second too long, holding the empty plate, feeling… undone.
My hands were shaking.
I’ve lifted mountains. I’ve stopped trains mid-crash. I’ve flown through storms without fear.
I have never, ever felt like this.
If this is love, then it’s quieter than I expected. Steadier. Like something ancient settling into place.
I don’t know what will happen next.
I just know I don’t want to forget how today felt.
12/14/2021
First date.
Coffee was supposed to be an hour. That’s what I told myself before I left my apartment. That’s what I told her when we sat down. I even checked the time at the start, like that would somehow keep things contained.
It didn’t.
It lasted almost four hours, and I didn’t notice the time passing until my cup had gone cold and the café started emptying around us. I don’t think either of us wanted to be the one to say it first, that it should probably end, like saying it out loud would break something fragile.
She talks with her hands when she’s excited. I noticed that almost immediately. Little movements at first, then bigger ones when she got passionate about a story. She smiles before she finishes her sentences, like she already knows how they’ll land. And when she listens, really listens, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes focused, like she’s saving every word somewhere important.
No one has ever listened to me like that before.
I found myself talking more than I usually do. About work. About Kansas. About things I don’t normally share. It felt natural, like my mouth was ahead of my caution for once. She never rushed me. Never looked bored. Every response made me want to tell her more.
When we finally left, neither of us wanted to go straight home, so we walked. No destination. Just side by side, letting the city unfold around us. The air was cold, and she tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. I kept noticing small things, the way she matched her pace to mine without realizing it, the way she pointed out things she liked as if she wanted me to see the world through her eyes.
The city felt different with her there. Smaller. Kinder. Like it was giving us space. Letting us borrow it for a while.
I kept thinking I should impress her. Say something clever. Something charming. Something worthy of the way she looked at me. But every time our eyes met, my chest felt too full for pretense. Every rehearsed line disappeared. All I could do was be honest.
And she seemed to like that.
I felt safe.
That word keeps circling back. Safe. Not because I’m strong, not because I could protect her if I had to, but because I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than myself. I didn’t feel watched. Or measured. Or like I was hiding parts of who I am.
I walked her home and stopped outside her building. I told myself not to linger.
I lingered anyway.
When she said goodbye, smiled at me one last time, and turned toward the door, I felt it, physically, like something tugged inside my chest, like part of me wanted to follow her without question.
I stood there longer than necessary after she went inside, just breathing, memorizing the feeling.
I replayed her laugh the entire way home.
I still am.
01/22/2022
Dinner with her.
We went somewhere small tonight. Nothing fancy. One of those places that smells like oil and salt and warmth the moment you open the door. The kind where the tables wobble slightly and the menu hasn’t changed in years.
She ordered before me because she already knew what she wanted. I liked that. I ordered fries, intending to share them, but I didn’t say it out loud. I just assumed. That probably says something.
They came out hot, steam curling into the air between us. We talked while they cooled, about work, about something she’d read, about nothing important. I was halfway through a story when she reached over.
No asking. No hesitation. Just gently, like it was understood.
She took one fry, careful not to brush my hand, and went right back to listening like she hadn’t just done something quietly significant.
She didn’t even look guilty.
A few seconds later, she noticed me staring.
“What?” she asked, smiling around the bite.
The corner of her mouth curved up like she already knew the answer. I felt my face ache from smiling back before I even realized I was doing it.
Anyone else, I would’ve said something. Joked. Pretended to be annoyed.
Instead, I felt… calm.
Something settled into place inside me. Not a spark. Not a rush. Something steadier. Like my body recognized her before my mind caught up. Like some part of me had already decided: this is where you’re supposed to be.
I didn’t mind losing the fry.
I didn’t mind anything at all.
Oh.
This is it.
This is how it starts, not fireworks or drama or some grand moment you tell people about.
Just a shared table. Warm food. Easy silence.
Belonging.
03/05/2022
Fifth date.
I told her.
I knew I was going to tonight. I’d known all day, maybe longer. The thought sat in my chest like a weight—heavy, necessary. I kept telling myself that if this was going to be real, if she was going to be real to me, then she deserved the truth. All of it.
Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
We were sitting close, closer than before. The lights were low. The city outside the window hummed softly, distant and unaware that my entire world was about to split open. I could hear my own heartbeat. I kept rehearsing the words in my head, terrified that if I didn’t say them perfectly, I’d lose her.
Superman.
Krypton.
The truth.
I’ve faced down enemies without fear. I’ve stood between the world and destruction without hesitation. But tonight, my palms were damp, my throat tight, my voice almost too small to trust.
I told her anyway.
I told her who I am. Where I come from. What I can do. What I can’t. I told her about the loneliness. About the responsibility. About how sometimes it feels like I’m made of glass despite being unbreakable.
I watched her face the entire time.
I was ready, so ready for her to pull away. To stiffen. To look at me like I was something dangerous or unknowable. I was ready for disbelief, fear, distance. Ready for the sound of my own heart breaking quietly while I pretended I understood.
She didn’t do any of that.
She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t stare at me like I was a spectacle. She didn’t flinch when I said the word Superman. She didn’t look for the door.
She listened.
The same way she always does. Head tilted slightly, eyes steady, hands folded together like this mattered. Like I mattered.
When I finished, the silence stretched. I could barely breathe. I felt exposed in a way I never have before. Like I’d peeled myself open and handed her everything unguarded.
Then she reached for me.
She took my hand—warm, grounding, real—and said, “Thank you for trusting me.”
That was it.
Not I need time.
Not I’m scared.
Not I don’t know what to say.
Just gratitude.
Trust meeting trust.
Something inside me broke open then. Something old and carefully guarded. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been holding back until that moment, how alone I’d been even when surrounded by people.
I don’t think she knows what that moment did to me.
I don’t think she knows she became my safe place tonight. That for the first time in my life, the truth didn’t feel like a burden, it felt like a bridge.
I fell in love with her again. Deeper than before. Permanently. In a way that doesn’t fade or loosen or ask permission.
If she ever doubts how much she means to me, I want her to remember this night.
I want me to remember it.
06/18/2022
She fell asleep on my shoulder.
We were supposed to watch the movie all the way through. She picked it. I remember that, she was excited about it, insisted it was better than I thought it would be. She curled up beside me like she always does, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could feel her warmth even before she leaned into me.
About halfway through, her head tipped just slightly toward my shoulder. I felt it before I saw it, the gentle weight of her settling, like she was testing whether it was okay.
I didn’t move.
A few minutes later, she tucked herself in properly, her head resting just under my chin, her hair brushing my jaw. Her breathing changed slowly, quietly, until it evened out into something soft and steady. The kind of breathing that only happens when someone feels completely safe.
I could feel everything. Every small shift of her weight. Every tiny exhale. The way her fingers twitched once, then relaxed, trusting I was there.
The movie kept playing. The plot resolved. The credits rolled.
I didn’t move.
Forty-two minutes passed. I know because I counted, not because I was bored, but because I wanted to remember how long I’d been allowed to hold this moment. My arm started to ache. My shoulder went numb.
I didn’t care.
I’ve stopped disasters. I’ve lifted impossible things. I’ve been praised for saving the world more times than I can count.
Tonight, the most important thing I did was stay perfectly still so she could rest.
I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I memorized the way she fit against me, like she had always been meant to. I thought—very quietly—that if this was all love ever asked of me, I would give it gladly.
I would do it forever if she asked.
And if she never did, I think I still would.
09/02/2022
Work.
Nothing remarkable was supposed to happen today.
Just another morning at the Planet. I was standing by my desk pretending to read an article when I felt it.
That gentle pull. That awareness.
I looked up without thinking.
She was across the newsroom, half-hidden behind a monitor, focused on her screen. And then—like she felt me looking—she glanced up.
Just a second. Maybe less.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. Just for me.
My heart did something ridiculous. The kind of thing I’d laugh at if it were anyone else. I felt it in my chest, in my hands, all the way down to my feet like I’d forgotten how gravity worked for a moment.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.
It felt like a secret we were sharing in plain sight, something small and precious tucked between deadlines and coffee cups.
I looked back down at my desk, fully aware that my smile was impossible to hide.
I still get nervous when she looks at me like that.
I’ve faced impossible odds. I’ve stood against things that should have terrified me. But that quiet smile across the newsroom still makes my pulse stumble like I’m fifteen and hopelessly obvious about it.
She makes me feel young. Not careless, but alive. Like someone who’s still discovering what love can be, who hasn’t reached the end of the feeling yet.
Lois noticed. Of course she did. She smirked when she passed my desk.
Jimmy noticed, he raised his eyebrows and whispered “cute.”
Cat noticed. Steve noticed. I think Perry noticed too, though he pretended not to.
I don’t care.
They can notice all they want.
All I want—all I will ever want—is for her eyes to keep finding mine. In crowded rooms. In quiet mornings. Across every place life puts us.
For the rest of my life.
11/30/2022
One year.
I don’t think I really understood what today would feel like until it was already happening. I knew it mattered. I knew it was important. But I didn’t expect the weight of it, the way it would sit in my chest all evening, heavy and warm and almost too much to hold all at once.
A year.
That sounds so small when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five ordinary days stacked gently on top of each other. Days that didn’t look remarkable from the outside. Days filled with work and quiet dinners and laughter over nothing.
But when I looked at her tonight, really looked at her, I felt the miracle of it.
The fact that she’s chosen me. Every day. For an entire year.
Not the idea of me. Not the parts that are easy or impressive. Me. The quiet mornings. The long nights. The truths she learned early and never turned away from.
She gave me her gift first.
She didn’t hand it to me right away. She asked me to sit down, her voice careful, almost shy. I noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table between us, wrapped in brown paper, the edges taped too neatly. Like she’d redone it more than once. Like she’d worried about it.
“I need you to know,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the package instead of me, “I tried my best.”
That alone made my chest tighten.
When I unwrapped it, I understood why she’d been nervous.
It was a painting.
Not small. Not casual. Not something done in an afternoon. This was time. Intention. Patience. The kind of work you only do when you’re willing to put your heart somewhere visible and vulnerable.
It was the farm.
My parents’ farm.
She’d painted it in late-afternoon light, the kind that turns everything golden and soft, the kind that always made me feel safe growing up. The house stood steady and familiar, the porch just right, the fields stretching out behind it the way they always do. Endless. Open. Like they belong to anyone who needs space to breathe.
And in the center—
All of us.
Ma and Pa.
Me.
And them.
My birth parents.
All of us standing together, arms around one another, no distance between us. No time separating what was lost from what was found. No planets. No years. No absence.
Just together.
Like it was always meant to be that way.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
She rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other as if she were afraid the silence meant she’d done something wrong.
She told me she used pictures to paint the farm I have hanging in my apartment since she hasn’t been there yet. Told me she watched the video again—the one that came with me when I was sent to Earth—paused it, rewound it, studied my birth parents’ faces so she wouldn’t get them wrong.
She told me she didn’t want to mess it up. That she just kept thinking—
Her voice softened then.
—that they’d want to see me happy. That my parents—all of them—belong together in my life. Even if it never looked like this in real life.
My hands were shaking when I held the frame.
She painted Ma’s smile exactly right. The gentleness in my Pa's eyes. That quiet pride he never needs to announce. And my birth parents—hopeful, loving, looking at me like I was everything.
She gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.
A world where nothing was lost.
I didn’t cry right away. I think I was too overwhelmed. I just stared, memorizing every brushstroke, every careful decision she’d made with love. Trying to understand how someone could see me so clearly.
“I didn’t know if it was okay,” she whispered. “But it felt important.”
I pulled her into my chest without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I needed to feel her there, solid and real.
It was the most understood I have ever felt in my life.
Then it was my turn.
I won’t pretend I didn’t agonize over her gift. I did. For weeks. I wanted it to be something beautiful. Something lasting. Something that carried meaning even if the words failed me.
Inside the small velvet box was a necklace.
Gold. Delicate. The chain thin and warm. And at its center, a butterfly—crafted so carefully it looked like it might lift off at any second if the light caught it just right.
She went very still when she saw it.
I remembered something she told me once—quietly, almost like she didn’t want to make it important. That butterflies were her mother’s favorite. That they reminded her of gentleness. Of transformation. Of staying, even after someone leaves.
I chose it because of that.
Because I wanted her to have something close to her heart. Something that carried love forward instead of marking loss. Something that said she is held—by memory, by love, by me.
It cost more than I usually allow myself to spend on anything. More than was practical. More than was reasonable.
But she’s worth it.
All of it.
She cried then.
Not loudly. Just leaned into me, clutching the necklace like it was something fragile and sacred. My hands weren’t steady when I fastened it around her neck. I don’t think I trusted myself to be.
It looked like it belonged there.
We didn’t say much after that.
We just sat together, her painting propped carefully against the wall, the butterfly warm against her skin, the quiet settling around us like a promise.
A year.
One year of choosing each other. Of learning each other. Of loving in ways that still surprise me.
I still can’t believe she’s with me.
I still wake up amazed that someone so thoughtful, so kind, so deeply human, has chosen to share her life with mine.
If this is what one year feels like, I want all the years.
Every single one.
With her.
02/11/2023
She had a bad day.
I knew the moment I saw her.
She tried to hide it, smiled when she walked in, asked how my day was—but her shoulders were too tight, her voice just a little too careful. I didn’t call it out right away. I’ve learned that sometimes she needs space to land before she can let go.
Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, she finally sat beside me on the couch and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.
She didn’t want fixing.
She didn’t want answers.
She didn’t want me to make it better.
She just wanted someone to sit with her.
So I did.
I stayed exactly where I was. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that she could lean if she wanted to—but I didn’t pull her in until she chose it herself. When she finally rested her head against my shoulder, it felt like permission.
I wrapped an arm around her slowly, carefully, like she was something precious.
We didn’t talk much. A few quiet words. Long stretches of silence. I could feel the tension leaving her shoulders little by little, like she was setting something heavy down piece by piece. Like she trusted me to hold the weight with her, even if I couldn’t take it away.
I watched her breathe. I watched her relax.
I wished—again—that she could see herself the way I do.
Strong, even when she’s tired.
Kind, even when the world hasn’t been.
Brilliant in ways she never gives herself credit for.
Braver than she knows, simply for showing up every day and trying.
She thinks strength looks loud. Unbreakable.
But this—this quiet endurance, this softness she allows only with me—this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
Loving her feels like standing in sunlight. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. Just steady and warm and certain. Like something you can build a life in.
I finally understand what “home” means.
It isn’t a place.
It’s this moment, her leaning into me, the world quiet for a while, knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
With her.
07/29/2023
She met my parents today.
I’ve been nervous about a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced fear head-on more times than I can count. But today, today my stomach was in knots in a way that surprised me.
I brought her home.
Not just to Kansas. Not just to the farm.
Home.
I didn’t warn her much beforehand. Maybe I should have. I only said that my parents would love her, and that was true—but it didn’t feel like enough. I don’t think I realized until today how much it mattered to me that they see her the way I do.
She wore something simple. Comfortable. Herself. She was polite without being stiff, warm without trying too hard. When Ma hugged her, I watched her melt into it like she’d been waiting for that kind of welcome without knowing it.
Ma loved her instantly. I could tell by the way she touched her arm when she laughed, by how quickly she started asking questions—not the polite kind, but the ones you ask when you want to know someone. Pa watched quietly at first, like he always does, measuring more than he speaks.
Then she offered to help in the kitchen.
She didn’t have to. She just did. Like she belonged there.
I stood in the doorway for a while, pretending not to watch as she laughed with Ma, as flour dusted her hands, as she listened to stories about me growing up with the same attention she always gives me. I saw something in Pa's expression then. Something soft, approving, settled.
At dinner, she asked them about their lives. Their history. She listened when Pa talked about the land. She thanked Pa for the meal like it meant something to her.
When Pa finally said, “We’re glad you’re here,” I felt something loosen in my chest that I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Later, when she stepped outside with me and the cicadas filled the evening air, she slipped her hand into mine like it was second nature. Like she’d always known how to find me.
I realized then that this wasn’t just me bringing her into my world.
She was already part of it.
If there ever comes a day when she doubts—when the world feels loud or unkind or she wonders where she belongs—I want her to remember this. The way my mother smiled at her like she was already family. The way my father looked at her like she was someone worth trusting with what matters most.
I don’t know when I’ll say it out loud.
But today made something very clear to me.
She isn’t just someone I love.
She’s someone I’m building a life with.
Every single day.
10/26/2023
Tonight reminded me why I survive.
I came home barely holding myself together.
I don’t usually let it get that bad. I tell myself I won’t, that I’ll pull back sooner, that I’ll know my limits. But tonight I misjudged things. Strength. Timing. My own belief that I can always take one more hit if it means someone else doesn’t have to.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, my ribs felt like glass. Every breath was shallow and sharp, like my lungs were cutting against something broken inside me. My shoulder burned, deep, angry pain that wouldn’t quiet no matter how I shifted my weight. I could feel blood drying along my side, stiffening my suit, pulling at my skin every time I moved.
I didn’t knock.
I couldn’t risk standing upright long enough to do it.
I just leaned against the doorframe for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood, wondering how much she’d see the moment I stepped inside. Wondering if I could make it to the couch without worrying her too much. Wondering—selfishly—if I could keep this from being one of the nights that lives in her fear.
She heard me anyway.
She always does.
The door opened before I could decide anything, and there she was.
Not panicked.
Not shouting my name.
Not frozen in shock.
Just there.
Her eyes found me instantly, sharp and assessing, taking everything in at once—the blood, the way I was favoring my right side, the way my shoulders were held too stiff, like they were bracing against pain I didn’t want to admit to yet.
I could hear her heart.
It was racing. Fast. Uneven. Terrified.
And still—her voice was calm.
“Hey,” she said softly, like she wasn’t looking at someone who’d barely made it home. Like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “Come sit down. Slowly. I’ve got you.”
Those words, 'I’ve got you', did something to me. I felt my knees weaken the moment she said them, like my body finally believed it was allowed to stop fighting.
She moved with such care. Every step deliberate. Every touch gentle and precise, like she was handling something precious instead of broken. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t bombard me with questions or try to assess everything at once.
She knew (somehow) that her calm was the thing keeping me upright.
That her fear, however loud it was inside her, wasn’t what would help me heal.
I watched her swallow it down for me.
I watched her steady her hands before she touched me, watched her breathe slowly on purpose, watched her make herself quiet so I could finally exhale.
She helped me sit, eased my weight down inch by inch, murmuring small reassurances the whole time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just constant presence. Proof that I wasn’t alone in the room with the pain.
When she cleaned the blood from my hands, she did it like she’d done it a hundred times. Cloth warm, pressure careful, movements practiced. But I could hear her heart the entire time, still racing, still afraid.
It never slowed.
And still, she stayed steady.
She talked while she worked—not about what happened, not about what could have gone wrong. Just small things. The grocery list. Something funny she’d read earlier. The way the neighbor’s dog barked all afternoon.
Grounding sounds. Anchors.
I realized then how much effort it must take. How much strength it takes to choose calm when fear is screaming in your chest. How brave you have to be to love someone like me and still soften your hands when they come home hurt.
That’s when it hit me. Again.
Anyone can love the invincible part of me.
The symbol.
The strength.
The idea of safety.
But she loves the part of me that limps home at midnight, trying not to bleed on the floor. The part of me that miscalculates. The part of me that hurts. The part of me that needs someone else to be strong for a moment.
She didn’t ask me to be Superman tonight.
She let me just be Clark.
The way she held me—careful, unafraid, unwavering—did something to me. It settled somewhere deep and permanent, like a truth clicking into place.
I fell in love with her again tonight.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just deeper.
And I don’t think there’s an end to how far that goes.
04/10/2025
We talked about moving in together.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big conversation.
We were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, the TV on low in the background. I don’t even remember what we were watching. She said it casually, almost offhand—something about how much time we already spend together, how it might just make sense.
My heart immediately started racing.
I tried to play it cool. I nodded. I said something reasonable. I even managed to keep my voice steady for a few seconds.
I failed.
I felt my smile give me away before I could stop it. I felt the warmth spread through my chest, that light, buoyant feeling that only she gives me. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been hoping for this until she said it out loud.
We talked about logistics—closets, commutes, who has the better couch—but underneath it all was something quieter and deeper. Certainty. Not excitement that burns out fast, but the kind that settles in and stays.
Ever since that conversation, my mind hasn’t stopped wandering.
I keep imagining mornings.
Her hair messy, sleep still clinging to her voice when she says my name. Sunlight spilling through the window, dust floating in the air like it’s been waiting just for us. The sound of her moving around the kitchen while I pretend not to watch, the comfort of knowing that no matter how the day unfolds, we’ll come back to each other at night.
I imagine shared spaces—books mixing on shelves, her things slowly finding their way into every corner. Little arguments about nothing. Quiet routines that become sacred simply because they’re ours.
I’ve already imagined a ring.
Not just the ring itself, but the way her eyes will widen when she realizes what I’m asking. The way her hands will shake just a little when I take hers. The way saying her name followed by my wife will feel like the most natural truth I’ve ever known.
I don’t know when I’ll ask.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—honest, unhurried, full of love.
But I do know this: the answer has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Since the day I offered her half my sandwich in a noisy lunchroom and felt my world shift in a way I couldn’t name yet.
Everything since then has just been catching up.
If love is choosing someone every day, then I’ve already made my choice.
I’m just finally ready to say it out loud.
11/11/2025
Lois asked me today why I haven’t proposed yet.
She didn’t mean it unkindly. Lois rarely does, even when she pretends otherwise. We were finishing up a story, the newsroom mostly empty, and she leaned back in her chair, studied me for a long moment, then said it like it was obvious.
“So,” she said, “are you ever going to put a ring on her finger, or are you just going to keep pretending she’s not wildly out of your league?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
Because she’s right.
I know she is.
I’ve always known.
Lois kept going, softer this time. “You love her. Anyone with eyes can see that. So what are you waiting for? You scared?”
I thought about that long after she turned back to her screen.
Am I scared?
Yes.
But not in the way she meant.
I’m not waiting because I’m unsure. I’m not hesitating because I don’t know what I want. I don’t wake up questioning whether she’s the one. That answer has lived in me for years now, steady and unmovable.
I’m waiting because I’ve never been this sure before in my life.
Everything else I’ve ever faced—every fight, every impossible choice—has always come with certainty baked in. I knew what had to be done. I knew I could endure it. I knew the risk.
This is different.
This isn’t about survival.
It’s about forever.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—unrushed, honest, full of intention. I don’t want to trip over my own eagerness and risk losing something this precious by moving too fast, by letting the moment feel careless instead of considered.
She deserves a proposal that feels like a promise kept, not a step taken too quickly.
I want the timing to be gentle. The kind that says I chose you every day before this, and I will every day after.
I know she’s out of my league.
She always has been.
But she chose me anyway. She keeps choosing me. And that still humbles me more than I know how to say.
So no Lois, I’m not waiting because I’m afraid to commit.
I’m waiting because this is the most important question I will ever ask.
And when I ask it, I want my hands steady, my heart open, and the certainty she’s given me reflected back to her without doubt or hesitation.
I already know the answer.
I’m just making sure the moment honors how much she means to me.
Always.
Your tears fall freely now, blurring the words, splashing onto the pages of a love story written quietly, faithfully, just for you. You don’t try to stop them. There’s no point. This is what it feels like to be seen so completely it almost hurts.
The notebook trembles in your hands.
Then—
The soft jingle of keys at the door.
You gasp, sharp and startled, like you’ve been caught somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Your head snaps up, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic flares—not guilt exactly, but something close enough to make your chest tighten. You scrub hastily at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the evidence, trying to breathe like your world hasn’t just quietly, irrevocably shifted.
The door opens.
Clark steps inside, paper towels tucked under his arm, jacket half-unzipped, hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside. He looks relaxed—content in that soft, domestic way he’s been wearing all day.
Happy.
Then his eyes find you.
Sitting on the floor.
Diary open in your hands.
Eyes red. Face flushed.
He freezes.
Not just still—suspended. Like time has paused mid-breath.
“…Hey,” he says carefully, voice gentle but alert, like he’s approaching something fragile. “What’s wrong?”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You push yourself to your feet slowly, the movement unsteady, like gravity has changed without warning. You clutch the notebook to your chest instinctively, fingers curling into the leather as if it might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough.
“I—” Your voice breaks immediately. You swallow, try again. “I’m so sorry.”
That stops him.
He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I was unpacking and I found it and I didn’t know what it was and I shouldn’t have opened it, I know that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I’m really sorry, Clark. I never wanted to invade your privacy.”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you.
Then realization dawns.
You watch it ripple across his face: the widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders tense as understanding crashes in. Horror. Embarrassment. Tender, helpless panic.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—Y/N, I—”
The paper towels slip from his arm as he sets the bag down too fast, hands fumbling like his body can’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “No—hey, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just—I wanted it to be for later. For the right moment.”
His voice falters, vulnerability bare on his face. “I was waiting. I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted everything to be… right.”
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “I know. I know. I just—reading it felt like stepping into something I wasn’t meant to see yet.”
His expression softens instantly.
Before either of you can say anything else, you cross the space between you in three quick steps and throw your arms around him.
Clark stiffens in surprise for half a second—pure reflex—before he melts into you completely. His arms wrap around you strong and sure, one hand pressing gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid to let go.
He holds you like you’re something precious.
Like you’re fragile.
Like you’re endlessly, irrevocably loved.
You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—home, warmth, safety—and your voice shakes when you speak.
“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about me,” you whisper. “About us.”
He exhales, long and unsteady, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closing briefly as if to steady himself. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glossy, shining with emotion he isn’t trying to hide.
“You weren’t supposed to read it yet,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with reverent care. “I was waiting for the right moment to propose. After we settled in. After this felt like home.”
Your breath catches.
“But,” he continues quietly, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth, “everything in there is true. Every word. I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me over a sad microwave lunch.”
A wet laugh slips out of you despite everything. “You really wrote it all down.”
He nods, almost shy now. “I wanted proof,” he admits. “For you. For forever. In case the world ever got loud. In case you ever doubted how sure I am.”
You lift your hands to his face, cradling him the way he always cradles you, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst if you don’t say this out loud.
“I don’t need proof,” you say softly. “But I’m really glad I have it.”
He smiles then.
Wide. Radiant. Hopelessly, undeniably in love.
And in that moment—standing barefoot in a half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and cardboard and the life you’re still building—you know.
Even without a ring.
Without a question asked out loud.
pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is.
tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home
warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut)
word count: 10k
note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!
masterlist
The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again.
Not him, obviously. That would be complicated.
Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.
You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened.
At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.
And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be.
You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.
Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.
“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”
Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing.
The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly.
Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second.
It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.
And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”
Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”
Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling.
Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.
When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place.
Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.
Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.
You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.
“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?”
You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.
Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.
You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.
You hadn’t planned to live with him this long.
A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?
When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.
By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.
And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment.
You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place.
He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days.
You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.”
Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that.
From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself.
Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept.
You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.
No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.
Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”
“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were.
You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark.
Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.
You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.
So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.
There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”
You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.”
Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.
Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”
“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.
He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”
You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”
Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”
“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.
“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced, and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”
You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word.
But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.
As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date.
Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.
You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through.
Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections.
None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.
You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.
And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.
At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face.
All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest.
And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off.
As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in.
How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed?
It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.
Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered.
Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.
The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead.
You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair.
You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.
“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”
You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”
Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”
You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”
“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”
You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business.
“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”
Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.
You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”
Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”
You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased.
Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”
The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.
Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.
By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore.
“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”
He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”
You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.
A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.
“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”
And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.
Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead.
You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.
“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.
“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”
Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”
Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”
He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”
Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark.
You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!
“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”
“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”
Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.
“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”
Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”
“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”
He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”
Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.
Then disaster struck.
Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”
You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.
Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.
By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”
You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”
Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”
You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”
Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.
You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.
Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.
The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.
“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.
You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”
Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.
You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”
He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.
By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.
The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”
You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”
Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.
You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”
He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries.
The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow.
He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.
“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”
Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.
Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.
“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”
Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together.
You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.
You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.
But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.
You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him.
Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.
With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while.
“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.
You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.
It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating.
Not that it was anything special.
You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.
You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry.
Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.
Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.
So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement.
It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates.
You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.
“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”
You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”
Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.
“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”
He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”
Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”
You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.
Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.
Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”
You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”
Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”
Your stomach did that impossible flip.
Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.
Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.
The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass.
Meanwhile, you were freezing.
You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.
After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.
But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.
Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.
You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow.
It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.
“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.
You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”
Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”
You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”
Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.
“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.
Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”
You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”
Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”
When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark.
You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”
Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”
You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.
Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened.
There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk.
Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.
Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”
Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.
Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”
You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.
“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”
You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.
Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared.
“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”
“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.
Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.
“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.
Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.
“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.
He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”
There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.
“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.
Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.
“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”
You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”
Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”
“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”
“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”
You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone.
Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”
You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”
Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh.
“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”
The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.
You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”
The way he said it made your heart squeeze.
You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.
Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.
Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”
You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.
Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.
You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing.
In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.
It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.
Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”
You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”
Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”
“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”
“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”
“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”
Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.
“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”
“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”
“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”
Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”
“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning.
Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”
You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”
“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”
“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”
Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”
You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream.
“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”
Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”
“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”
Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.
Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.
The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.
“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.
He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”
You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”
That was all it took.
In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.
It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.
Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.
When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.
The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.
When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.
When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.
The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real.
Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.
You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.
Your throat went dry. “I—”
But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Gosh, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”
The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself.
“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”
His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.
“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.
You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”
Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.
“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.
“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”
Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”
That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.
You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.
Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.
“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?
Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”
The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”
“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to the person I love, not just my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”
Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”
Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”
Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”
He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.
“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”
And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.
You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”
Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.
“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.
“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”
You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.
When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.
You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”
You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”
Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing more than that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”
You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort.
You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation.
It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.
And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”
Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.
Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.
Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”
You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly.
Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”
Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.
summary: when you and Clark's previously nonexistent relationship hits the rocks, you're both left to wonder what you really think about one another, and if you even want the same thing. thankfully, you have Lois and Jimmy on your side, who are tired of the longing glances and missed opportunities. I mean, no one is that obsessed with someone's perfume unless they have a thing for them, right?
content: hyperfem!reader, cursing, arguing, miscommunication, drinking, kissing, jealousy, self-sabotage, mentions of nudity, mentions of sex, two idiots in love, so many sabrina carpenter references, corny jokes, reader takes tylenol, wing woman lois lane, wingman jimmy olsen, clark kent is awkward, reader is a sweetheart but very oblivious, reader is a baddie, (11k words)
a/n: hiii angels! so sorry i've been MIA, writers block is a bitch but I've been working on this for a few weeks now! thank you for all of the lovely messages, I swear I will work on part 2 of Silver Springs soon!!
Clark smells you before he sees you. It’s one of the many distracting abilities he possesses, one he wishes he were better at tuning out on days like this. Days when notes of cherry, brown sugar, and chocolate invade his senses, giving him a high unparalleled by anything he’s ever experienced and making it utterly impossible to get any work done.
He doesn’t even have to look up to know it's you. Still, he does anyway – never one to deny himself a peek at your glossed lips and too-high heels which clack across the linoleum floor, draft folders clutched between your long red nails as you flash an award-winning smile to anyone who crosses your path, including him.
He’s sure he’s staring. He’s also sure he should probably feel some semblance of shame. He can practically hear his ma’s voice in his head, yelling at him, the familiar “now Clark, don’t you go accosting women like that, ya hear?” snapping him out of his trance.
You take a seat at your desk in the bullpen, which lies exactly twelve feet away from his own – he counted. And like clockwork, Clark watches with an aching gulp as you take a sip of your iced latte, your tongue darting out to lick the vanilla cold foam off your lips.
He feels his mouth dry up at the sight, eyes averting downwards in an attempt to erase the image from his brain – or at least store it away for later. By now, Clark is familiar with your routine; he figures that's just what happens when you spend so much time admiring someone from afar.
In fact, he’s sure he can predict your every move by now: you’ll look through your emails for an hour, finish your coffee much too quickly before making your way over to the coffee station to make another, chatting with Lois in the process, before coming back to your desk and dedicating the next two and a half hours to your assigned beat before taking a late lunch, and coming back forty five minutes later to help others revise their beats, paying them a well-deserved compliment in that sweetheart voice of yours.
He’s got it down. He’s sure of it – he’s seen it happen like clockwork for the past eight months, even when he pretended he wasn't looking directly at you (he definitely was). It never really occurred to him that while routine is typical, it’s still a variable that's subject to change.
Maybe that's why when he sees you deep in thought with Lois at the coffee station an hour later, he stills when he sees the both of you make your way over to Lois' desk – which is coincidentally set next to his.
Why were you with Lois? why were you coming over here? and why did you have to smell so good?
He has no time to process it all before he hears the familiar tinge of Lois’ voice, “thank you for doing this, I swear I’ll never ask anything else of you from here on out,” she promises, her voice laced with urgency. Something that Clark usually deduces as genuine, but still, there’s a sort of mischief in her eye that doesn’t go unnoticed as she flits between you and Clark.
“Lois, it’s really no problem! I finished my beat yesterday anyway, go get your lead!” you giggle encouragingly, gesturing for her to hurry, and even going as far as handing her purse and tape recorder over to her so she doesn’t have to walk around to grab them.
It doesn't take long for her to bolt out of the newsroom with a smile, leaving you and Clark shoulder to shoulder in a closer proximity than you’ve ever previously shared.
You lean back in Lois’ chair before turning to smile at Clark. “She’s acting like she asked me to cover for her for the rest of the year,” you muse, shaking your head in idle amusement, and Clark thinks he may be sick.
Sure, you guys have had a few conversations before, though they didn’t often extend beyond him asking you to pass the sugar at the coffee station, and you asking him to hold the elevator open for you when you were running late. Now you were here, at Lois’ desk, your perfume wafting off of you like a spell being cast upon him, leaving him with no clue how he was going to finish his article.
He knows he’s staring when you quirk a brow at him, a sly smile on your face as you wave a manicured hand in front of his eyes, urging him to snap out of it. “Oh uh- yeah! No, right” he stutters out, acutely aware that it’s never been more apparent that he wasn’t listening.
You stifle a laugh as you lean back in Lois’ chair, feet tapping rhythmically to a song he’s sure he’s heard on the radio somewhere, something about being a Busy Woman, he thinks.
Either way, the only thing he can focus on is the cute french-tipped pedicure peeking out from your open-toe pumps – even when he was looking at the ground, he couldn’t escape you.
He winces like he’s been shot when you turn to face him again, a glossy smile sitting pretty on your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, the top two buttons of your fitted blouse straining against the baby pink bra you had on – not that anyone else would know that, x-ray vision and all.
Clark, are you…alright?” you ask, a hint of humor edging your tone as you look him up and down. It was only up close like this when you noticed the most minute details about him, like the way his hair would curl around his eyes when he waited too long to get a haircut, or the way his pupils would dilate whenever you got extra close to him when passing by each other in the office hallway.
“Yeah, yes! I’m great, I’m- I’m fine.” he assures with a weak laugh, turning haphazardly to face his computer, but in the process ends up knocking over his cup of scalding hot coffee across his workspace, jumping up immediately in a horrid mix of mortification and frustration.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” you murmur, jumping up out of your seat to examine the hot liquid that now stains the front of his black slacks. To you, it’s a miracle he isn’t howling in pain at the hot liquid that now drenches his thigh, but to him, it’s a miracle he isn’t a puddle of embarrassment because now the whole office is watching, and Jimmy is shaking his head in quiet amusement a few feet away.
“Your pants! do you want me to grab you some napk-” you begin to utter, but before you get the chance to finish, he’s already gone – rounding the corner out of the bullpen to where you can only assume is the men's bathroom, without so much as a second glance.
You blink back your disappointment before taking a small look around, feeling your cheeks heat at the mere number of eyes that are settled on you. You clench your eyes together in embarrassment and sleuth over to the coffee station, grabbing as many napkins as your hands can hold before you begin cleaning up the couple of spots that landed on your – well, Lois’ – desk.
And if you make the conscious choice to wipe down Clark's desk too, taking extra precaution to leave everything exactly as you found it – and catching a small whiff of his lingering cologne in the process – then you can just chalk it up to being neighborly.
Clark doesn’t come back. At least not while you’re still covering for Lois – which lasts an astounding 4 hours while she chases some lead down on the border of Gotham. In that time, you treat the space like it’s your own; you get a coffee refill, try not to overthink what just happened with Clark, proofread her other beats, hell, you even organize her schedule.
You’re midway through organizing her emails when she comes back to the office, a cocky grin on her face as she sets down her bag before her brows furrow. “Where did Clark go?” You shoot her an awkward smile before shrugging your shoulders sheepishly. “He uh, left about 4 hours ago. Right after he spilled hot coffee on his pants.”
Lois blinks back shock, a grim look on her face as she shakes her head, “and it took him 4 hours for it to dry?” she mutters, “God he’s an idiot.” she whispers to herself. Though Clark was the king of secrets, the one person he could never deceive was Lois Lane.
With the innate skill to sniff out bullshit a mile away, it would've been crazier for her not to notice the crush Clark had on you. And, like the true wing woman she was, she was willing to do anything to get you two idiots together – even if that meant spending 4 hours working on some trivial article she couldn’t care less about so you could take her desk next to Clark for a while – just for him to waste it by leaving.
Oh, she was going to kill him.
You shoot her a sheepish frown before figuring it was probably time to get out of her chair, making sure to fill her in on everything you did while she was gone. “You are a godsend, truly” she stresses with a smile “Are you gonna head out soon?” he murmurs, biting her lip as she looks between you and the door to the newsroom, praying that by some miracle, Clark will walk in.
“Yeah, y’know me- got a date with How To Lose a Guy In 10 Days and a bottle of Rosé tonight.” you wink, stuffing your notebook, pen, and other office supplies into your office bag as you clean up your desk space for the day.
It was only 3:45, but you were ecstatic to finally get out of there – the incident with Clark leaving you mentally drained. All you could do for the 4 hours he was gone was overthink every conversation you two had up until today, going over anything that could’ve possibly made him react that way towards you.
You bid Lois a short goodbye before you exit the office, relishing in the brisk air that caresses your face as you chew on your lip contemplatively. The subway line to your neighborhood doesn't come for forty more minutes, and you’d rather wait it out than walk there in your 6-inch Louboutins.
Plus, your favorite coffee shop is right down the street – the one with a cinnamon cream cold foam you can't get enough of. So you set off in the direction of Fourth Street, dodging stray dogs and hyperactive children every so often before you finally reach the familiar cafe.
It’s the same as it always is when you walk inside, the wafting smell of chocolate muffins, apple fritters, and coffee invading your senses like a balm. You’re on route to the register, already knowing what you want, when you spot a familiar head of dark curly hair sitting and sipping on a hot black coffee at one of the tables by the door.
You stop in your tracks, eyes darting between Clark and the register before you decide to test your luck “Clark!” you murmur, voice raised just enough to get his attention as you flash him a smile and a small wave.
He freezes the second the lull of your voice reaches his ears, the tips of them turning red involuntarily. God, he was an idiot – why didn't he just go back to work? He could walk off an intergalactic alien invasion, but embarrassing himself in front of you was seemingly where he drew the line. Now he just looked like a major asshole.
He turns to face you, a tight smile resting on his face as he gives you a stiff, awkward wave. You’re about to walk over before you hear the barista call out to you, a bored expression on her face. “Ma’am, what can I get for you?”
You turn to face her, a shy smile on your face as you pull out your credit card. “Hi, just a vanilla maple shaken espresso with cinnamon cold foam, please,” you murmur. She nods and writes the order down on the cup before handing it to the barista in the back. You pay quickly, flashing her a smile and a tip before turning sharply on your heel.
You’re about to make your way back to Clark's table, but a quick survey of the area shows it’s vacancy. You only catch a glimpse of his curly hair and suit jacket billowing in the wind as he rushes out of the cafe without so much as a goodbye – the sound of the bell above the door like a death toll that just keeps climbing.
You feel your heart squeeze in your chest as you push back your disappointment. Did you do something? Was there some reason he didn’t like you?
You’re broken out of your self-deprecatory stupor when you hear the familiar dry tone of the barista calling out your name. She gives you an even drier “Have a great day, ma’am” as you grab the cup.
She holds the air of a woman who hates her life, which you both relate to and respect – Me too, girl, you think to yourself as you exit the cafe and make your way towards the subway, wanting nothing more than to go home.
You should’ve known to stop after two glasses, but there was something so spectral about Andie Anderson’s yellow dress after a few glasses of wine – it had more sparkle.
You’re a little over halfway through the movie when you look down at your wooden coffee table, ready to pour yourself another glass, just to find the bottle sitting empty next to a half-eaten bowl of popcorn. Right.
You can help the giggle that escapes you as you take in the sight, slapping your hand over your mouth as you drunkenly look around your couch for the remote. When you finally find it, having had to dig your manicured hands between the smushed couch cushions in the process, you pause the movie and stumble over to your kitchen.
Your pair of work heels scattered by your front door nearly take you out in the process, but you manage to dodge them at the last minute. The rational half of your brain knows that you should probably go to bed and sleep it off, but the other half of your brain notices your phone sitting on the counter next to the empty popcorn bag and can’t resist grabbing it.
It’s a terrible idea, really – at its core, it’s a recipe for disaster, but the drunk part of you can’t bring herself to care as you slide down, back against the wall as you clutch your bejeweled pink phone in your hands, holding it obnoxiously close to your face to even out the blurred vision you’re experiencing.
You’re a clumsy mess of swipes and double-taps when a sickeningly evil idea presents itself in your brain, clouding every semblance of good judgment like a devil on your shoulder. You didn’t follow many people from the office, only Lois and Cat – refusing to follow Jimmy and give him the satisfaction of another “hot babe” following him.
But you see Lois’ story, and in turn, can't help but digitally stalk her profile – you’re only human after all. Everything seems normal until you come across a comment on one of her older posts. It’s just a stupid office pun, but your eyes zero in on his profile. Clark.
You can’t resist clicking on it and zooming into his profile photo. It’s a semi-awkward photo of him smiling in what seems to be a mirror in his apartment, a small white dog lying down in the back while he points at it with a smile.
It’s a private account, because of course it is, you wouldn't expect anything else from Clark Kent. The only other thing visible besides his nerdy picture being his bio, which consists of two things: his occupation, journalist, and a song quote that you don't recognize. You think it may be from that band he’s always playing in his headphones when he leaves the office – the mighty crabjoys, or something?
You don't dwell on it too long, especially when your eyes zero in on his follower count: 68 followers – wow, he really was private.
The sober version of you would never admit it, but it was eating you alive how dismissive he was of you. You weren't used to people not liking you; you always figured you were relatively harmless – a gaggle of laughter, glitter, and pop music, as so many people dubbed you. And sure, you could be mean, but why would anyone be mean to Clark Kent of all people?
Maybe that's why in your drunken stupor, you can't bring yourself to give up, to accept defeat – maybe that's why you click the “request to follow” button before you can stop yourself, the regret immediate in your stomach – or is that the copious amount of wine you’d consumed?
You drop your phone like it’s made of hot coals with a quiet “oh my god” as your choices register in your brain. There was no way you just did that. You had to move, find a new job, and change your name- “beep”
You freeze, peering down at your glowing phone screen to see none other than “Clark Kent has accepted your follow request” in bright letters.
A few seconds later, another beep follows, “Clark Kent has followed you” flashing across your notification board like a siren. You feel like the air has been sucked out of the room, out of your lungs, as you pick up your phone – suddenly hyperaware of what you’ve done and what this means when you see him at work tomorrow, if he deigns to show up, that is.
That doesn't stop you, however, from looking over his profile, scrolling through the mere ten posts he had up – three of them being of the white fluffy dog from his profile picture, five of them being photos from what you assume is his childhood home in Kansas – his parents smiling jovially in the background next to him – and the last two being selfies of him at one of the local art and history museums that just opened up in Metropolis. He really was cute.
So cute, in fact, that you nearly forgot about the teeth-pulling embarrassment you just succumbed to – you were never buying Rosé again.
Clark Kent never had a hard time believing things – he’s seen the sky ripped apart by monsters, otherworldly villains seeking him out, hell, he’s even seen a guy dressed in a bat costume coast around Gotham City. Strange was normal to him, which is why he can’t process the shock spiking through his body when he sees the notification from you.
He rarely used Instagram, truth be told, he much preferred texting people he cared about and didn’t think displaying his life online was of extreme importance. Well, that is until he carefully clicked on your account, which had just followed him at 1:30 am on a Wednesday.
He doesn’t know what to expect when he views your profile, maybe a couple of group pictures with your college friends you always talk about, or some photographs of your parents – but nothing, and I mean nothing, prepares him for what he sees.
Your most recent post is you at the lake with some friends, you’re clad in a tight cherry red bikini that highlights all the right places, posing with a pink bottle of raspberry Smirnoff with two other girls. The more he scrolls, the more his throat dries up at the slew of photos you have posted.
Especially when he reaches a photo dump of you in a tiny pink dress with frills and ruffles that stop right below the curve of your ass, a pair of pleaser heels so high he doesn’t know how you can stand in them, an apple martini in hand, and glitter eyeshadow smeared expertly across your lids.
He can deduce from the photos that you’re at a concert. In some sparkly venue he doesn’t recognize with a bunch of other girls dressed similarly to you – though none of them look as stunning, in his opinion – listening to some artist sing about some incredibly lewd thing called “Bed Chem” which makes the tips of his ears turn red and his breath catch in his throat.
He’s about to exit out of your profile – and take a cold shower while he’s at it – when he notices a highlight on your account, physically unable to stop himself from clicking on it. The first image is pretty tame, a photo of you at a coffee shop, still dressed in your usual work outfit, but it’s the next one that makes his heart melt.
It’s dated around December, and he assumes it must’ve been taken around the holidays when you took a vacation to visit home – you really had to hustle Perry for that one. The photo displays you in a red wool sweater holding up a little girl – who, now that he thinks about it, looks just like you – in a matching one.
A bright smile is cast onto both of your faces as the little girl’s arms wrap around your neck tightly, looking up at you like you’re her entire world, the words “guess I’m the world's best big sister” written out in the corner with a heart.
He can’t help the warm ache infiltrating his chest as he looks at the photo, the adoration clear in your eyes as you stare into the camera. He doesn’t know how long he stares at it, taking in every detail from the wooden paneling in the house to the manicure you had on that day, before Krypto comes barreling into his bedroom and onto his bed.
It’s not until this second that he realizes how creepy he looks – lying in his bed, stalking your Instagram page like there’s gonna be a test or something, his pajama pants tightening ever so slightly each time he scrolls past a photo of you in a bikini.
“God, I can be a real jerk sometimes,” he mutters to himself as he sets his phone down, rubbing his hands over his face guiltily as he finally concludes that he needs to go to bed before he does something even more shameful.
You wake up recognizing two things; one, you were not in your bed, and two, you had an absolutely pounding headache reverberating through your skull. You pry your eyes open, the cusp of sunshine blooming through your living room window and into your kitchen as you steady yourself, one hand rubbing across your creased brows and dry face. You’d fallen asleep on your kitchen floor, right…
Every fiber of your being wants to keep lying there, forget work, and sleep off the rest of the bottle of Rosé you consumed last night, but there are things worse than going to work with a headache – losing your job, for example.
You use your arms to push yourself off of the hardwood floor, groaning to yourself as you check the time on your oven. 6:45 am. “Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter as you lug yourself towards your bathroom. The fluorescent lights nearly take you out, prompting you to clench your eyes shut as you feel around for your towel cabinet.
You turn on the shower, not even waiting for it to get hot before you step in, scrubbing away the night before with your cherry vanilla body wash. You try your best not to fall asleep on your feet when you exit the shower, drying off haphazardly and making your way towards your bedroom – your perfectly made bed that you wish more than anything you had the pleasure of sleeping in, taunting you like a cruel joke.
You sit at your vanity, still clad in your towel as you get ready – there's yet to be a day that you’ve shown up to the office less than perfect, and you intend to keep it that way. When you finish, you waltz over to your closet, sliding the door open to reveal the section of your closet that you’ve dedicated to work clothing – an array of cute blouses, skirts that border being just a tad too short for company policy, and a few pairs of fitted slacks.
You pull a black fitted short-sleeved blouse and grey skirt out of your closet, before pulling them on and making sure your red bra and panties aren’t visible from any angle as you look yourself over in the mirror.
You spritz some of your perfume on and push your favorite pair of dangly earrings into place, grabbing your office bag, which sits outside your bedroom door, and scurrying around your apartment to find your pair of work shoes.
When you finally get them on, you rush out of your apartment and onto the subway – counting your miracles the entire thirty-minute ride there that you’ve somehow managed to plan the commute perfectly without any actual planning.
You rush into the building of The Daily Planet, muttering a small hello to the doorman as you punch in your timecard, making your way over to your desk with the same smile you always had.
Only this time, you don’t tear your eyes away from your route towards your desk, no stray longing glances or soft smiles, and especially no looks towards Clark, who you’re sure is probably just as embarrassed by your unabashed behavior the night before as you are.
When you make it to your desk, you’re shocked to find it nearly exactly as you’ve left it, save for an iced coffee sitting on it with a small sticky note taped on top, the words “figured you could use this” written on it, causing you to freeze.
Maybe you’d be scared it was some sort of stalker if you didn’t recognize Clark's handwriting from yesterday when you cleaned up his desk, or the fact that he probably heard you order your favorite drink from the cafe yesterday when you two ran into each other.
You steel yourself as you meekly turn your head over to Clark's desk, just for him to be completely zoned into whatever it was he was working on. You should probably bite the bullet and go thank him, say something to him to try to mend whatever it is you did, but you don’t.
Instead, you take a quiet seat on your desk and continue your routine, figuring you would thank him the next time you two meet organically. Whenever that would be.
Your coffee is finished by the hour – just as Clark quietly predicted from his desk, as he discreetly watches you make your way over to the office coffee machine. You meet Lois there, like clockwork, but this time the words from your lips make Clark listen extra hard.
“Hey Lois, you have Tylenol by chance?” you murmur with a tired smile, causing her to stifle a laugh. “Too much Rosé last night?” she muses, and you nudge her shoulder jokingly as you roll your eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. What can I say, I party hard.” You mock before you two go on to discuss something else – completely oblivious to the way Clark swings by your desk, dropping off a couple of Tylenol on a sticky note before you make your way back.
You freeze once you spot them, there was no note, no trace of how it could’ve gotten there, but you knew – of course you knew. You just can’t figure out how he managed to hear you from his desk. Either way, you pop the pills in your mouth, relishing in the way your headache fades away to nothing as you focus on your article.
Unfortunately for your waning concentration, you hear Lois call you over to her desk 30 minutes later, a sly smile concealed on her face as you make your way over. Clark, like always, is debating on running – coming up with some bullshit excuse about why he needs to go, but it’s too late, and you’re already there by the time he finds a plausible excuse.
“Hey, do you mind monitoring my emails for me? I ran out of tampons, and I have to hit the store. I have an anonymous tip that should be coming in soon, and the software auto-deletes after 10 minutes.” she hums pleadingly, and you want nothing more than to say no, but she’s your friend, and you were nothing if not loyal.
“Sure, yeah- I got you,” you smile as she gives you a bright smile before dashing away. It’s only when you’re sitting there nervously, heartbeat flying a mile a minute as you fiddle with your hands, that you wonder why she didn’t just ask Clark.
You keep up the silent facade for a whole three minutes before you crack, the clacking of keys doing nothing to soothe your nerves. “Hey, I just- I wanted to say thanks for the coffee and the Tylenol,” you murmur, before your heart stops in your chest.
Oh god, what if it wasn’t him, what if you misread the whole situation, so many people have similar handwriting- “It was no problem, really. Can’t have one of our best writers feeling under the weather” he murmurs, an awkwardly cheesy smile on his lips as he internally cringes at himself.
Your lips break out into a soft smile, cheeks heating at his words. Sure, you took pride in your work, but other people recognizing it – especially Clark – made your chest heat up in an inexplicable way. “You’re definitely being too nice,” you murmur, shaking your head softly as you chew on the inside of your cheek to push back your growing smile.
“I’m not, I just enjoy good writing when it comes along,” he murmurs, and you can't help but look up at him with gentle eyes – it’s so easy to talk to him like this, when he’s full of sweet smiles, big brown eyes, and perfectly curled hair that swoops down in a way that reminds you of a Disney prince.
“Yes well, I found your piece on music as a tool for social change incredibly well written,” you admit, and it’s true – Clark had the innate ability to write about something perceived as basic and trivial and turn it into a lesson about society and truth, maybe thats why he made such an incredible journalist.
He can practically feel the heat climb its way across his cheeks and ears as he takes in your words bashfully. “You- uh, read that one?” he murmurs awkwardly, hands rising to scratch the back of his neck.
You nod gently, sending him a soft smile “As an avid music enjoyer, it was nice to see someone else see the vision in modern artists,” you hum in an attempt to show him that you really do like his writing – like him.
“Thank you” he mumbles quietly, his eyes zeroed in on his pair of black loafers before he looks up at you, “Part of me thinks you should’ve gotten that beat though” he jokes, nerves coating his words like sticky syrup as he hints at seeing the numerous concert photos you have plastered across your account.
You feel a tsunami of embarrassment and regret wash over you as you wince, remembering the catastrophe that was last night’s activities “yeah, sorry about that, I-” “hey, there’s- there’s no need to apologize, I promise” he assures quickly, trying his best to show you that he really doesn’t mind, that he wants you to think of him – longing to occupy a part of your heart that he could make his sanctuary.
That's the thing with Clark, he was tooth-rottingly sweet – he never had anything bad or judgy to say about anyone, and he was almost too nice for his own good, the bright, fluffy air of a golden retriever about him – which, naturally, only made you long for him more.
“It’s actually appreciated! Lois always tells me I need to make more friends at the office.” he laughs, but the attempt at reassurances falls flat the second the words leave his mouth, and he internally winces at his mistake. Friends? Did he really just say that?
Clark wants nothing more than to slap himself when he sees your face, the implication of his words not lost on either of you, even though he never meant it that way. But it doesn’t matter what his intent was, because he knows the damage is done when he looks at you.
Your previously carefree smile bends into something tight and uncomfortable, and your eyes – which always seem to hold so much glimmer – dim slightly. Maybe no one else would be able to notice it, but Clark was freakishly preceptive; he just wishes he were as freakishly verbally coordinated.
Despite the ache in your chest that radiates across your lungs like tree branches, you smile – because what else is there to do in this situation? Friends. Of course, he just wanted to be friends. Right. You feel your mouth fizzle and dry up as you think of what to say, eventually deciding to shoot him a friendly smile, “yeah, friends”.
You’ve never felt more thankful for Lois Lane than in this moment, her lulling voice calling you out of your embarrassed state – and syncing in rhythmically with the ding from her computer. The anonymous tip, right, you forgot about that.
“Just on time” you murmur, forcing a smile onto your face in hopes she won't be able to see past your humiliation, or at least has the decency not to bring it up as you exit her chair – dusting off your skirt for the sole purpose of distracting yourself.
She opens her mouth to speak, but you beat her to it with a small goodbye as you duck away from her desk and head back to your own, urging her to look over at Clark curiously. “Any idea what that was about?” she murmurs, eyebrows quirked and arms crossed over her chest like a mom scolding a petulant child.
“I have some faint idea, yeah,” he murmurs regretfully, his eyes following your every move until you reach your desk, the only indication you were here at all being the lingering scent of your perfume. God, what was that?
He eventually turns to his computer, a frown on his face and guilt gnawing at him like a virus, leaving Lois to look between you both in a sordid mix of curiosity and frustration. What did you two idiots do now?
The entire walk back to your desk, you’re kicking yourself for how ridiculous you probably looked these past two days. You were practically tripping over yourself to talk to Clark; meanwhile, he was figuring out how to let you down easy.
The worst part? You really thought maybe you had a chance. You’d caught him staring at you every so often, but now that you think back on it, maybe he was just looking at the analog clock that sat behind you, mounted on the wall, or your co-worker Meredith, who sat just a few feet away.
You decide to funnel all of your attention into your work the rest of the day, working straight through lunch, elbows pressing into the wooden desk harshly as you work through pages and pages of articles that need revising. You don’t even register how much time has gone by until you hear Jimmy call out to you like a bucket of cold water
“Are you planning on going home anytime soon, or is working overtime your new thing?” he muses, feet kicked up on his desk as he spins in his chair. It's the first time you’ve taken a peek at the bullpen in hours, eyes widening at the multitude of empty desks, the only people still here being yourself, Jimmy, and two other interns.
“Rent isn’t cheap in Metropolis,” you pivot, glancing over at him as you decide to call it quits, logging out of your work computer and funneling your belongings into your bag in an attempt to make the subway before daylight is fully lost.
“Yeah, well you could always remedy that with a roommate, maybe Kent?” he muses, shooting you a smirk, like he knows something you don't. You feel your eyebrows furrow as you glare at him, fed up with the day you’ve had and completely uninterested in anything he has to say.
“What are you trying to say, Olsen?” you mutter, as you stand up, cracking your back in the process as you wiggle your toes in your cramped heels. He raises his hands in surrender, a glint of humor and something else you can't quite place in his eyes – pity, maybe, or knowing.
“I’m just saying, you two were pretty cozy earlier,” he hums, looking at you curiously “My advice is if you feel something, go for it.” he murmurs, and you can almost detect a hint of sincerity in the air as you process his words. That is, until you remember exactly who you’re talking to – Jimmy Olsen, ladies' man and certified womanizer.
“Yes, well, I’ll sleep on that.” You lie, rolling your eyes and slugging your bag across your shoulder, exiting the newsroom.
You kick your shoes off at the door, dropping your bag unceremoniously onto the hardwood with a steady clunk as you b-line towards your fridge and scour the inside for some semblance of food. You were supposed to go grocery shopping sometime earlier this week, but time got away from you, and with a glance at the clock, you already know every grocery store nearby is closed.
You’re on the cusp of slamming your head into the refrigerator door repeatedly when you spot a log of cookie dough sitting in your left crisper. “Well, things could be worse,” you mutter to yourself as you pull it out of the fridge.
You work steadily, practiced, as you grab out a cookie sheet and preheat your oven, working as best as you can in your cramped kitchen – rent really wasn’t cheap in Metropolis, and so what if you had a less-than-HGTV kitchen?
You’re sitting at your table, staring out of your living room window and onto the glowing Metropolis skyline, a litter of golden hues flowing like watercolor across the misty blue sky, painting a picture you feel lucky enough to be able to see.
In fact, you’re so zoned out that when your oven beeps, you nearly trip over yourself to grab the tray out of the oven – if you burned these, then the only other option would be some frozen broccoli florets in your freezer, and you would rather go to bed hungry.
You’re pulling out the steaming tray with an oven mitt when the top of your hand unceremoniously brushes the oven ceiling, a justxapostion of hot and cold searing the skin on your hand as you yelp back in pain, abruptly tossing the tray onto the burners of your stove.
“Fucking Christ,” you mutter as tears blur your eyes, directing your movement towards the first aid kit you keep in your kitchen drawer, pulling out gauze and burn cream as you perform pseudo surgery on your poor manicured hand, wincing each time the gauze is pressed onto the wound. Maybe you should’ve just ordered pizza.
By the time you’re done, the top of your hand is practically numb, and you put six cookies on one of your pink ceramic plates as a reward before making your way to your living room. You set the plate down on the armrest of your couch, kicking your pedicured feet up to rest on the coffee table as you stuff your mouth full.
You’re a culmination of exhaustion and lingering frustration as you make your way towards your bedroom, dropping off your plate into the sink without washing it – that was going to be a tomorrow issue.
All you wanted to do right now is slip into your pajamas and crawl into your pink silk sheets, the cool fabric gliding across your skin like water as you settle down, face pressed against your pillowcase as you let out an overdramatic sigh.
Why did all of this have to be so hard?
You get to work two minutes late the next morning, barely scraping past Perry's radar as you take a swift seat at your desk and log into your computer. It’s only half past 8, and you’re already annoyed – the sun is creating a glare across your computer screen because Meredith won't close the blinds next to her, the AC is not doing it’s job – or maybe it is, you had to jog to work today after missing the subway by 30 seconds – and you nearly forgot to apply a new bandage across your hand before you left, meaning you did a hackjob on it.
You’re smoothing down your pair of fitted grey slacks as you lean back against your chair, praying that HR doesn’t notice the way your blouse dips a little too low for company standards as you start to focus on your next beat. Something about the city council bypassing EPA zoning laws in favor of constructing more Luthorcorp buildings – cause nobody wants clean air anymore, right?
You're thankful when you finish the beat three hours later, sending it to Perry with a satisfied smile as you scroll through your emails, clicking one from Cat asking you to print some more copies of the workshop schedule for next week.
You send the PDF to the printing presses downstairs and get up out of your chair, heels clicking across the linoleum floor as you make your way down to the copy room, a manila folder pressed tightly against your chest.
When you push the double doors open, you don't expect to see anyone there – most people avoid going down to the sterile room with no windows at all costs, and you couldn’t blame them – it creeped you out too, sometimes.
Maybe that's why you were so shocked to see Clark leaning against the wall, glasses slipping down his nose as he looks over a stapled packet with a yellow highlighter clutched tightly in his left hand. He only perks up when he sees you, a small smile breaking out across his lips as he shoots you a gentle wave.
You lift your hand to reciprocate, trying your best to act like your heart isn’t beating out of your chest in the process – unfortunately, your cool girl act is foiled when the wrap on your hand starts to unravel the second you lift it.
Immediately, both you and Clark spring into action – you wincing in embarrassment as you duck down, grabbing the excess wrap and harshly rewrapping it, only halting your ministrations when you feel Clark's presence dip down in front of you.
“Hey, hey, you should be more gentle with that,” he frowns, his large hand gently splaying itself across your uninjured hand to prevent you from further rewrapping it. You nod silently, building up the courage to face him. “It’s fine, just a little burn” you assure, but his frown doesn’t fade as he bites the inside of his cheek.
“You should use a clean bandage, don’t want it to get infected,” he murmurs, softly bringing your hand towards him and unwrapping it gently, surveying the burn as you feel your heart stutter and cheeks heat. “I um- I left the extra bandages in my purse,” you mumble, heart constricting painfully in your chest, and embarrassment flooding you.
“I’ll get them for you, just stay here.” he murmurs, and before you can protest, he’s already gone, the door swinging shut and leaving you with your own dredging thoughts. Why did it have to be Clark in here, god?
You barely even hear the door reopen a few seconds later, your thoughts so loud they tune everything else out. Clark crouches back down next to you, a gentle smile on his face as he silently grabs your hand, gauze and burn cream in his other.
“This might hurt” he frowns, looking over at you to ask for permission, to which you nod jerkily. He applies the cream across your mangled skin with surgical-level precision, hands moving swiftly to press the gauze against the wound.
You can't help but look at him curiously – it’s like he’s done this a million times over the way he manages to dress your hand securely but not too firmly. When he’s done, he shoots you a satisfied smile, his thumb gently swiping across your fingers in a way that feels much too intimate for the circumstances.
“Thank you, I know it was kinda gross,” you murmur softly, and it feels like the two of you are stuck like this, the air thick between you, and the scent of your warm perfume wafting between you like a spell. You wonder if it’s possible for the both of you to stay like this, uncomplicated warmth emanating from you.
Unfortunately, the moment is shattered when Clark nods jerkily, a weak “It’s really no problem, there’s no need for apologies,” leaving his lips, bitter deja vu hitting you like a mass truck despite his attempt at reassurance.
You pull your hand away from his, plastering a smile onto your face as you look up at him, “Yeah, what are friends for, right?” you murmur weakly, his words from the day before flashing through your brain like an echo as you stand up in a tizzy.
You barely even wait for him to nod in agreement before you’re out of there, the door swinging shut behind you as you press your back against the hallway wall – gulping in a deep breath as your eyes clench shut.
And the worst part? You forgot the pages for Cat.
You’re thankful to be home the moment you walk through your apartment doors, the silence enveloping you like a peaceful reflection of what you wish your day had been. Cat hadn’t noticed the missing pages, but Jimmy was hounding you all day since you returned to your desk, and you could only fake so many polite smiles before your eye started twitching.
You’re lounging on your couch, still clad in your work clothes, when a pinging notification from your phone shatters the comfortable silence. It was a text from Lois that read “Bradleys at 10?”
You stifle a smile as you shake your head, responding with a much too enthusiastic “yes.” Bradleys was some hole in the wall bar you two had found your first week working at the Planet, and it became somewhat of a tradition for you two to go whenever either of you had a particularly shitty day.
You look at your pink analog clock in the corner that read 8:05 before lurching up to jump in the shower – your early 2000s mix playing from your phone as you wash your hair and exfoliate your legs.
By the time you stumble out, you don’t even check the time, opting to sit at your vanity and begin working on your makeup. You already know what dress you’re wearing, a cute pink babydoll with lace trim across the hemline and sleeves, the low-cut top doing wonders for your breasts.
You finish in record time before you grab your brown purse from your closet, tossing in only your essentials before sliding on your brown kitten heels and spritzing some perfume before dashing out to find a cab.
When you get to the bar, you see Lois already waiting there with a sly smile on her face, which makes you equally excited and worried. You knew that look in her eye – maybe that's why you approached with the smallest bout of hesitancy.
“Bar or table?” Is all she says to you the moment you’re within ear's reach, prompting a knowing smile onto both of your faces. “Bar” you both say in unison, as if it were even a question.
The stools are far from comfortable, and the lighting is so dim you two can barely even see each other, but the air is warm and the music is comforting in a way that only people who live in the city could understand. Plus, it’s home to Lois’ favorite beer on tap and your favorite peach bellini.
The drinks come out quick, and like always, yours comes with a small umbrella and a sugar rim, causing Lois to smirk at you – her argument always being that it's a ‘vacation drink’, to which your motto of ‘everyday is a vacation, Lois’ is used to combat her pessimistic attitude.
You two talk for about thirty minutes, partially about work, and partially about the new guy she’s seeing that she’s not too sure about, when it’s all shattered by the front door swinging open. You don't know what prompts you to look; the door has probably opened and closed twenty times since you got there, but this time feels different.
You feel your hand still when you lock eyes with Clark and Jimmy, blood rushing to your ears like a sea swell. The air sucked out of the room immediately, goosebumps littering themselves across your exposed arms as the two men make their way over to you and Lois.
“Oh yeah, I invited Jimmy and Clark too,” Lois hums, taking a sip of her beer as she surveys you, a sly look on her face, and it’s the first time the idea has dawned on you that maybe all of this was planned. But Lois wouldn't do that to you, right?
By the time they sit down – Clark next to you and Jimmy next to Lois – the bartender is back and you're practically jumping out of your seat ready to order another round. Your skin feels on fire, and the air around you is buzzing, Clark's obscenely tall stature is doing wonders to your nerves.
Lois gets another beer, Jimmy orders a margarita – because of course he does – and you, well, “a Long Island iced tea, please” you breathe out, sliding your card over to the bartender who already knows from your look to open up a tab.
“Woah, long day?” Jimmy pipes in, a wry smirk on his face as you bite the inside of your cheek.
“More like a long week” is all you mutter as you settle back into your seat, manicured hands tracing the wooden lines across the bartop to steady your rapid breathing.
You loved Bradleys, but the one minute detail you weren't too fond of was the cramped bar seating. Usually, people were courteous enough to leave a sizable gap, but Clark was massive – not that it was his fault – but it did mean that every time you moved, the two of you would brush arms, the smell of his cologne filling your senses like some aphrodisiac.
Clark orders himself a cherry lemonade, opting to skip out on the alcohol – not that it would do much anyway, other than burn a few extra dollars in his bank account – prompting a curious look from Jimmy, which he chooses to ignore.
“Whats a Long Island iced tea?” Clark asks in genuine curiosity when your drinks come out. “Pretty much any and all clear alcohol they have, triple sec, lemon, and coke,” you murmur bluntly before taking the longest sip Clarks ever seen, a look of horror plastered on his face as he watches you.
“Seems like something Kara would like,” he mutters to himself, prompting you to look up at him curiously, a flit of something indescribable in your eye. “Who’s that?” you mutter, unaware of how glaringly obvious it was that you care who this mystery girl is. A burning sensation clawing its way up your chest, which you deduce is either from the alcohol or jealousy, you’re not too sure which.
“She’s my cousin” he explains softly, eyes meeting yours as he takes in your appearance. You have on some pink glitter eyeshadow and matching blush, your lips glossed as usual, with the exception of a little bit missing from the center, having transferred to your straw. Plus, of course, the indescribable sweet scent wafting off of you as always.
Truthfully, he’s pretty sure he smelled you from a block away, but part of him was afraid it was his mind's desperate attempt at playing a trick on him. Nothing prepared him for the way you looked when he walked in the door, all soft smiles and flushed cheeks. The hemline of your dress rising each time you shifted on the stool, the soft skin of your thighs becoming increasingly visible.
Now he’s trying to keep his composure as you sit shoulder to shoulder, taking a sip out of your tall drink that he’s sure can’t taste very good, while Lois and Jimmy giggle to themselves a few feet away.
“Oh. I didn’t know you had a cousin,” you murmur, feeling a bit dumb as you bite the straw between your teeth, looking down at your shoes, which clack together each time you swing your legs.
“She uh- she travels a lot” he offers nervously before taking a sip of his own drink. You nod jerkily, gulping down much more of your drink than you probably should, the burn of alcohol lingering on your tongue and making your eyes water ever so slightly.
You look over at Lois and Jimmy, who, as far as you can tell, are wrapped up in their own conversation, backs turned towards you like they’re spilling some sordid secret. You shakily exhale when you finish your drink, sliding it away from you and looking up at Clark, who’s already looking at you.
“Hows the virgin cherry lemonade?” you murmur softly, peering over at the blended drink in a hurricane glass. “It’s good – really sweet. Doesn't taste much like lemon,” he adds, a small crooked smile on his face – the kind that makes you wanna kiss him stupid.
“Do you wanna try it?” he blurts out, cheeks tinged pink as he looks down at you. You’re leaning a bit closer to him than before, giving him the perfect view of your pillowy cleavage, his white dress shirt suddenly uncomfortably tight.
You bat your eyelashes, a small smile crawling its way onto your face as you nod, not bothering to slide the cup closer to yourself, and instead leaning over, glossed lips wrapping around the slim straw as you stare up at him.
Clark can feel his heartbeat reverberating through his chest, his forearms clenched as he steels himself in his place – partially because if he doesn't, he’s afraid he won't be able to stop himself from reaching out to touch you.
When you pull away, there’s a hint of teasing in your eye “Mmm, that is good. Could use some rum though,” you murmur, tongue peaking out to swipe across your lips, which have some cherry juice dripping down them.
Clark's mouth opens, but no words come out – save for a large gulp, which makes the veins on his neck all the more prominent, and your thighs clench together tightly. The moment doesn’t last long, however, when you shoot him a knowing look, “I’ll be right back” you murmur, getting up off of your stool before his hand shoots out to grab your arm.
“Where uh- where are you going?” he murmurs, eyes flitting across you nervously, like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear with the wind, causing you to laugh. “The bathroom” you say plainly, quirking a brow at him – highlighting how ridiculous he sounds.
He nods, embarrassment smeared across his cheeks like a symbol of what you do to him as he watches you move towards the back of the bar, waiting in the long line as you slump against the wall, arms crossed over your chest boredly.
Clark doesn’t tear his eyes away from you, a bad feeling filling his chest like a warning as he watches you from a distance, his drink now long discarded. He can practically feel his indignation flare up when he spots a man with short buzzed blonde hair and blue eyes waltzing over to you, an arrogant smile on his face.
The worst part? When he cracks some bad joke, you actually laugh – like it’s somehow hilarious and not just the alcohol talking. He tries his best to keep his distance, not act like he has some sort of claim on you, on your heart, but he nearly splinters the wooden bartop when he sees the man whisper in your ear.
You give him a small laugh, the kind that used to be given to Clark whenever the two of you would bump into each other in the elevator or hallways at work. Before Clark can make sense of what he’s doing, he’s out of the chair, steadfast in your direction with the kind of determination that makes Batman look like a puppy.
You don't even notice he’s next to you until you hear his sharp voice ring out like a warning, “hey uh- she’s pretty drunk right now, so maybe you should just leave.” he tells the guy quietly, face more serious than you’ve ever seen him, his jaw clenched as he looks between you two.
You glare up at him, shock and frustration evident on your face because you weren’t even that drunk – and sure, the guy wasn’t really your type, but you wanted to have fun tonight, especially after the week you’ve had. “I think the lady can tell me herself if she wants me to go,” the man's voice leers, a mock tone vibrating from him, causing you to roll your eyes. Testosterone.
“I’m just saying it’d be better for you to just go. I’m her friend-” and there's that word again. “I’m fine, Clark.” you scoff, eyes shooting daggers at him as you feel your night of peace once again slip from your grasp.
Clark stills, looking down at his shoes, eyes clenched tight in frustration as the guy takes a step back, hands raised in mock surrender, “Yeah this is…too complicated for me. Later” he mutters before going off to find some blonde to hit on at the other side of the bar.
You let out a scoff of indignation before shoving past Clark, not even needing the bathroom anymore, as you mutter for the bartender to close your tab. You huff a weak goodbye to Lois and Jimmy who were watching the scene unfold with furrowed brows and frustrated groans as you exit the bar.
Your heels stomp across the sidewalk, the cool night air brushing across your flushed face as you look around. The street was mainly deserted, and far too quiet for a Friday night.
You’re debating on calling an Uber or waiting for a cab when you hear the door to the bar open a few feet away, already knowing who it is. Clark's hulking frame strides out to meet you, his hair a windswept mess, and his face crumpled in regret as he spots you.
“Hey, wait up!” he calls out, but you just scoff and speed up. Unfortunately, your heels aren’t a match for Clark’s long legs, and he catches up almost immediately, his firm but gentle grip on your wrist prohibiting you from moving forward.
“Let go, Clark, I’m going home. That's what you wanted, right?” you scoff, and he lets out a pained sound, like a wounded bird caught between the sharp claws of a cat. “Please, just let me explain” he murmurs.
You wrench your arm away, a shallow laugh reverberating through the streets as you glare up at him because you’re not even angry anymore, you’re just tired.
“God, Clark what is there left to say? You don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me either. You don’t want me in your space, but you’ll invade mine whenever you want under the guise of dropping off coffee. You’ll grab my hand and steady my waist in the hallways at work, but the moment I get close to you, you back away like I’m the plague or something-” you’re shouting now, and you don’t realize how glassy your eyes are, reflecting the dim yellow lights of the streetlamps like a symphony of stars.
“No- no, I didn’t mean that. I never meant it like that” he murmurs, taking a step closer towards you weakly. You take a pained step back on instinct, suddenly feeling much more exposed than you’re used to.
“I have wanted you since the day you started working at the Planet – from the moment you walked in wearing that cream blouse with brown polka dots, and the same shoes you always wear – the ones I've memorized the sound of because the best part of my day is seeing you walk through those doors-”
“Clark,” you stop him, “don’t say things you don't mean.” You plead, eyes clenched shut as your fingers rub soft circles on your forehead, the growing ache paired with Clark's confession too much for you to handle.
Clark shakes his head, doubling down as he slowly grabs your wrists to pull them away from your face.
“I’m not. I swear to you, and I know. I know I should’ve told you this months ago, but I was scared that you wouldn’t feel the same way. That I would ruin whatever frail relationship we had, because I don’t think I would have been able to survive that. I still don't.” he breathes out, voice raw.
“No- Clark, no. You said we were friends, that you wanted to be friends. And I’ve been kicking myself since then for how stupid I looked trying to get your attention.” You scoff, chin trembling in a way you’re so used to having kept hidden behind the guise of soft smiles and polite conversation.
Clark, the man he is, can't help himself from reaching out to brush his hand across your cheek, soothing the nerves you can’t stop from coming, no matter how hard you try. “I know what I said, but it was stupid. I was stupid for thinking I could feel anything for you other than what I already do, because I love you.”
“I love you, and I want to be with you – and not just at the office, all the time, so that I never have to think about letting you go at the end of the day. I want to be with you so bad that being near you and not being able to kiss you is so excruciating that I spill coffee on myself and run away,” you stifle a wet laugh at that, chewing on your lip as you stare up at him.
“I love you, and I should’ve told you that a long time ago. I love you so much that I’ve memorized your work schedule because it means I get to maximize the amount of time I get to see you, hear you, smell you – because whatever perfume you wear is like a drug to me, and-” he’s cut off abruptly when you crash into him, your arms wrapping themselves around his neck as you press your lips to his.
His mouth melts into yours like thick honey as he bends down to wrap his arms around your waist, effortlessly lifting you up and pressing your back against the wall of the florist shop next to the bar.
He still tastes like cherry when his hand caresses the gentle skin of your cheek, like he’s afraid this isn’t real – that he’s going to wake up alone in his bed like he’s done so many times before. But this is real, and it’s all yours.
And for the first time since Clark Kent has invaded your mind, you feel at peace. Like the way he holds you is the missing piece of a puzzle you don’t even remember losing.
And when you pull back for air a few seconds later, Clark's lips nearly chase yours as you smile up at him. “I love you, Clark” you murmur, hands raking through his hair.
“And it’s Cherry Baby” you tease, a wet smile on your face as you look up at him – he still towers over you, even as you’re being held up by his strong hands – the confusion on his face only making him cuter, in your opinion. “My perfume, it’s called Cherry Baby” you laugh, bringing up his comment from earlier.
He lets out a choked smile, looking down at you with loving eyes as he presses his forehead against yours. “Good to know,” he murmurs jokingly as he presses his lips into yours once again, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
Both of you completely unaware of the way Lois and Jimmy watch from the bar window, satisfied smirks on their faces as they clink their glasses together.
“Finally,” they mutter in unison, and even with Clark's enhanced hearing, the only thing he’s able to process in this moment is you.
Pairing: Clark Kent x female reader, Superman x female reader
Summary: You think your coworker Clark is actually Superman. You ask him out to dinner to determine the truth, only to hurt his feelings. One bad confrontation and two sexually charged encounters later, you decide to stay clear of him at work. Except you really can't, especially not when you know he wants you just as bad, too. That's okay. You'll just have to seduce him into giving in.
Word Count: 10.5K (worth it, i promise)
Content: Hurt/comfort, angst, seduction, explicit language, heavy petting, oral sex (male receiving), female fingering, size kink, heavy kissing, subspace, alcohol consumption, tobacco consumption, mention of pornography, insecurity, misunderstanding, use of nicknames, Clark being his own enemy, Clark having a monster cock?
Note: You asked, I delivered. This may be my magnus opus. I put my whole cooch in the smut.
You discover that your coworker, Clark Kent, is actually Superman on a random Tuesday.
You wished that the reveal was grand in nature—a result of your investigative abilities and not a complete accident.
The Daily Planet was quiet, midnight approaching rapidly closer by the minute, when it happened. Perry White insisted no one clocked out until the first draft of a three-page exposé on the alleged arms deal between Lex Luthor and the Boravian government was done.
You had lost count of the hours you had sat glued to your computer when you finally your eyes from the bright screen. You stretched, scanning the room to see what your coworkers were up to. Your gaze fell on Clark, who sat typing away at his desk a few feet away.
He yawned, pulled off his glasses, and ran his large hands over his face. As his arms dropped to his lap, you froze mid-stretch.
Is that Superman?
He slid his glasses back on smoothly, completely unaware of your earth-shattering discovery. Your gazes met across the floor, and he gave you a sweet smile before returning to his work. You looked around to see if anyone else had also seen what you just saw, but Lois and Jimmy were busy flipping through some papers. You were alone in your revelation
You turned back to your computer, and the words swam across the screen. No way. No fucking way.
You paused again, mind racing a million miles an hour. You began putting the puzzle together. Wasn’t it strange that Clark Kent was the only journalist in Metropolis to ever interview Superman? No reporter —not even Lois Lane— was able to get even a quote from the superhero. Clark was always late to work on days there was a Superman sighting. And then last week, when the Kaiju had attacked, Clark had gone home early, complaining about a headache, only to be gone for the rest of the week. Now that you think about it, you had never seen Clark Kent and Superman in a room at the same time.
You slammed your hands down on your table and spun around in your chair. Using the heels of your feet, you dragged your chair across the tile floor until it bumped into Clark’s desk. He glanced at you with an arched eyebrow, fingers slowing down over the keyboard. “What’s up?”
Are you Superman? you wanted to scream
Instead, you settled on, “Pub on Friday after work?”
He reached for his phone to check something. “I haven’t looked at the group chat. What’s the plan?”
“You. Me. Pub. Seven o’clock.”
He tilted his head to the side and scratched his head. “Oh, okay. Sounds good. I’ll meet you all there.”
“It’s just going to be us, Clark,” you simplified. “I’m asking you out. Like on a date. I think it would be nice for us to go out and talk.”
A pink streak broke across his face. “Oh, um,” he stuttered, “y-yeah. Sure. I’ll be there. Th-Thanks.”
“Good boy,” you smiled. “See you at seven.”
You used your feet to drag yourself back to your desk.
The cogs in your brain were turning; a plan was taking root. If Clark didn’t show up, and there happened to be a meta-villain attacking Metropolis at the same time, your suspicions would be confirmed. If he did show up, you’d present your evidence and ask him point-blank if he was moonlighting as a superhero on the side. He was a terrible liar; he always squirmed too quickly. Either way, it would be like catching an insect in your venus flytrap.
I got you now, big blue.
.
.
.
Clark Kent began bringing you a cup of coffee every morning after that.
He would walk in late, apologize to Perry, and beeline straight to your desk, balancing two paper cups in his hand. “Thought you might like some,” he would say, giving you a dimpled smile.
Okay, maybe you didn’t completely think your plan through. You wanted to lay low until the big day, but patience was not your strongest virtue. In hindsight, perhaps you should have asked for drinks the very next day. Now, instead of asking the big question, you were overdosing on caffeine every morning. You just didn’t have the heart to tell him no.
By the time Friday rolled around, you were buzzing, and you didn’t know if it was due to the coffee sloshing around in your stomach or from sheer excitement. You had fled from your desk as soon as the clock struck five. Today was finally the day you would solve the mystery that was on every citizen’s mind, and you would be the first to do so.
At seven o’clock sharp, you walked through the doors belonging to your local pub and straight into Clark’s back. You yelped back, crying out in pain.
He spun around with wide eyes. “Gosh,” he exclaimed, “are you okay?”
Pain radiated up your face. You held your hand up to your nose and mumbled, “I’m fine.”
“Let me see,” he said, wrapping his hand around your thin wrist and peeling it away from your face. “Golly, you are bleeding! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you urged, waving him away. “It’s not even that bad.”
He watched you, eyes brimming with concern. He took your hand and guided you to the back of the pub. You sat down, still cradling your nose as he went to the bar to grab you some ice.
This whole nose-bleed fiasco had completely ruined your game plan. There’s no way this man isn’t Superman, you decided. How could some journalist have a back so strong and shoulders so wide and arms so—
Clark returned with some ice-cubes in a thin plastic bag and handed it to you. You took it from him. “Thanks.”
He hovered for a moment before choosing to slide into the chair next to you. “Let me help,” he offered, taking the ice pack from you.
He pressed it gently against your nose. His free hand cupped the side of your head to angle your face up to him. “Does it hurt?”
Your ears burned under his warm touch. “N-no.”
“Poor baby,” he whispered under his breath, making your toes curl in your heels. “You should have watched where you were going.”
His pleasant aftershave flooded your senses. “It’s not my fault you’re made out of iron,” you mumbled.
“Steel.”
“Sorry?”
“Still,” he enunciated, “you gotta’ be more careful. How will you stick your nose in Lex Luthor’s business if its broken?”
You couldn’t help but laugh. His eyes met yours, and you saw he was grinning. Before you could lose your nerve, you asked, “Clark, are you Superman?”
His smile fell. He pulled his hands away from you. The noise from the pub seemed to fade away so you could fully experience each painfully quiet second that went by.
His head dropped down to his lap, and a tremor ran through his shoulders. You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. A pit began forming in your belly.
Finally, Clark broke the silence. “You asked me out for this nonsense?”
Blood rushed to your ears. “No,” you began, “I mean— yes. I was curious. You just look so much like the guy, I thought maybe—”
He looked up at you, eyes glistening. “I thought you liked me.”
You felt a sudden pang in your chest. You had been so caught up in making a great discovery that you hadn’t even considered the gravity of your actions.
No, no, no, you chanted in your head. This is bad. He thinks I’m messing with him.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt your— I’m really sorry.”
He stood up, no longer looking at you. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of tissue and tossed it on the table. “I hope you get home safe,” he said and then stormed out.
You called out his name, running after him. By the time you step outside the pub, Clark is long gone and the only thing waiting for you outside is the cold autumn breeze.
.
.
.
Sometime over the weekend, you decided that you were a horrible person.
It was eating you alive that you had hurt Clark. You didn’t mean to, but that didn’t matter. Your actions had caused him pain. You had taken his kind heart and crushed it in your cruel fists in the name of journalistic pursuit.
You were dreading coming into work on Monday morning, and when Clark walked in, late as usual, your fears became true. He refused to even look at you. You tried talking to him, and his replies were polite as usual, but short and to the point. The cup of coffee you got him sat untouched on his desk. He didn’t even join in on your banter with Lois.
By noon, everyone at the Daily Planet knew something had gone wrong between you both. The way he cleared the space whenever you stepped into the room made it hard to ignore. “Is everything good between you and Kent?” Jimmy asked in the break room.
Your cheeks grew warm behind your cup. “I don’t think so,” you admitted.
“What happened?”
“ . . . date . . . accused . . . Superman,” you spoke under your breath.
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “What?”
You sighed and answered, louder, “I asked him out on a date and then accused him of being Superman.”
“Superman? he echoed, and then barked out a laugh. “Clark Kent? S-SUPERMAN?”
You closed your eyes, groaning. It took a complete minute for him to stop howling.
Jimmy wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Okay, sorry— let me get this straight, you thought our coworker, Clark Kent, who can’t even walk through a door without bumping into the frame, was Metropolis’ saviour? You know that Superman lifts like cars off people, right?”
You cringed at the visual and then gave him the full account of your disastrous date.
“Okay, to summarize,” he said after listening to you, “you asked out Kent, got his hopes up by making him think you genuinely liked him, and then destroyed that hope within the first five minutes of your date.”
You nodded, cheeks flaring.
“Jeez,” Jimmy whistled. “You really have lost your mind.”
“Trust me, I know how that sounds,” you admitted. “I don’t know what was going on in my head. They don’t even look alike.”
“They really don’t. I guess you don’t spend enough time looking at him,” he remarked, shrugging. “At least not as much as he spends looking at you.”
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
Jimmy’s made a face that told you that he thought you were a real idiot. “Oh, come on!” he cried out. “You mean to tell me that you haven’t seen the way Clark Kent looks at you?”
You tilted your head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you stated, utterly confused.
Clark didn’t look at you in any particular way. You would have seen it for yourself since you had spent all of last week watching him like a hawk. The phone in your pocket buzzed as Jimmy shook his head, disappointed.
“All right, answer me this. Did you feel inclined to ask him out because you thought he was Superman, or because you simply liked him?”
You had been so preoccupied with feeling remorseful that you hadn’t spent any time dissecting your actions leading to the disaster. “I-I don’t know Jimmy.”
You pulled your phone out of your pocket as you racked your brain for an answer. A text message glowed on your screen.
Clark Kent: Meet me at the rooftop. I need to speak to you.
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You raced up to the Daily Planet’s rooftop, out of breath.
Clark stood by the railing, staring out at the Metropolis skyline. “Clark?” you call out, heart beating loudly in your rib cage.
From the back, he appeared taller than usual. You realized the slight hunch in his back from before had disappeared. Cautiously, you made your way closer to him.
“What made you think I was Superman?” he questioned, still looking ahead.
You froze at the sound of his voice. It was much deeper than what you were used to. He sounded different than the Clark you knew. You cleared your throat before answering, “It doesn’t matter anymore. I was wrong.”
“I insist.”
You curled your hair behind your ears, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Okay,” you exhaled, “I guess . . . I just had a hunch that you were him.”
He didn’t turn around to look at you. The yellow sun shone brightly up ahead, bathing you both in its light as it disappeared behind the skyscrapers. The hair on your arms stood up as its warmth faded. The pit in your stomach was back again; something bad was about to happen.
Wanting to break the thick blanket of silence in between you both, you spoke again. “I found it odd that you were the only reporter ever speaking to Superman. Why did he only ever want to speak to when there were so many senior journalists reaching out? Then, it was t-the way you wrote about him . . . the surety in your words . . . it felt like you knew exactly what was going on in his head. You also passed off on fieldwork opportunities a-anytime a meta-villain attacked. I mean, what reporter does that? And then sometimes when you take your glasses off, I swear you look exactly like him—”
Clark finally turned to you. The frames were missing from his face. “Like now?”
There it was again; Superman looking right at you.
You gulped. “Yes.”
“What if I told you that your hunch was correct?” he questioned. “What if I really am Superman? What happens then?”
Your mind went blank. You hadn’t thought that far. Why didn’t I think about what happens next?
“What will you do?” he asked, teeth grinding. “Will you run down and tell Perry White?”
“No,” you whispered, jerking back.
“Or would you wait?” he mused, stepping closer. “Would you put in an overtime request to write the next exposé on me?”
“No,” you repeated, stepping back. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“I just wouldn’t do that to you,” you insisted, shaking your head.
You both moved in tandem until your back hit the concrete wall next to the door. His hand came up to rest beside your head. “Why not?” he challenged. “It would make for a great headline.”
Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to fall. “My professional curiosity got the best of me,” you croaked through the lump forming in your throat. “I’m sorry. I never meant for things to get so bad between us.”
“I don’t believe you,” he stated, jaw clenching.
“You’re my friend, Clark,” you blinked, quickly. “I would never put your life in jeopardy like that.”
His icy blue eyes bore right into you. He let his head drop down, and his forehead met yours. “If you ever cared about me,” he sighed, “even just a little, promise me that you will never speak to a soul about this.”
You gave him a shaky nod.
“Give me your word,” he demanded, lips turned downward.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly. “I promise. Please believe me.”
You both remained still, frozen in that moment. Your mind couldn’t process what was happening. The coldness of his words stood against the heat radiating off his skin, making your head spin. Your breathing became laboured. If it wasn’t for his forehead pressed against yours, your legs would have given out.
“For what’s it worth,” he said, his breath fanning your face, “I liked being wanted by you. Even if it was just for a moment.”
A second later, he pushed away from you, yanked the rooftop door open, and disappeared downstairs. You waited for his footsteps to fade away before you let the tears fall.
The ground beneath you swayed and crouched down. In that moment, you felt like a child, caught in a mess that you didn’t know how to navigate. You wrapped your arms around your knees, sobbing.
The only thing you knew was the answer to Jimmy’s question. You truly did like Clark Kent.
.
.
.
Things went back to normal slowly.
Clark returned to his usual, cheery demeanour, but you could see that his eyes had changed. Long gone was the softness for you that always seemed to be settled within them. His eyes now carried that a streak of apprehension instead. Anytime Lois mentioned Superman, you could feel Clark’s eyes glance at you in uncertainty.
For fuck’s sake, you wanted to scream out, I told you I wasn’t going to say anything!
You decided to just stay clear of Clark Kent. You have had enough of him acting like you were some villainess who stole ice cream out of the hands of children. “Aren’t you just dying to know who Superman is?” Jimmy asked, mischief painted across your face.
You rolled your eyes. “Ha-ha,” you deadpanned. “Very funny.”
“For real,” he insisted, “any new guesses?”
You pretended to think for a moment. “Lex Luthor?”
You heard Clark choke on his coffee behind you. Jimmy cackled at your response.
“Seriously,” Lois interjected, oblivious to the reason behind Jimmy’s taunt, “that’s your best guess?”
The clock struck five, and you began packing up. You shrugged. “As long as he keeps on doing what he’s doing, it’s none of my business.”
Lois raised an eyebrow. “Got a hot date?”
You slung your work bag over your shoulder. “Yeah,” you answered with a grin. “It’s with Superman.”
Jimmy and Lois’s laughter echoed through the floor as you exited the Daily Planet. You walked to the bus stop with the back of your ankles scraping painfully against your heels. You reached just in time to see the bus speeding away. On cue, rain began pouring down from the sky, soaking you within seconds.
Great, you thought, I just love my life right now.
You held your work bag over your head to shield yourself from the downpour, choosing to walk home instead. The wind picked up, and the cold air made your teeth clatter. It was times like this that made you wish you could fly. Maybe if you hadn’t ruined things with Clark, he would have taken you flying.
No, you told yourself. I made a mistake and I apologized.
There was not much you could do beyond that. Eventually, Clark would have to forgive you, and if he didn’t, then you’d just have to live with it. You couldn’t spend the rest of your career at the Daily Planet walking on eggshells.
You turned the corner and ran straight into something big and blue. “Agh!” you yelped, stumbling back.
Two hands shot out to steady you. You angle your bag up and saw a familiar face. “Cl— I mean, Superman?”
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.
.
The superhero stood in front of you with concern coloured on his face.
The bright red and blue of his suit stood in stark contrast against the gloomy city. You could vividly remember the last time you were so close to the man. It was on the rooftop when he had given you a harsh dressing down.
“You’re soaked,” he remarked, eyeing you from head to toe.
You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, genius,” you countered, moving around him to walk ahead.
“Let me drop you off at home,” he called out, catching up with you.
“You don’t have a car,” you said, speeding up.
His long legs made it easy for him to match your pace. “Superman doesn’t need a car.”
“You're referring to yourself in third person now?” you snorted.
“No,” he shook his head, “it's just a thing I came up with. I thought I'd try to work
into my chit-chat with the citizens. Why is it strange?”
“Nope,” you lied, “I think it’s completely normal that you spend your spare time rehearsing dialogues with strangers.”
“We are not strangers.”
“My point still stands.”
He grabbed your arm to gently stop you. “What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed through clenched teeth.
People passing by eyed you both, whispering to each other. One man across the street pulled his phone out to record you two. You couldn’t even be upset at him for invading your privacy; you did that as a job.
“I’m just trying to get you home quicker,” he reasoned, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It will take you forever to limp home in those shoes. Why don’t you have a coat with you by the way?”
“Sorry for forgetting to check the forecast!”
“Just let me help you!” he exclaimed, matching your volume.
“You’re making a scene,” you told him, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I don’t need your help.”
“I know,” he sighed, licking his lips. “Let me help you anyway.”
“Why?” you questioned, confused at his changed attitude. “I thought you wanted me to leave you alone.”
“You said it yourself,” he reminded, smirking. “You have a date with Superman.”
You rolled your eyes. Of course, he was eavesdropping; he probably couldn’t help himself with that super-hearing power of his.
“Come on,” he urged, tugging at the straps of your bag. “Let’s get out of here before.”
You stepped back to take a long look at him. A dark, wet curl had torn loose from his neatly combed back hair. You felt a sudden compulsion to reach out and tuck it back in place.
Shit, you thought, am I really about to give in to his bullshit?
Perhaps it was because you missed his company, or the expectant look in his eyes, or maybe you were just curious to know why he had followed you out. Before you could uncover the reason behind your decision, you flipped to face the man across the street.
“Oh, Superman!” you cried out, swooning. “Save me from the rain!”
You tipped back just as Clark reached down to wrap one arm around your shoulder and the other under your knee. He hoisted up to his chest and grinned.
“Let’s get you home, citizen.”
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.
.
Flying looked better in movies.
You hadn’t stopped screaming since you took off the ground in Clark’s arms. The wind and rain hit your eyes as you both soared over Metropolis. It was probably for the best that you couldn’t see, because anytime you made the mistake of looking down, nausea took hold.
Clark was having the time of his life; he hadn’t stopped laughing for a second. He even had the nerve to spin you both through a cloud over LuthorCorp. Your hands fisted his cape as you buried your head in the crook of his neck. You caught the tail end of what he was saying.
“—not dropping you!”
“DON’T DROP ME!”
He laughed even harder. A reluctant smile broke out on your face. You couldn’t remember the last time you had experienced something so exhilarating.
Is this how you live, Clark?
Eventually, you both slowed down. You peered over his shoulder and saw your apartment building underneath. Clark gently glided lower until you both reached your balcony. You thought he would set you down, but he didn’t. He balanced your weight on one arm and used the other to pull the slide doors apart, leading inside. He walked in, slipped on the indoor shoes without being asked, and carried you to your kitchen.
He gently settled you on the counter and stepped back. “How did you like it?” he asked, sheepishly.
“Honestly,” you croaked, mouth dry. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
He squinted at your stomach and then decided, “No, you’re not.”
You used your arms to shield your torso. “Don’t use your x-ray vision on my belly!”
“Sorry, sorry!” he cried, holding his hands up in surrender. “Force of habit. I won’t do it again.”
You shoved him back a little and hopped off the counter. You opened a cabinet and pulled out two empty cups. “I don’t know how you do this every day,” you said, setting them on the marble slab. “I thought I was going to pass out.”
He shrugged. “It was frightening for me at first, too,” he admitted. “I would do it in my sleep and accidentally float into the living room after bedtime. It would give my ma’ and pa’ a real scare.”
“No one ever caught you?”
“I didn’t have neighbours close by,” he explained. “Just acres of farmland. I think our cows saw me a couple of times, though. I-I lived in a small town— Smallville.”
You giggled as you filled up the kettle. “I don’t know why I just said that,” he said in a small voice. “I have never told anyone that before.”
You paused, searching for any hints of regret in his tone. “You don’t have to worry,” you replied. “I told you I wasn’t going to say anything.”
You both stayed silent as you turned the stove on and set the kettle down on top. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh before,” Clark spoke from behind. “I was really alarmed that you figured it out so easily.”
You shook your head, looking ahead. “I should have brought it up with more tact,” you admitted, biting your lip. “You made me feel like shit, but you had good reason to get upset. I just want to put this whole thing behind us, you know?”
You felt him step closer. His forehead slumped on your shoulder. “We can’t. I know you don’t see me the same anymore. How can things ever go back to the way they were?”
You spun around to face him, irritated. “Then what do I do, Clark?” you questioned, lips thinning. “What do you want me to do? I can’t turn back time and pretend that I don’t know you’re Superman. What can I do to make you stop looking at me like I’m a monster waiting to destroy you?”
You saw that he was taken aback. “I—” he began, lashes fluttering, “I just . . . I . . . ”
You felt a sudden surge in confidence. You placed your hands on his shoulders and bore into his bright eyes. “That day when I asked you out,” you started, “how did it feel?”
He blinked. “I was . . . surprised?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “I was taken aback. I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“And?”
“I was excited,” he continued, gulping. “I had wished for it longer than I’d like to admit.”
Your stomach tightened. “And?” you inquired, fingernails digging into his suit.
“And it hurt my heart to find out that you only did that because you wanted to uncover my big secret,” he confessed, voice getting higher.
There it was. The big hurt lay out in the open; exposed for you both to discuss.
You inched closer to clear the gap between you both. “What if I told you that I didn’t ask you out just for that?” you asked, craning your head up at him. “What if I told you I asked you out simply because I like you?”
The air around you grew warm and made your head spin. It was almost as if the sun itself was inside your apartment. Your lips brushed against Clark, and his eyelids grew heavy. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
He tipped your chin up with a massive hand. Your hands slipped down to his large biceps. His chest rose and fell, rapidly. You swallowed in anticipation. “I’m telling you I want you, Clark,” you whispered.
The kettle whistled behind you, jolting you both. The spell snapped. Clark stepped away from you.
You called out his name, but he cut you off. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “If it was so easy for you to figure out the truth, then I have to believe that others may already know too. It’s only a matter of time before the world knows it, too. When that happens, everyone around me will be in danger. That can never happen. I can’t do that to you. What I want can never happen.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he was already gone, taking the warmth in your home with him.
.
.
.
You decided that you will just have to seduce Clark Kent.
Clark wanted you too. Of course, he didn’t say those words out loud, but you knew what he meant. You didn’t know if you should be crying or laughing. The man you liked you back just as much.
His superhero dilemma made you want to bang your head against the wall. You understood why he was afraid, but being alone for the rest of his life was hardly the solution. Some day, he would have to get over it, and you weren’t going to be the woman he almost had.
No, you came to the conclusion, I think I’m going to have you now.
You had no plan; you were being driven just by instinct. It was an act as old as time. Clytemnestra, Cleopatra, Jezebel, and countless others had perfected the game before you. You just hoped that Kryptonian men ran just as red-blooded as their human counterparts.
There was just one issue. You had never seduced anyone before; the need for that had simply never come up. Some brainstorming and a few mortifying Google searches later, you decided on your first move.
Step 1: Look hot.
You looked great every day, but now you had put your sexiest foot forward. Within limits, of course, you didn’t want to be pulled aside by human resources and dress coded. You decided to tap into the part of your wardrobe you were usually too shy to wear.
When you showed up at the Daily Planet on Monday morning, heads spun. You dove right into work, and kept your eyes off Clark. You didn’t have to look to see if he was watching; you could feel the floor turn into a sauna as soon as you had stepped in. Only he radiated that type of heat.
“Hey,” you heard a voice greet.
You peered over the edge of your computer to see Clark standing on the other side. You leaned back in your chair. “What’s up?”
His eyes couldn’t focus on one place. They darted from your face to your legs to your chest and then back to your face. “Perry,” he cleared his throat, “wants you to edit my latest interview for Superman.”
“Okay.”
“Whenever you get the chance,” he said, straightening his glasses, “I’d really appreciate it.”
Step 2: Be confident.
“How about now?” you proposed, standing up.
You walked toward him as he stepped back. You both crossed the floor, and the back of his knees banged against the edge of his desk. He spun around just in time to grab a paperweight before it could topple over. “Sorry,” he huffed, taking a seat.
You moved behind him and bent down to see his screen better. Your chest pressed against his arm, and he stiffened. The scent of his aftershave made your stomach tighten. You let out a shaky breath to compose yourself. At this rate, you’d entice yourself before you could seduce Clark.
Your heart thundered in your chest as you tried to concentrate on his work. “I can just share the file with you,” he suggested, wiping the sweat off his philtrum.
Step 3: Maintain eye contact.
You turned to meet his gaze and held it. “I don’t mind at all,” you smiled, sickly sweet.
You turned your attention back to the screen. Skimming over the words, thankful that there was not much to correct on his draft. He had interviewed himself after all. “Oh,” you pouted, “you made a typo.”
You reached for his hand that was on the mouse and curled your thin fingers over his. You guided the cursor to the mistake and double-clicked it to highlight.
“Thanks,” he croaked, shifting in his seat.
You bit back a smirk. “Any time.”
.
.
.
On Tuesday, you ran into Clark in the break room.
He was scarfing down a croissant when you walked in. “Hey,” you greeted.
You took your lunch out of the fridge and set it on the counter.
“Wha’ do havef there?” he inquired with his mouth full.
“Some dumplings from yesterday,” you answered, putting the lunchbox in the microwave. “Did you pack a lunch, or are you just filling up on the treats Cat brought?”
“No lunch,” he replied. “I had a late night.”
You knew what he was referring to; it was all over the news. Superman and Green Lantern had fought a radioactive creature late into the night. You were glued to your television until the wee hours yourself. You knew Clark could handle a fight, but that didn’t stop your stomach from clenching every time he was punched in the face or slammed down on concrete.
The microwave beeped, and you took out your food. “You did pretty well,” you told him, “I’m sure having the Green Lantern assist helped.”
He smiled, his dimples becoming prominent. “It’s nice not doing things alone.”
You grabbed a fork from the cabinet and impaled a dumpling on it. “Want some?” you asked, blowing on it.
Step 4: physical contact.
You held it up to his mouth, still puffing at the dumpling. He looked a bit hesitant, but then inched forward. You knew he couldn’t resist some good food; his big body probably needed a lot of it to sustain itself. He took a bite, and some of the sauce got on his lips. Without missing a beat, you reached out, wiped his lip with your knuckle, and licked your hand clean.
Clark’s jaw fell. He looked like you had just slapped him in the face. “Sorry,” you smiled. “Bad habit.”
.
.
.
On Wednesday, you found yourself in the archive room.
Perry had asked you to compile hard copies of any mention of LuthorCorp from decades ago and digitize them. Things were going smoothly when you were fetching files from the bottom shelf, but eventually you had to move up. Begrudgingly, you fetched a ladder from the supply closet and dragged it into the room.
The metal shook under your feet, and you hesitantly climbed up. You shifted your weight on the top cap and slid out a box. You placed it on your lap and began searching through its contents. You must not have heard the archive door open behind you because you jolted when a voice called out your name.
The movement made the ladder dance, and you stumbled backwards. You scrunched up, cradling your head, eyes closed, bracing for impact as you plunged down towards the floor.
When nothing happened, you hesitantly opened one eye, and then the other.
You were in Clark’s arms. He stared at you, breathing heavily. That was probably the first time you had seen him out of breath.
Step 4.5: accidental physical contact?
His fingers dug into the flesh of your bare legs and arms. “You scared me,” you croaked, clutching the collar of his coat.
“I didn’t mean to,” he breathed out.
You slid your hand to his chest. You felt his heart pounding through his dress shirt under your palm. “I’m okay,” you reassured, patting him gently. “You caught me in time.”
He nodded and set you down on your feet. “I’m really sorry,” he apologized anyway. “I should have knocked.”
You shook your head. “You had no way of knowing I was inside, big blue.”
“Still,” he said, frowning.
You bit your lip. You didn’t like seeing him upset. “Wanna’ make it up to me?”
“Yeah.”
“Come to the journalist retreat with us on Friday,” you said, fixing the fold in his collar from where you had grabbed it earlier. “The whole team is going, even Steve.”
“I don’t know,” he started, shaking his head, “what is something happens while I’m gone—”
“Nothing is going to happen to Metropolis while you’re away, Clark,” you cut him off. “Plus, the Justice League will be here.”
“Gang,” he corrected.
“Tomato-Tomatoh,” you waved him off. “So, are you in?”
He eyed the space between you both. You could almost see the cogs in his brain turning as he worked through all the worst-case scenarios in his head. Once he had exhausted them all, he met your eyes. “Okay.”
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.
.
By the time Friday had rolled around, you were on step nine of your seduction plan.
Clark would have to be the most oblivious creature on Earth to not notice. Even Jimmy had picked up on it and, much to your relief, he had kept his mouth shut. That didn’t stop him from raising an eyebrow or smirking anytime you interacted with Clark.
When work ended for the week, you, Clark, Lois, Cat, and Jimmy had piled into a rental car to drive towards the retreat a few hours away.
You were halfway to your destination when you glanced up from your phone and out the window. “Is that Steve?” you asked Jimmy, as your car passed an exit on the freeway.
Jimmy glanced at the rear-view mirror. “Oh, yeah.”
He pulled over and turned the hazard lights on. Steve jogged up to your car, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You rolled your window down. “What happened?”
“My car broke down,” he huffed, “everyone else went ahead with Perry. Can I catch a ride with you?”
“We have no seats,” Jimmy replied. “Just call for an Uber.”
“I’m not paying out of pocket for that,” he said, looking around the car. “NFL season is starting, and this man will need all his dollars.”
His eyes landed on you in the passenger seat. “She can sit on Kent’s la[,” he stated. “We are only an hour away.”
With how your life was going lately, you often doubted the Big Man Upstairs. Then situations like such presented themselves, and you knew there was a higher power. “Absolutely not,” you feigned outrage. “I’m gonna crush him!”
He shot you a weird look. “The man is big enough,” he said. “You can handle it, right, Kent?”
“I guess?”
You pushed the car door, hitting Steve’s shin in the process, a dramatically huffed, “Unbelievable!”
You bit back a grin as Steve limped to the front, and you hopped in the back where Clark was.
He sat absolutely still, spine erect, and hands in clenched fists at his side. You gingerly sat on his lap as Steve chucked his duffel bag over Cat and Lois’ thighs.
“Sorry,” you said to Clark.
“No worries,” he croaked, voice high.
The car merged back onto the freeway, and conversations erupted around you both. You were fine for the first few minutes, but then the heat emitted by Clark made you restless. You tugged your cardigan off your shoulders and draped it over your legs.
Still too warm, you shifted on his lap, struggling to find a comfortable position. His hands shot up to your thighs. “Don’t move,” he begged in your ear. “Please.”
That’s when you felt it; something hardening underneath you.
Holy shit, you thought. He’s hard.
You pouted and rolled in his lap once again. “I’m just,” you exhaled, leaning back into him, “trying to get comfortable.”
His warm breath hit the back of your neck. “Please.”
Taking pity on him, you kept yourself still. His chest expanded into your back, and your breaths synced. You scanned the car to see if anyone was paying attention to you both, and then sneaked your hand under your cardigan. You curled your fingers over his and rubbed circles on the back of his hand with your thumb. His forehead hit your shoulder.
The car suddenly met a rough patch on the road as you all pulled into the city, sending you bouncing. Clark clutched your hand, and his free arm moved to wrap around your waist to hold you in place.
You finally turned to look at him for the first time during the road trip. His hair was dishevelled, and he wore a pained expression. You inched your mouth to his ear and whispered, “Isn’t it time you gave in?”
You rolled your lips, deliberately, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t answer and only stared ahead with thick, furrowed eyebrows. When you finally reached the hotel, Clark pushed you off him and beelined straight for the hotel.
You smirk, pulling the cardigan back over you.
Yeah. I’ve got him now.
.
.
.
The only thing on the agenda for tonight was welcome drinks.
You were sharing a room with Lois, who was smoking out the window. “I’m taking the side closest to the bathroom,” she said, pulling the cigarette away from her lips. “I get up to pee during the night.”
“If things go according to plan,” you replied, pulling a dress out of your suitcase, “you will have the room for yourself tonight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Think you’ll meet someone tonight?”
“Something like that.”
You both took turns changing and getting ready in the bathroom before heading downstairs.
The hotel’s banquet hall was filled with journalists from nearby cities. Clark was already there with the rest of the Daily Planet staff when you reached. It was hard to miss the way he towered a full foot and then some over everyone else. He had traded his usual dress shirt for an identical-looking one, but had spent enough time watching him to know that it was the best one he owned. His hair was only slightly tousled, like he had just finished rolling around in bed. He was toying with the frames sitting on his face when you approached him.
“Hey, big blue.”
He jerked around at the sound of your voice. “H-hey,” he stuttered, eyes moving frantically over you.
“You look good,” you commented, running a hand through your hair.
“T-thanks,” he replied. “You look beaut— I mean good! You look good, also.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cheesing too hard. “Wanna’ grab a drink?”
He gave you a shaky nod, and you guided him to a bar. “Two martinis, please,” you told the bartender.
“I can’t get drunk,” he shared as you both watched the bartender make your drink.
“Like at all?”
“My Kryptonian physiology makes it impossible,” he explained, leaning on the bar. “I process the alcohol too quickly.”
Your hopes for a drunken confession from him ended quickly after that revelation. The bartender set the drinks in front of you, and Clark paid for them before you could offer. You held the glasses up in your hands and asked, “Should I have them both then?”
“No,” he said. “I still enjoy the taste. Plus, I can recall your tolerance from our office pub nights. You should pace yourself.”
“Why?” you questioned, pouting. “Are we doing something after?”
His cheeks reddened at your words. “Of course not,” he said. “You should stop saying things like that.”
You gulped down a drink and shrugged. “I was just wondering. I need to plan my night out while I’m still sober. Lois and I have an arrangement with our hotel room, and it doesn’t involve me sleeping there tonight. I can do good with some liquid courage before I talk to that reporter from Gotham.”
Your mouth moved to the other cocktail, and Clark’s hand shot out to stop you. He wrapped his hand around your thin wrist and brought the glass up to his mouth. He drank from it, chugging down the contents.
You eyed him, amazed. You had never seen any man drink a martini like a pint of beer before. He took the glasses from your hands and set them down on the bar. He pressed a hand on your lower back and guided you towards the exit. “We are going.”
As you weaved through the crowd, Lois shot you a confused look and mouthed, Clark Kent?
I don’t know, you mouthed back.
His hand burned through the fabric of your dress, and he walked you out of the banquet hall. “What are you doing, Clark?” you cried out once you were out of your colleagues’ earshot.
“What am I doing?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “What are you doing?”
“I am trying to enjoy my retreat,” you countered, frowning. “What else?”
“I’m not stupid,” he scowled, towering over you. “You have been coming at me all week, and now you’re telling me you’re going to—”
“To what?” you sneered, stepping closer to him.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he snapped.
You felt like a spider weaving a web for your favourite insect. “I have been nothing but honest with you, Clark,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “You are the one who insists on torturing yourself.”
He stayed silent, jaw clenched. His silence infuriated you.
“I told you that I want to be with you, but no, ” you continued, poking him in the chest, “you prefer being alone over having someone care about you by your side. You know what? Be my guest! Have fun being ‘hastag supershit’ for all I care!”
“Super-shit?” he echoed, voice rising. “Why would you say that? You know that one specifically irritates me!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You either want to be with me, or you don’t,” you exhaled. “I can’t wait for you forever.”
“It’s not that simple!” he cried, eyes shot wide. “I told you t-that being with me is dangerous, but that doesn’t mean I can just stand by and watch you talk about s-some other guy. I have feelings too! You have been driving me insane. I can’t think or sleep or eat, or breathe when you’re near me. You have got to stop playing with me!”
There it was. Not a drunken confession, but close enough. Tears welling up in your eyes, you grabbed the collar of his shirt. “You think this is a fucking joke to me?”
His breathing picked up, and his hands clenched into fists. “Waiting for you to want me back is humiliating,” you confessed. “I hate that I watch for you in every room I’m in. I hate that you pull me close and open a window into your heart, only to slam it back shut in my face. I hate you so much sometimes that I could just—”
His mouth crashed down on you. You gasped, mouth parting just enough for his tongue to slip inside. He backed you into a nearby wall, and your hands flew to his face as his hands grabbed a handful of your ass through your dress. You sucked on his bottom lip and bit down, gently. Clark let out a pained groan. “Screw it,” he whispered in between the kisses, “you win, baby. It is about time I gave in.”
Hook, line, and sinker. You smiled against his lips, letting out a shaky breath and the anger bubbling within you with it. “We are going upstairs,” he commanded, pushing off you.
You nod, blood rushing to your ears, and let him pull you toward the elevator.
.
.
.
You and Clark stand on opposite ends of the elevator.
The lift stops at your floor, and you step outside, Clark on your heels. He grabs your waist and hastens your pace. “Go change into something comfortable and then come up to room two-twenty-four,” he said.
“You want it to be easy to take off later?” you teased.
“Careful,” he warned.
You grinned from ear to ear and followed along. You changed into a plain shirt and matching shorts and skipped all the way back to his room, humming to yourself.
You skidded to a stop in front of ROOM 224. You could hear the hardwood floor creak under Clark’s foot as he paced in his room alone. You gently knocked, and the door opened immediately.
“Hey, big blue.”
“Hi,” he smiled.
His glasses were gone, and he had changed into some blue pyjamas. He moved out of your way so you could step inside. His room was just as tidy as you expected. His clothes from the mixer were placed with care in the hotel’s laundry bag. His work laptop and notebooks were placed neatly on a desk. His unzipped suitcase sat on the bedroom bench, the familiar red and blue suit peeking out. You can take the boy out of the city, you thought, but you can’t take the superhero out of the boy.
You accompanied him on a short walk to the sofa facing the television.
He had put out for you two cans of soda, several bags of candy, and some popcorn on the coffee table. “How did you get all of this so fast?” you asked, taking a seat.
“Super speed,” he answered, shrugging casually, “I even managed to get a shower in before you got here.”
“Impressive,” you commented as he reached for the remote to search for a movie.
He picked one and pressed play. You both watched the screen in quietude. You couldn’t concentrate; your thoughts were racing back to the kiss you had shared in the lobby with him. You both were so hot and bothered minutes ago only only to now, you didn’t understand why he was making you watch a movie set in nineteenth-century Paris .
What the fuck is happening?
“Madame Raquin is making Thérèse marry her cousin Camille,” Clark said, eyes glued to the television.
“Oh.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and saw him fully engrossed in the storyline. “That’s Laurent,” he shared sometime after. “He works with Camille.”
“Oh.”
He fisted some popcorn in his hand and shoved it in his mouth. You had no choice but to turn your attention to the movie. Camille and his mother had exited the room to fetch some champagne, and once alone, Thérèse and Laurent had leapt at each other to kiss passionately.
You wished that it were Clark and you. That was you both mere minutes ago. “We were just doing that downstairs too,” you commented, yawning.
Clark choked on his popcorn. You rushed to him. “Oh my god!”
You picked up a soda can, pulled the tab off, and handed it to him.
He gulped down some of his drink and nodded frantically. You continued massaging his back. “Are you okay?” you asked, rubbing his large back.
His face had gone red. “Poor baby,” you laughed.
You slid your hand up and cupped his nape. His eyes widened as you moved closer, knees digging into the cushion. “Clark,” you murmured, “are we just going to watch a movie?”
He swallowed, shaking his head.
“Good,” you said, and inched your face closer.
He closed the distance and pressed a chaste kiss on your lips. Once. Twice. Thrice. His hand slipped into your hair, and he opened his mouth more. You relaxed your jaw to let his tongue prod your own. He tasted sweet, like the soda he had just drunk.
The kiss grew messier; his saliva mixed with yours. He pulled your arm and moved you so that you were straddling him. You gasped as his tongue swept over the roof of your mouth. He pulled away from you and mumbled, “Gosh, you smell so good.”
His lips trailed down to your neck, and you squirmed in his lap, attempting to get as close to him as you possibly could. He peppered kisses down to the hollow of your throat and then back up to your jaw on the other side. Your head was spinning. His scent and touches invaded your senses. Clark guided your hands to his hair, and you clenched the strands as your mouths met again. His own arm wrapped around your waist, and he slipped his fingers under the hem of your shirt.
His touch burned. You jolted at the sensation. He tore his mouth away from you again. “What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes searching your face for any signs of discomfort.
You shook your head and grabbed his face. You kissed him, and your hips rolled down on their own accord. You were sure you were soaking his pyjama bottoms through your shifts. His body felt so strong underneath you; it was the best feeling in the world. You didn’t know where you ended and he began.
Clark groaned and seized you by the shoulders to move you back. “Wait! Wait!” he heaved. “I can’t do this!”
.
.
.
Your head tilted to the side, puzzled. “What?”
“I can’t have sex with you,” he blurted out, lashes fluttering.
You looked down at the bump pressing up through your shorts. “You don’t have the apparatus?”
“Of course I do!” he exclaimed, mortified at your question. “I’m literally hard right now!”
You pouted. “You don’t want to sleep with me then?”
“No,” he croaked, face scrunching. “Of course I want to.”
He curled your hair behind your ear with a finger and held your face. “I have been thinking about it for months.”
You kept your hand down. “You can have sex with me, you want to have sex with me, but you’re not going to? I’m confused.”
You heard him exhale. “I’m not like other men,” he began. “My . . . physiology . . . is different.”
You looked up at him. He licked his lips, looking visibly distraught.
“Different how?” you asked, intrigued.
You knew he was an alien, but the thought that there may be issues between alien-human copulation hadn’t crossed your mind. He let go of you to run a hand over his face. “I’m too big,” he mumbled through his fingers.
Oh. Oh.
A smile crept up to your face. “That’s hardly an issue for me,” you stated, pulling his hand away.
“You don’t understand,” he said, jaw clenching. “It’s not that simple. I have never been able to fit inside anyone before. The human body has its limits, and it’s l-like I’m not compatible with it. I don't want to m-mess this up or hurt you in the process. For heaven’s sake, they don’t even make condoms my size!”
You didn’t know what to say. You had a feeling that he had been hurt in the past. Kind words simply wouldn’t be enough to reassure him.
You sighed. “Let me try anyway, Clark.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“Let me try,” you repeated, pushing off him.
You kneeled between his legs and looked up at him. “Let me try, baby. I wanna’ make you feel good.”
His chest rose and fell quickly as he stared down at you. Your hands reached for his crotch to rub him through his pyjama pants. “Please?”
He gulped, letting out a shaky breath, and then gave you a small nod. You smiled and hooked your fingers behind the elastic. Clark lifted himself up off the cushion to let you shimmy the fabric lower. You noticed that he wasn’t wearing underwear when his cock slipped out and slapped against his stomach.
You kept your expression neutral. “See?” he asked, shutting his eyes.
Big was an understatement; he was huge. His penis reminded you of those monster cocks you had seen in hentai novels back in college. It was thick at the base, too broad to fully wrap a hand around. His bulbous head was thinner in comparison, the perfect shade of red. Two heavy balls accompanied his cock and completed the picture beautifully. Your mouth watered.
Yeah, I’ll make it work.
.
.
.
You wrapped a hand around his cock, and he hissed in response.
You stuck your tongue out and ran it to the tip from where the base met his balls. You started off by placing open-mouthed kisses along his length to test the waters. His stomach clenched in response. “You taste good, baby,” you whispered, between licks.
You glanced up to see Clark’s blue eye watching you through the gaps in his fingers. His breath hitched every time your mouth made contact with his dick. You geared yourself for your first attempt and relaxed your jaw to slip his head inside. You felt him let out a deep groan.
You worked your mouth over him, slowly, to not overwhelm him or yourself. If he saw you struggle, you were afraid he was going to get embarrassed. His heaviness made you salivate. You hollowed cheeks out, wrapped both hands around the parts of his shaft you couldn’t reach just yet, and bobbed your head down. He hit the back of your throat, and your toes clenched around the carpet hair. You had reached your limit, and he was only a quarter in.
His hand moved to your hair as you sucked away. You didn’t think you could ever enjoy pleasuring someone else this much. Maybe everything did feel better when you did it with someone you loved. The thought made you smile around his cock.
Clark’s fingers cupped the back of your neck, and you felt him inch forward slightly. You glanced up to see him chewing his lip, trying to hold back the sounds from escaping his lips. You ran your hand from his knee up to his thighs, soothing him.
It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
He cupped your face and drove his shaft further down your throat. You dug your nails into the meat of his thighs as he rocked into your throats with shallow thrusts. If you reached up to your neck right now, you’d feel him moving through your skin.
“Gosh,” he groaned, tugging his dick out.
He yanked you up and crashed his lips over yours. He licked into your mouth, tasting your saliva intertwined with his pre cum. He spun you around and sat you down over his abs. “I think I love you,” he exhaled. “I-I love you.”
You turned your head to the side and kissed him over your shoulder. His lips were soft and plump; you wanted to feel them forever. He groaned and slipped his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down along with your underwear in one go. “Spread your legs for me, baby,” he whispered in your ear. “I may have been too big to fit in anyone, but I have had a lot of practice with my fingers.”
You did as he asked, moving one limb over his thigh and the other over the armrest. His thick fingers glide down the exposed skin of your stomach, where your shirt had hiked up, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He trailed his hand down the hair on your mound, over your clit, and in between your lips. He spread them apart, exposing your cunt to the cold air in the room.
A shiver ran down your spine as he dipped his fingers into your cunt and collected the wetness on his fingertips. His free hand wrapped around your knee, holding you in place. “Gosh,” he groaned in your hair, “sucking me off was that fun? You are so wet.”
You nodded, shaking in his arms. “A-all for you.”
He pressed a soft kiss on your earlobe. He glided his fingers over your labia and back up to your clit. His fingertips began circling it as he spoke, “You know I had five piano teachers quit on me back in Smallville?”
You tipped your head back, biting down on your lips. You clenched your hands into fists, unsure what to grab onto as you withered under his touch. “They said there was no point in teaching me,” he continued, absentmindedly. “I was too shit at it . . . ’cause my fingers were too big for the keys. They were good at other things, though. Would you like to check for yourself?”
“Fuck!” you exclaimed, toes curling in anticipation. “Yes! Yes!”
You felt his lips curve into a smile in your hair. Clark moved his middle finger down to your hole and inched it inside. You arched off him at the sensation, and he wrapped a hand around your waist to pull you back to his chest.
He pushed through the initial resistance in your cunt and slid down to his knuckle. “There you go,” he cooed. “You’re so soft inside.”
He pumped his finger inside you, and your eyes rolled back. A sob tore out of your throat. “Don’t cry, baby,” he exhaled. “I’m trying to make you feel good. Doesn’t this feel good?”
You had woken up something within him. You didn’t expect him to be so vocal to begin with, and now he wouldn’t stop asking you questions that made you clench around his finger. “F-feels good,” you spoke through clenched teeth. “You feel so good.”
“You can hold on to me,” he said, gently. “You can make all the noise you want.”
You unclenched his fists and placed them over the arm that held you in place. Your nails dug into his hand every time he pumped his finger out of you.
“One more?” he asked.
You could only nod frantically in response. His index finger prodded your hole and slowly swivelled inside. “B-big stretch,” Clark panted in your nape. “Good girl. You’re taking my fingers so well.”
Your body shook as he curled his fingers in deeper. They moved within your gummy walls and found the spongy bit that made you seize above him. You let out a loud moan and hoped the hotel room was soundproof.
He rubbed against the spot, and electricity ran up your spine. You were close. He felt it too. “Come for me, baby,” he instructed, kissing your throat. “Please.”
His fingers moved in and out of your cunt faster. His thumb found your clit again and he began toying with it in a pattern that followed his own will. Both your breaths picked up in tandem.
Your pleasure reached a crescendo and burst like a balloon over an open flame. You shook wildly in his arms, as your orgasm tore up through you. Exctasy rolled through you in waves, making your limbs tight in one moment and then relaxed in the next.
Your head felt light. You felt your soul levitate out of your body and upwards to the ceiling. You looked back down to see your own eyes, glassy, staring in the distance as Clark shook you by the shoulders. His mouth moved as he spoke, eyebrows furrowing, but you weren’t listening.
You stretched your arm out to float back down; it was like moving through molasses. You let out a gasp as you came back to earth. Clark was calling out your name in distress. It took all your effort for you to turn around in his embrace. You silenced him with a kiss. “I fucking love you, too,” you sobbed against his mouth.
His hands slid up and down your back; his touch grounded you. “I’m never letting you go,” he croaked through deep breaths. “I’m going to keep you safe forever. You’re my girl.”
“I know, big blue. I know.”
The movie played in the background, long forgotten. You both held each other close, basking in the warmth of the moment you had just shared. Figuring out coworker was Superman proved to be a great discovery after all.
ᯓ★ When your childhood best friend has powers, and you get to see how he uses them (and the times when you don't)...
Clark knew you were special.
And it wasn’t because Ma and Pa had whole albums of the two of you in diapers, splashing in mud.
Or because both your parents had cluttered mantels lined with pictures—year after year, grade after grade—of you and Clark grinning side by side, him shooting up taller and taller until he towered over you.
It wasn’t even because he’d known you his whole life. Or because his heart always kicked into a dangerous, too-fast rhythm whenever you looked at him—
No, you were special because you made Clark want to do reckless, impossible things.
Those reckless things started when you found out about his powers. It was an accident. He swore it, even years later.
It started on a gray, pounding-rain sort of day. His Pa had come down with a fever—bad, the kind that rattled in Clark’s ears and pulsed against his skull through the walls. He’d never had a fever himself, but he could feel how wrong it was, how much it must hurt.
Ma had gone next door for herbs and remedies, leaving Clark in the kitchen. He hovered over the kettle on the stove, watching the water sit and simmer... and simmer... and simmer.
Why waste the time? He’d been practicing. Heat vision. Control. He was bound to slip again—maybe burn a hole in the wall—but at least he could say he tried.
Clark squared his shoulders, drew in a breath, let the rest of the world blur away. Heat gathered behind his eyes until they burned, flared, blazed red. He narrowed the beam to a thread and released—
One second.
Two.
Three.
He cut it off just as the kettle whistled. The hiss of steam was almost drowned out by the pounding in his chest. He did it. He actually did it. His grin split wide, a giddy little laugh escaping him. Pa was going to be so proud—so mad, yeah, but still proud.
And then—
“Clark…?”
He froze. That wasn’t Ma’s voice. It wasn’t Pa’s.
He turned.
There you were, dripping rainwater onto the tile, arms laden with vegetables. Your gaze flicked from his glowing eyes to the kettle, back to him, back to the steam, as if trying to puzzle together something impossible.
Once. Twice. A third time.
And then your eyes rolled back, and you crumpled to the floor.
Clark screamed.
He scooped you up, carrying you to the couch with shaking hands. His breath came quick and shallow, tears pricking his eyes as he fanned your face like it might wake you faster.
When your lashes fluttered and you groaned, relief poured through him so fast.
“Oh my gosh—you’re awake! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He laughed and cried all at once, words spilling out like floodwater. “I-it wasn’t that crazy, or maybe it was, I don’t know! It isn’t that bad! It’s not like my flying or—or my strength, I was just practicing, that’s all—”
You blinked. Your brain caught up. And then you fainted again.
After that, Clark swore to himself he’d never let his powers scare you like that again. He tried to keep them tucked away, neat and hidden.
No hovering to snag an apple from a high branch. No cooling himself off with a puff of frozen breath on a hot afternoon. If using them meant risking you keeling over, it wasn’t worth it.
But you were curious.
How could you not be? Your best friend could fly, could lift tractors without breaking a sweat, could breathe ice and shoot fire from his eyes. The more he tried to avoid it, the more you wanted to see.
And Clark… well, he liked the attention.
The way you tilted your head up at him, all wide-eyed wonder, begging, “Just one loop around the farm? Please? We can time you—it’ll count as practice!” made his resolve unravel every time.
Practice, right. Sure.
But when you leaned against his arm, soft and warm, your chest pressing into his bicep, your grin just daring him to say no… Clark was helpless.
He agreed every single time.
And soon, it wasn’t enough just to show you what he could do.
It became a competition. A game. Clark would catch himself thinking of new ways to impress you—flying higher, faster, longer, stacking hay bales with one hand like it was nothing, racing a stray dog across the fields just to see your laugh split open the air.
He didn’t want you to get used to it. Didn’t want you to look at him and see ordinary. Because then he wouldn’t get that pout, that little tilt of your lips when you begged, “C’mon, Clark, just one more trick.”
But powers came with downsides. A million of them.
The thing was, Clark didn’t think of his heightened hearing, sight, or smell as “powers.” They were just… him. The way his heart beat. The way his lungs worked. Part of his bones, his blood.
But he still had something he had to improve on.
At first, it was overwhelming—too many sounds pressing in on him, overlapping until he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and hide.
But with practice, he was learning how to narrow it, how to pick out one thing and block out the rest. Pa called it “focus.”
Rainy nights were the best for practice. The world grew noisy in the rain—dogs barking at thunder, trucks struggling through the muck of country roads, tires hissing against the wet earth.
So one night, while the storm drummed steady against his window, Clark lay back in bed and let his hearing stretch.
First, he found the farm dogs, snapping and growling at each other. He wrinkled his nose and tuned them out.
Next, the heavy groan of an engine—someone’s pickup dragging through the mud, gears grinding like teeth. He followed the sound, tracked it down the road, and then let it fade.
He caught a man’s voice after that—sharp, slurred, cursing like a sailor in the storm. Clark tensed, the words stinging his ears, and flinched away until the voice was nothing but static in the distance.
The skill was coming easier now. Focus, block, move on.
And then he thought of you.
What were you doing tonight? Probably homework—you always had more than him—or maybe helping your mom with supper. Maybe already in bed, curled up safe while the rain poured down.
Clark’s heart stuttered. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But curiosity tugged at him anyway, soft and insistent.
So he reached for you. Past the noise of the rain on roofs, past the hum of your dad's TV downstairs, past your mom moving dishes in the sink. He pushed past all of it until the sounds settled into one clear thread.
Your room.
Sheets shifting. A faint rustle, like you were turning over in bed. Okay—so you’d gone to sleep early.
Then another sound. Wet. Slower. Rhythmic.
Clark frowned. Eating in bed again? You did that sometimes, sneaking cookies or fruit when your dad wasn’t looking.
He almost smiled, shaking his head—typical you.
But then—
A moan.
Soft. Breathless.
Clark snapped out of the thread so fast it was like someone yanked the cord out of him.
He lurched to his feet, heart hammering, and stumbled straight into his dresser. Pain didn’t register, but the shock did, and he hissed out a clumsy, “Oh—oh heck!” before collapsing back into bed.
His face was on fire. He dragged the sheets over his head like a kid hiding from a nightmare, as if cotton could block out what he’d just heard. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove the sound out of his head.
But it lingered. Sweet. Precious. Like the world’s cruelest solo.
And worse, his hearing wouldn’t settle. It kept flicking, twitching, zoning in against his will, like something inside him had been knocked loose. Every time he told himself don’t listen, the memory of that sound dragged him back.
Gosh, he was sweating. Shaking.
One more time, he thought, guilty heat rolling through his chest. Just one more time, then I’ll stop.
Clark buried deeper under the covers, heart in his throat, and tuned in again. Harder this time, like dragging himself upstream. But he found it. Found you.
The rhythm of your sheets. The wet slide. Your breathing, uneven now, little catches in your throat—then another moan, soft and perfect.
Clark bit his fist, eyes squeezing shut, but it didn’t stop the rush. His cock grew heavy, throbbing against the cotton of his pajama pants. He imagined it all, every reckless detail his mind could conjure.
How pretty you must look, flushed pink and panting, lashes clumped from tears of pleasure. How wet you must be, your pussy swollen and puffy beneath your hand.
The way you might arch your back, thighs trembling, lips parted as you whispered little pleas into the dark.
“Oh god,” Clark whispered under the covers, voice cracking. “I—I’m sorry.”
But his hand moved anyway.
He shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, hissing when the cool air hit his length. His cock stood thick and red, already weeping at the tip.
Clark spit clumsily into his palm—what else was he supposed to do?—and wrapped his hand around himself, jerking slow at first.
The sound of you filled his head. Every whimper, every slick stroke of your hand. He matched your rhythm, his fist gliding down his shaft, pumping harder when you moaned again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, desperate now, teeth sinking into his knuckles as his hips bucked up into his grip.
Every catch of your breath, every needy whimper—it was his guide. His only compass.
Clark had never heard anything like it. Never heard a girl like that. Never heard you like that. It was too much, too close, too good.
His body rocked, his hand working faster, chasing you, always chasing. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the dark, the words cracking, useless now. “Oh gosh, I’m—”
Then your breath hitched, sharp and high. Were you close? Were you—?
He gasped, cock twitching hot and wet in his fist. It hit him like a bullet, ripping through him. Clark came hard, his body jerking as sticky cum spilled over his hand and belly. He bit down, but your name slipped out anyway, a broken moan lost in the blanket.
He collapsed back against the mattress, trembling, heart hammering.
For a moment, the world was silent again. No river of sound tugging at him. Just his ragged breathing and the sticky mess cooling on his skin. He let out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand over his face. It was wrong. So wrong. But at least it was over.
He blinked into the dark, shoving the blanket off his face. His hand was still tacky, yet his cock was somehow still twitching stubbornly. He cursed softly, propping himself up.
“Please,” he muttered, looking down at himself, cheeks flaming. “Just… just die down already.”
At least you were finished. At least you wouldn’t—
A muffled curse filtered into his ears. Your voice, frustrated, almost petulant. The slick sounds started up again, louder now, sharper.
Clark froze. His stomach dropped.
“No, no, no, no—” His own words tumbled out in a rush, strangled and desperate. “Oh gosh, not again.”
He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing himself to stop, to ignore it. But the sound pulled him under all over again. Your needy moans, the slick glide that made his cock ache fresh
He groaned, clutching at his hair. “Shoot. Oh shoot. I can’t—”
But he was already reaching down again, wrapping his hand around himself with a whimper.
thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really? tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot? god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive. you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed
