imagines/one shots @maeby-bby - Tumblr Blog

Jul 23, 2025

love, meteors, and clark kent's accidental flight

a/n: this was purely inspired by the fact i totally interpreted that final kiss in the film as clark just being so enraptured he didn't even notice he was flying tehe

Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is. spoiler-free, fem!reader, 7k, all fluff babey <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You always hear him before you see him—though the ding of the elevator is a dead giveaway.

A glance at the clock tells you it’s 9:07am. Not the latest he's been, but it's definitely getting there.

"You're late, Kent."

"Sorry, sorry."

There's a smattering of murmured apologies being given out behind you, soft, fast footsteps, and then something is placed beside you. An iced latte rings the beginnings of a water-mark on your desk.

You look up, already smiling. "Please don't tell me you were late because you were getting me this."

Clark, ruffled and clutching his briefcase in one hand, balancing a tray of coffees in the other, pauses in his hurried motions. He looks down at you guiltily.

His mouth twists, a poor attempt to hold back a smile. You're thankful, if only for the fact you're particularly prone to your most foolish moments when Clark Kent smiles at you.

"Alright," he says. "I won't tell you."

Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.

Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.

The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.

Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.

Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.

“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.

You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”

Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.

“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Is it?”

He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.

“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”

A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.

You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.

He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…

Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.

First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.

He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.

He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.

You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.

And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.

Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.

That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.

He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.

That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.

And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.

It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.

A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!

Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.

Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.

Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.

Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.

Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.

No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.

Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.

You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.

1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.

These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.

Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.

As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.

Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.

You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.

Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.

That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.

Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.

“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.

The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.

You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.

The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.

The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.

You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.

Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.

If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.

Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.

Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.

An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.

You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.

Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?

Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.

Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.

“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.

She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”

“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.

The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.

Something has taken flight.

Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.

It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.

And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.

The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.

“Shit.” you say astutely.

There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.

You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.

“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.

This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.

You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.

Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.

“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.

“Move! Everybody move!”

Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.

You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.

Your gaze catches.

A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.

Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.

Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.

You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.

“Hello.” He says politely.

“Hi.” you breathe.

He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.

Superman looks down, smiling kindly, “You’re safe now.”

He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”

“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”

When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.

Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.

“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”

His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.

“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”

And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.

The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.

It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.

Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.

Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.

The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.

“Is he coming back?”

You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.

“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”

“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.

“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”

Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.

Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.

It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.

“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”

Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.

“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.

“Right here.”

You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.

“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.

He smiles. “Great.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.

“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”

Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”

So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.

“I had help today,” he says.

Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.

Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.

You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.

He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.

“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.

You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.

“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”

Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.

In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.

That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.

“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.

Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.

The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.

For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.

If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.

Admiration? Maybe.

Something else twinges in there, unbidden.

You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.

Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.

You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.

Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.

“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.

The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.

You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.

The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.

But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.

That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.

Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.

Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?

You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.

Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.

Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.

There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.

This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.

Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.

Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.

Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.

And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.

Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.

Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.

After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!

It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.

But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.

For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.

It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that

And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.

Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.

For a change, Clark isn't late today.

Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.

The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.

It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.

He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.

To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.

"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.

"Celebrate?"

Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.

"It's only second page." You downplay.

Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.

"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."

If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.

"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.

Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."

After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.

"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"

You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.

Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.

You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.

"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."

Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.

"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"

Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.

"To celebrate." He tacks on.

One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.

"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.

And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"

You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.

He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."

You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.

He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.

Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.

You're nearly undone with it.

This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.

It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.

It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.

The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.

"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."

Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.

It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.

You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.

"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.

Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.

"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”

He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!

You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"

No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.

You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.

You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.

The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.

He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.

You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.

Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.

Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.

You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.

Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.

“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”

It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.

“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”

Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”

He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.

With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.

“A long time, huh?”

Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.

“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”

You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.

But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.

Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.

Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.

He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.

“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”

You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.

“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.

His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.

“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”

Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.

“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”

That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.

He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.

“Shut up.” you say weakly.

Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”

“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”

To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.

The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.

He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.

It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.

“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"

He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.

"Improper?"

Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.

"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"

In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.

He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.

Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.

Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.

Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.

And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.

Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?

It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.

It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.

You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.

"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.

Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."

You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.

Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.

Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.

Clark Kent can fly!

Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)

Clark Kent is... not human?

Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.

"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.

"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.

Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.

The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.

Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!

"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.

That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.

"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.

You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."

Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.

Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.

Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"

You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"

Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.

"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."

His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.

His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.

"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.

Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."

The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.

Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.

"So,” You breathe. “What now?"

"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"

He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.

"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."

"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"

He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.

"No take backsies."

“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.

An unexplained question piques your mind.

“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”

Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”

“What?”

“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”

He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.

“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”

Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”

If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.

“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.

Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.

“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."

"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."

Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.

"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested <3 but no pressure @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes

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