She/her/hers. This is a whole mess of a blog, but I love fanfic and writing in general (even though I'm usually too busy to actually post in a timely manner I'm sorry 😅)
summary: your father did everything for you. because of it, the men in your life had called you spoilt, unreasonable, a girl with unrealistic expectations. after years of heartbreak and disappointment, you start to believe them- until clark kent proves that love can be gentle, steadfast, and safe enough to let yourself fully trust it.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: tooth rotting fluff, whatever the opposite of daddy issues is, clark being so sweet and domestic. princess treatment, reader being oh so wonderfully loved, very feel good. enjoy! xx
Your father would do anything for you.
From the second you were born, you had zero need to lift a single finger. Your shoes were always tied. Ice cream always scooped. When the rhinestones started falling off your favourite bejewelled headband, it was replaced within a matter of minutes.
By the age of fifteen, you had your own personal chaffeur. He'd drive you around the block with a big grin and a janky car that rattled when it turned, while your mom watched proudly from the living room window.
He loved her too, of course. So very much. Sometimes, they'd go about their day and you'd just smile and watch them; how he spun her around the kitchen table, the giggles that fell from her lips, the open bills forgotten on the table right next to them. None of them mattered. They ceased to exist the second they laid their eyes on one another.
He'd kiss her cheek, ruffle your hair, call you both his best girls.
You told yourself it was a love you wanted one day- when you were a little bit older maybe, when the right man finally came along. Your father showed you best how a woman should be treated; made it so that princess treatment wasn't a 'luxury' to you, nor would it ever be.
It was a god-given, fully expected birthright.
However, little girls had to grow up sometime.
So when twenty-two finally came, and you packed your bags and headed off to the big city of Metropolis- your father's tearful wave accompanying the faint smell of smoke that always clung to him in the hug goodbye- you simply didn't have it in you to prepare for the dangers ahead.
"You call me if you need a thing," he said gruffly, though the tears in his vision contrasted his voice completely. You nodded, falling into yet another tearful hug, "Don't be a stranger."
You tried.
But- as expected- life took over. You got busy. You'd still call, but visited far less frequently.
And the downside to previously having such a loving dynamic followed you right through adulthood.
The deadbeat boyfriends that you trusted, the almost-fiancé that only wanted a ring on your finger for the status. They took your naivety as gospel and used it to load their pistols of incompetence; missed dinners, connections to their exes, coersion.
How could they be so awful, when your father had only ever shown you the kind side to men? How did you accumulate so many horrible dates, land in so many awful situations that would have the man who raised you barrelling down the freeway with narrowed eyes and anger emcompassing every acceleration?
Your first situationship wasn't real. It was experience.
Your first ever boyfriend didn't like you. He liked the idea of you.
And your second boyfriend-turned-fiancé had none of the qualities you wanted in a partner. So when he came home one day, excited over colour swatches and bouqets for a wedding you just couldn't envision- well, you broke it off. Right then and there.
Because he'd never proven himself, not really. And you needed that proof like your very existence needed oxygen.
He never opened doors for you, never bothered to memorise your coffee order. The vanity you bought months and months ago sat untouched, collecting dust at the corner of the room because he'd promised to put it together one day and just... never did.
Your father would have. He would have driven the whole twelve hours down to central, just to get his hands on a hammer and a nail, and you'd be powdering your face in a fresh mirror within minutes.
So, you took a leap of faith and ended the three year relationship. You moved out into your own studio apartment right in the heart of Metropolis, a few blocks away from all your favourite places.
You thought, maybe love just wasn't for you. Perhaps there was something wrong with you that meant nothing human would ever measure up. Or perhaps, you winced, you truly were as spoilt as your many exes had accused you of being.
"Daddy's girl." your first one had scoffed.
"Ain't ever gonna land a good man with that attitude," the second one spat.
"How... but... I-I did everything right." the third lied tearfully.
But then, just when you started to lower your expectations and announce to the world that you were finally giving up on finding the perfect man, you met him.
Clark.
Clark Kent.
And everything those horrible exes had tried to convince you that you were flew entirely out of the window.
He was soft, sweet. You both met on a rainy day in July, the water warm and faint, making everything smell like fresh air and ozone.
"Oh! I'm sorry-" you blushed, your body bumping against his as you failed to watch where you were going.
"No, no- that's alright," his smile was kind. Patient. The type of smile to base a frequent daydream off of. "Please, after you."
"Thank you."
He'd held the door to the café open for you to walk inside, watching quietly as you claimed your seat in the corner of the lobby before going up to order yourself a drink.
Clark got his first. He paid for yours in advance, tipping the barista 40%, before slipping unannounced straight back out of the door.
When you finally decided on an oat milk vanilla latte, he was gone.
The second time you met him, the key to your apartment had jammed in the lock, and you'd gone back down to the lobby to ask someone for help.
And for some reason, the kind man from the coffee shop was right there; only just about to get in the elevator, when he caught your eye and once again, let you in first.
You were neighbours, would you believe? A few floors apart, sure, but living in the same building regardless.
What were the chances? You made a mental note to thank him for your coffee another time, hopefully on a better day under happier circumstances.
"How's your morning been?" he asked you politely.
On a good day, you typically wouldn't overshare- it was just super unfortunate that he happened to catch you on a very, very, very bad day.
So naturally, you told him everything.
How the wind had ruined your hair the very second you stepped out of the building to go to work; how none of the emails you'd sent made any sense, and how your lunch was gross despite the fact that you always got the same thing. Then finally, how you came home absolutely exhausted and still, your key got stuck- with nobody in reception willing to lend a helping hand.
"It's a couple hundred dollars for a locksmith," Clark's eyebrows raised, in a slightly stunned way that would have had you blushing if you weren't already so frustrated. "I'm not one, but... I could take a look? If you'd like? I grew up on a farm, and we had these old fashioned keys that'd get jammed all the time... I know my way around a keyhole."
You tried not to let the surprise on your face show. You didn't have to beg, plead, barter for this man to help you out- he just did, wanted to, for seemingly nothing in return.
And you weren't even acquiantances, let alone friends. He owed you nothing and still, came to your floor and jimmied the key right out. No struggle, no sighs of exasperation to make you feel bad- just a pleased smile and a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes.
"There," he grinned, plopping it in your palm carefully, "All fixed."
You thanked him, weak at the knees. It was then that you realised just how gorgeous Clark really was- if it wasn't the baby blues, it was the smile, the dimples in his cheeks and the impressive way his shoulders filled out the dress shirt he wore.
But most importantly, he was kind.
That just made him all the more stunning.
You ran into each other for a while. Often in the elevator, and afterwards he'd walk you to your door like it was midnight in Gotham. Never asking to be invited in, just happy to speak to you for an extra twenty seconds of his day.
When you did eventually muster up enough courage to ask him to come inside, you had no idea what you were in for. Truly.
Because that one cup of decaf coffee turned into multiple. It turned into dinner under the lowlight of your apartment (a thanks for the coffee he'd bought weeks ago) and another dinner a couple of weeks later at Clark's penthouse (a thanks for your thanks for the coffee he'd bought a month ago), right at the top of the building you both shared.
Naturally, it turned into something more.
A drawer at his, a space at yours. Two toothbrushes in both bathrooms, one tube of toothpaste. Your mugs began to invade his cupboard space, amended articles with his neat handwriting filling your coffee table.
So when Clark asked you to be his girlfriend four months after your first official date, of course, you said yes. Because by then, you already knew.
He wasn't like the others. They were boys, silly little things that knew nothing of what it meant to really, truly love someone.
But Clark did.
He remembered everything about you, not even just the important stuff like what you didn't like and what you loved- he remembered the exact way you liked your clothes folded, your skincare routine, how you hated cobblestone paths because it made your footing uneven. You were a carefully penned article, one that he was determined to memorise.
Clark never made you feel like you were asking for too much. If anything, he made you feel like you deserved it all and more.
The bookshelf arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.
It came in a flat-packed cardboard box that was nearly as tall as you were, dropped unceremoniously in the hallway outside your apartment by a delivery man who barely spared you a glance before disappearing back into the elevator.
"Delivery for ya, little lady."
You stared at it for a long moment.
Clark was working late at the Planet. He had texted you that morning, a bunch of emojis clouding his gentle words of, Don’t wait up, honey. Perry’s got us chasing three different stories today.
You told him to take his time. Said you’d order takeout, enough for him to come home to, and curl up with a book.
Instead, you dragged the box inside.
It started innocently enough. A pair of scissors slicing through packing tape. The rustle of protective styrofoam that went everywhere and made you huff. Instruction manuals unfolding like complicated maps written in languages you only half understood.
"God." you muttered miserably, narrowed eyes glaring at the box with vice.
By step four, you were sweating.
For step six, you had somehow assembled two panels backwards. Step nine wasn't any better, because that was when the screwdriver slipped in your grip and your knuckles slammed hard against the unfinished wood.
You hissed, sucking in air through your teeth, blinking rapidly as tears pricked your vision. A thin line of red blossomed across your skin.
It wasn’t even the pain that made your chest tighten. It was the echo of a memory.
A different apartment. A different box. A different man sighing loudly from the couch while scrolling through his phone, irritation dripping from every exhale as you asked, softly, if he could help you assemble the vanity he’d promised to build weeks ago.
In a minute.
After this game.
Why can’t you just do it yourself?
It had taken you three weeks of gentle reminders and swallowed pride before he finally assembled it- muttering the entire time like your request was a personal inconvenience. Only to drop to one knee a couple of months later, claims of you being the love of his life dripping from his mouth like venom.
The screwdriver clattered from your hand. You tried again anyway, because who else was going to do it?
Clark found you sitting cross-legged on the floor when he finally came home, surrounded by wooden panels, scattered screws, and instructions wrinkled beyond recognition. The bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, uneven and half-assembled like it might collapse if someone breathed too hard.
The smile on his face dropped, gaze trailing down your arm to your hand, wrapped clumsily in paper towels speckled pink.
He froze in the doorway.
"Honey?"
You looked up, offering a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Hi."
His eyes flicked between the blood, the mess, the lopsided shelf, and something inside his expression shifted. Not anger- never anger with your sweet, careful Clark- but a quiet, wounded confusion that hit you harder than you thought it would.
"…Why wouldn’t you ask me to do it?" the softness in his voice made your throat tighten.
You shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the carpet fibres beneath your fingertips. "You were working. I didn’t want to bother you."
Clark set his bag down slowly, carefully, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile between you.
"You’re never a bother," he said gently, kneeling in front of you. His large hands hovered near yours before carefully taking your wrist, inspecting the cut with such delicate concentration it made your chest ache. “Does this hurt?”
"Not really."
It did. Just not in the way he meant.
So, you explained it to him.
The string of bad exes. The sighs of annoyance that used to follow your requests like thunder chasing lightning. The vanity you once loved and now hated because it took weeks of quiet grovelling just to convince someone who supposedly loved you to build it.
The slow, creeping shame that made you believe asking for help meant being difficult. Being high maintenance. Being too much.
"I just..." you winced, "I just got so used to my dad doing everything for me. I'm sorry."
Clark listened to every word.
"You never have to be sorry for that," he told you gently, reaching a warm hand out to soothe you. "All it means is that you grew up knowing what real love looks like."
You went quiet for a bit, not really knowing what to say back. Never in your life had you told a man about your dad and been met with anything other than an eye-roll or a raised eyebrow.
"I’m not like them," he then said, softly.
You swallowed.
"I said I’d take care of you," he continued, his thumb ghosting across your knuckles with careful tenderness. "Let me take care of you."
There was no arrogance in it, no possessiveness. Just quiet certainty, like gravity. Like sunrise. Like truths that simply existed without needing to be proven.
And then, because your ever-loving boyfriend was Clark Kent, he kissed your injured hand like it was the most natural thing in the world before standing up, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, and assembling the entire bookshelf in under thirty minutes.
"Take a seat, baby," he cleared the couch of instruction manuals and nails for you, "Relax for me, okay?"
You didn’t question how he managed it so quickly. You just watched him, warmth blooming in your chest like something long frozen had finally begun to thaw.
It reminded you of home. Of laughter spilling from kitchen walls, smoke clinging to familiar flannel, strong hands that had spent your entire life making the world feel softer around the edges.
And maybe that was why the next step felt less like a choice and more like destiny.
Meeting your father was… inevitable.
Terrifying for both of you, but inevitable.
Clark ironed three different shirts before settling on the blue one you told him brought out his eyes. He rehearsed greetings under his breath. He even brought flowers for your mother, even though she’d insisted repeatedly over the phone that it wasn’t necessary.
"We just want you both here, safe!" she chirped happily. Even so, you still felt like throwing up and Clark was still ruffling a nervous hand through his unruly hair.
Your father opened the door with that same familiar scent of cedar clinging to him, his pose rigid, still protective, still the safest place you’d ever known. He sized Clark up in less than three seconds.
Clark extended his hand immediately.
"Sir," he nodded slowly, "it’s an honour to finally meet you."
Your father gripped his hand firmly, gaze sharp but not unkind. When he spoke, you felt your boyfriend loosen up a little, though the dread was still apparent in the way he stayed a respectable distance away from you.
"Any man willing to drive six hours just to make sure my daughter doesn’t travel alone already gets a few points in my book." your father replied.
Dinner was loud. Warm. Filled with overlapping stories and constant laughter that bounced off the four walls you'd grown up in. You watched them carefully, nervously, but it didn’t take long before your shoulders relaxed.
Because your father refilled your glass without a word.
And Clark draped a neatly folded napkin across your lap, a soft smile brushing your lips before he turned back to your mother’s story.
When your plate ran low, your father quietly spooned more onto it, telling the story of the day you were born as if the two moments were on- care and memory intertwined.
And then Clark, silently, took the cherries from his own dessert and placed them on yours, his fingers brushing yours just enough for you to notice, your favourite part of a favourite thing now doubled.
Together, wordlessly, seemingly without noticing- they moved around you like two steady orbits around the same sun.
By the end of the evening, you wandered toward the living room while they insisted on washing up. You meant to help, but your footsteps slowed when you heard your father’s voice through the kitchen doorway.
He handed Clark the final dish, water dripping from his hands.
"I know you’re a good man," your father said quietly. "And I trust you’ll take care of her. But please… if anything ever changes. If you ever feel different… don’t hurt her."
Silence stretched for a moment.
"Just bring her back to me."
You peeked around the corner just enough to see Clark swallow, his shoulders straightening with quiet resolve.
"Yes, sir," he said, steadily.
"But please... believe me. I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t even think of it."
Your father nodded once, satisfied. You pressed your hand against your mouth, blinking rapidly as emotion swelled behind your ribs.
And Clark was right. He never hurt you. Never even came close.
Not even when he finally told you he was Superman.
He confessed on a quiet evening, glasses set carefully on the coffee table between you like a confession waiting to breathe. His voice trembled in a way you’d never heard before, words tumbling out in uneven fragments about responsibility and fear and how loving you had become both the bravest and most terrifying thing he’d ever done.
You listened. You watched the man you loved stand before you stripped bare- not of strength, but of certainty.
You forgave him before he even finished explaining.
Because deep, deep down, you believed that you had always known.
Maybe not consciously. Maybe not in ways you could put into words. But the late nights, the impossible saves. The way he sometimes looked at the sky like it was calling him home, the sirens that alerted him more than they should.
You loved Clark Kent. And in turn, you were also in love with Superman.
It didn’t change the way he warmed your side of the bed before you climbed in, or how he held all eight grocery bags in one hand and yours in the other. It didn’t change the way he still insisted on tying your shoelaces if he noticed they were loose, dropping down on the busy pavement just to provide you some ease.
If anything, it only deepened your understanding of how extraordinary it was that someone capable of carrying the world still chose to come home and carry you, too.
Years passed.
The love- as well as the space- that you both shared, grew.
Two apartments turned into just one, and that one apartment became a four bedroom house just outside of the city; one bought with a nursery and young child's bedroom in mind one day.
Your wedding day smelled like fresh flowers and nervous anticipation.
Your father’s arm trembled slightly where it linked through yours as he walked you down the aisle, though whether from emotion or age, you couldn’t tell. You clutched him tighter, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm of his steps.
Clark waited at the altar, eyes glassy, smile already breaking across his face like dawn spilling over the horizon. His good friend Jimmy sobbed into a napkin, Lois right next to him hissing to pull it together- though you could see it too, the glossiness in her piercing blue eyes.
Halfway down the aisle, your father leaned closer.
"I loved you first," he whispered, voice thick with unshed tears.
"I know," you whispered back, hoping for a joke, hoping for a threat towards the only man in the world you knew he'd ever approve of. Anything to ease the nerves, the dread of everyone's eyes on you.
But instead, your father nodded towards where Clark stood, voice barely a croak.
"And now, he gets to love you forever."
Your chest squeezed painfully, beautifully, as he placed your hand into Clark’s waiting one.
Clark held it like something sacred, irreplaceable, something he would protect with everything he was and still had yet to be.
Your father pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping back, pride and heartbreak and joy colliding in his eyes all at once. When the officiant began to speak, and you caught Clark's eyes boring so lovingly into your own, it was then that you fully realised.
You were never impossible to love.
And it was never that your expectations were too high.
You were simply raised knowing what love looked like when it was done right- when it showed up without being asked, when it stayed without being begged, when it took care without making you feel guilty for needing it.
Clark never tried to compete with the love you grew up with. Never tried to make you feel smaller for wanting it to last forever. He never asked you to unlearn the gentleness your father built your world around, or reshape yourself into something easier to hold.
Instead, he treated it like something special, something worth protecting. Something worth proving, day after day, that it could exist outside childhood memories and smoke-scented hugs goodbye.
And in the end, he never tried to stand where your father had. He simply stepped in beside him, honoured- ready to continue the love that raised you.
i cried a little while writing this. hope you're all doing amazingly !! so so happy to be back xx
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: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”
You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”
He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”
“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”
“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”
“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”
He winced. “When you say it like that—”
“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”
“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”
And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”
“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”
He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”
“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”
Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”
His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”
He frowned. “I don’t fold.”
“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”
“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”
“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”
Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”
“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”
His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”
“See? Believable and romantic.”
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”
You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”
You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”
You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”
Oh God. Here it was—the test.
Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”
Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”
“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”
You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”
He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”
You grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”
“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”
“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”
Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.
“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”
Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”
Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”
“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”
Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”
Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”
“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”
“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”
“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”
He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”
Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”
When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”
Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”
“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”
Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”
You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”
Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”
“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”
Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”
It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”
Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.
“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.
“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”
Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”
“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”
“I don’t,” he protested weakly.
“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”
“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”
“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”
Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”
You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”
“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”
Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”
The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”
“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”
“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”
The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.
“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”
“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.
“You’re doing fine.”
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.
Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”
“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”
His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”
“She’s married,” Clark protested.
“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”
“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”
“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.
“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”
“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”
Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”
“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”
“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”
Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”
“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”
He glanced back at you. “What?”
“It’s coming this way.”
“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”
“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”
“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”
His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”
That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”
Clark winced. “The cows.”
“The cows?”
“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”
“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”
“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”
“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”
“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.
“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”
“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”
“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”
“About all of it,” he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”
Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”
“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”
That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”
“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”
Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”
“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”
His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”
You blinked. “What?”
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”
But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”
“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”
The women descended like hawks.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely.”
“Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?”
“Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”
“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”
Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”
The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”
The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. “So we…?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”
“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”
But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.
It hadn’t felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”
You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”
For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”
“Right.”
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe… thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.
Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”
Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”
“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”
You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”
His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.
“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”
Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”
Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”
“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”
“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”
Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”
Your heart thudded. “Clark…”
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”
Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”
His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”
You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”
Thinking about Smallville Clark Kent who is practically a golden retriever around you and gets nervous about sleeping with you for the first time because he doesn't want to hurt you or alert his parents by accident, so he finds himself covering your mouth the instant you make a sound, entirely by mistake.
And he apologizes immediately, but doesn't remove his hand because you're still whining into it. He can't tell exactly if that's a good or bad thing, at first, until your eyes roll back, making his heart skip a beat and he finally realizes it is in fact a good thing. Finally bottoming out, he'd remove his hand from your mouth, panting from anticipation even though he's barely done anything.
"Please be quiet," he practically begs, pressing his forehead against yours, literally shaking with anticipation but trying to be as gentle as possible for you. "Can you do that for me?" He asks. You nod poorly but the second he makes the slightest bit of movement you're whimpering and he's covering your mouth again and apologizing for it.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love those little sounds, I promise. I just don't want anyone else hearing them but me." And it soothes you, of course, because you feel bad for not being able to stay quiet. Not that he's doing much better, only suppressing his moans by turning them into quieter grunts that he muffles by pressing his lips against your neck or biting down on your shoulder. "I can barely keep my mouth shut because of you," he praises. "I swear next time, I'll let you scream." And there was definitely a next time.
content: pure fluff, smallville!clark, you failing to stay mad at him
you’re trying so, so hard to stay mad at him.
like, genuinely — you’re standing there with your arms crossed, pulling in your best annoyed breath, replaying in your head all the reasons you marched over to him in the first place. and clark… he’s just sitting there on that stupid couch, jacket half-zipped, hair a mess from the wind, giving you that look.
that look.
head slightly tilted, lashes down then up, eyes soft like you just told him the saddest story on earth. lips parted like he’s about to say something, but… doesn’t. he just watches you. and you swear he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“don’t,” you warn, pointing a finger at him.
he blinks once. twice. then tilts his head the tiniest bit more. those ridiculous puppy eyes widen, like you just kicked his puppy, and god, you can feel your resolve crumbling in real time.
“clark,” you repeat, but your voice is already softer, traitorous.
“i didn’t even say anything,” he says, all gentle and confused and impossibly sweet, like he’s actually innocent in all this.
“you don’t have to say anything,” you sigh, dropping onto the seat beside him. “you just… look at me like that.”
his brows go up. he scoots closer — because of course he does — thigh brushing yours like he knows you won’t move away. “like what?” he murmurs, all shy and earnest at the same time.
and when you don’t answer, he leans in a little, trying to catch your eyes. “hey,” he says softly, “i didn’t mean to upset you.”
ugh. there it is. the soft voice. the warm concern. the sincerity that should be illegal.
you try — you really try — to hold onto the frustration, but then he nudges his shoulder against yours. a tiny gesture. sweet. apologetic. familiar.
your anger dissolves like sugar in tea.
“you’re impossible,” you whisper.
clark’s lips tug into a small, relieved smile. “but you’re not mad anymore?”
you roll your eyes, pretending to hold onto a sliver of annoyance. “no. because you have a face that should be a crime.”
he laughs — soft, happy — and gently bumps his forehead against yours. “i’ll try not to use it against you.”
“liar,” you say, but you’re already leaning into him, letting his warmth pull you in.
and he just looks at you again. that look. devastating. adoring. the one that ruins any chance you ever have of staying mad at him for longer than five seconds.
summary: after a hot, hazy dream where superman morphs into your best friend, nothing feels simple anymore. you spend your days dodging a heartbroken clark, until one night it all becomes too much- and every secret you’ve both been holding finally comes spilling out.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: part two of that should be me, but can be read as a standalone. established friendship. yearning. slight comedy! smuttyish, not too much but enough. wholesome.
one | two
You woke up gasping.
The sheets were tangled around your legs, sweat slick against your skin, your chest heaving like you’d been running for your life. For a moment, the world was a blur; the sound of your pulse in your ears, your breath catching on a name you didn’t even remember saying aloud.
All you could remember was him.
A weight above you, heavy and warm, not crushing but encompassing. Fingers threading through your hair, hands all over your waist, guiding you, giving you strength to keep going.
I’ve got you, baby.
A whisper against your throat, a voice that was low and rough and so familiar. Your sternum had been peppered in kisses, sucked gently to the point of turning purple, your chest littered with love and filth and everything in between.
You’re doing so good for me. So full a’ me.
You remembered the way it felt- the air thick with heat, his body braced over yours, his mouth so close that you could feel his breath when he said your name like it was something secret.
And then- the blur shifted. For a heartbeat, you clung onto Superman's shoulders. Broad, strong, shadowed in blue light, softly chiselled in the way you’d always imagined them to be underneath all the blue.
You thought, dreamily, of course it’s him. Who else could make your heart stutter like that? Who else could lift you, hold you, protect you? It wasn't unlike you to have these dreams, these thoughts that were direct results of ignoring your own arousal the night before.
But right before the dream shattered- right before your eyes flew open- the image changed.
Not the cape. Not the symbol.
Glasses.
And suddenly, it wasn’t Superman anymore.
It was Clark.
You bolted upright, heart jackhammering against your ribs.
“No,” you whispered to the empty room, palms pressed to your face. “No. Nope. Nope. No way.”
Sweet, wholesome Clark Kent, who said things like golly and gosh and chum; pressed tight against you, fingers making your lower half their home.
You swung your legs off the bed, pacing. “Oh my god.”
The dream clung to you like static, refusing to let go. Every time you closed your eyes, you could feel it again- the warmth of his breath, the low rumble of his voice, the press of his hand against your cheek. Clark’s hand.
Calloused slightly, often stained with ink. Hands that grew up on a farm, formed by years of lifting hay bales and hammering fence posts. Hands that guided you through busy crowds, held your own on those nights you needed comfort.
Your best friend’s hands; now tainted by the carnal vision of them wrapped around your thighs, holding you open as he pushed himself inside of you.
“Okay, it’s fine,” you muttered, half to yourself, half to the universe. “It’s just… a dream. Just a weird, emotionally repressed, stress-induced, totally random dream. No big deal.”
Except it was a big deal.
Because now, every time you saw him at work, it was all you could think about.
He’d lean over your desk to check your notes, that subtle scent of clean soap and coffee clinging to him, and you’d remember that same scent from your dream- except in your dream, he’d been closer. And it didn’t linger on his clothes, no- it was on his skin, the same area you’d been gasping and sighing against all night long.
He’d smile at you, all shy and boyish and kind like he usually did, and your heart would flip traitorously, whispering: that’s the smile.
It was mortifying.
So naturally, you did the only thing you could do.
You started avoiding him.
A skill you didn’t think possible, given that you worked ten feet apart and were often in each other’s pockets. You showed up late, ducked out early, pretended to be on phone calls.
At first, Clark stayed oblivious. You’d been stressed out at work for a while- the least he could do was give you some space, just a little bit- just enough to help you out without overwhelming you.
He still left your favourite coffee on your desk, the ice in a separate cup because he knew how much you hated the condensation ring it left on your favourite coaster. He brought you lunch every single day even if you couldn’t eat it with him, and he still hung back after the workday on the off chance you’d allow him to walk you home.
Unfortunately, none of it worked. In fact, it did the complete opposite; it made your heart beat even faster and the ache between your legs insufferable.
Every time he spoke, every time he so much as looked at you; you’d remember it, hear his voice in your ears, a threat to your composure. It wasn’t Superman’s voice anymore, not like it had been at the start.
It wasn’t until your heartbeat faltered when Clark's arm brushed yours in the hallway that he- just as he'd been suspecting- knew something was wrong.
“You okay?” he asked one afternoon, when you almost tripped over your own chair trying to escape to the break room.
“Y-yeah! I’m alright,” you smiled then, far too wide, far too toothy. You grabbed your bag and stalked away towards the kitchenette, trying for the love of everything good and beyond to calm your pulse.
Clark followed you, grabbing his mug and yours on the way.
“Are you sure?”
You’re doing so good for me.
“So sure,” you squeaked, leaning against the counter with forced ease. “Are… are you okay?”
So full a’ me.
“No. Not really,” his voice stayed soft, wracking you with guilt. Concern furrowed his brows as he tilted his head. “You’ve barely looked me in the eye all week.”
You laughed- a sharp, nervous sound that made him look even more suspicious. You clapped a hand over your mouth.
“Sorry- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that, I’ve… just been tired. Long week. That’s all.”
He didn’t press, but his eyes lingered on you, soft and searching.
“You promise?”
“I promise, Clark.”
"You'd tell me if I did something wrong, right?"
"Yes, of course I would," you lied, thoughts spinning into, how could I possibly be normal around him now?
Because the truth was- it wasn’t just the dream.
It was everything after.
You’d started noticing things you hadn’t before. Silly little things, quirks of his that you deemed adorable and unexplainable because they never affected you and never put him in any danger- not really.
But now, they did. Because now, you were watching him closer than ever before; a way to get over him, sure, but also because your avoidance of him left a certain ache in your world that needed filling. Even if that fill meant thinking about him non-stop a million times a day.
Clark disappeared. A lot.
It wasn’t conspiracy, you just assumed he wasn’t very organised. You’d often wake up in his apartment to a stack of waffles on the counter, syrup on the side and a note about butter being in the fridge, as well as a written excuse about needing to pick something up before work.
When you’d ask him about it later on, he’d have no idea what you were talking about.
There were other times, too. ‘Brunches’ he forgot about, ‘lunches’ with Lois that she had no idea were even in the calendar. Oddities, inconsistencies in his excuses.
And it wasn’t even just that; sometimes, things worked out a little too well, to the point where it made no sense. Like the day you mentioned missing a tiny niche bakery in Paris- the one tucked between the flower shop and the bookstore- and how you’d give anything for one of their pistachio macarons again.
You'd told Clark all about them, about how much you adored the city of love and couldn't wait to go back- partly because of the culture, mostly because of their bakeries.
The next morning, a box of twelve sat neatly on your desk.
Wrapped in that same lime-green ribbon you’d once gushed over, with a neat little note in Clark’s handwriting:
We’ll go someday. You'll have the real thing again, in the real Paris. Promise.
When you’d asked how on earth he managed to get them, he only smiled and muttered something about “knowing a guy.”
You didn’t push. You just laughed, broke a macaron in half, and offered him the first piece- heart swelling with that familiar, dizzying warmth of being known and cared for by someone like Clark Kent.
It was always like that with him. Little miracles you could never quite explain. A thing you wanted, a thing you needed, always seemed to appear, quietly, effortlessly, as if the universe bent a little whenever he was near.
You’d never thought much of it before.
But now, now that your senses were live like haywire and you found yourself obsessed with the very thought of him- every small impossibility began to feel like a clue you’d somehow missed.
You started noticing things. The way Clark’s eyes would flick toward sirens before anyone else had even registered the sound. The way he’d wince whenever somebody got hurt- even in a movie, even when it wasn’t real- like pain was something he could feel through other people.
The faint scorch marks you’d once seen on his cuff, the tiny rip at the shoulder of his shirt that hadn’t been there the day before. The way he carried himself, too; steady, grounded, but with a kind of quiet vigilance, as though he was always half-listening for something just beyond your hearing.
And then, of course, the way he always disappeared right before a catastrophe. Yet red and blue would streak the sky, littering the clouds in a purple blur.
It wasn’t proof. Not exactly. You excused it in your mind; there was just no way. They had similarities, sure, but Clark was Clark and Superman apparently had a harem and was here to take over the entire world.
He was not your sweet, lovable, honest best friend that rarely ever called girls ‘hot’ and would usually opt for they have a beauty about them instead, earning a couple laughs from Lois and Jimmy and even Perry the one time he walked past and heard it.
Absolutely not. No.
Not Clark.
Yet still, you couldn’t shake it. It was enough to make your stomach twist with something dangerously close to realisation, a feeling you shoved all the way down.
But once the thought crossed your mind, it was impossible for you to forget it.
A week later, you found yourself standing outside his apartment. You didn’t even know why you were there until he opened the door, surprise flickering across his face before softening into something warmer.
“Hey,” Clark said, voice gentle as ever. Immediately, he stepped to the side, silently inviting you to come in. “You okay?”
You stood frozen in the hallway, clutching your coat around you like armour.
“I, um… no. Yes. I don’t know.”
His brows knit. “Did something happen?”
“Kind of,” you said, then laughed nervously. “This is going to sound insane.”
“Definitely not. I’ve probably heard worse.” He opened the door even wider. “Come in.”
You did. His apartment was dim, the city outside painting him in whispers of gold and blue.
It felt strange being there after a couple weeks not having stepped foot inside- familiar, but charged, like every molecule of air remembered something you didn’t.
Your stuff was still littered around; a book you were taking forever to read, your cherry print mug, a pair of socks that weren’t initially yours- Clark had gotten you them one random Tuesday after you’d mentioned the floorboards in his apartment being too cold.
He handed you a mug of something warm before sitting across from you. For a short while, neither of you said anything; you just chewed on your bottom lip, mind far, far away.
He watched you closely, patience unwavering. Eyed the way your teeth nibbled at your skin, an anxious habit you’d been trying to break the whole time knowing him. You kept alternating the mug between both hands, distracted, unfocused.
His chest hurt just by looking at you. For once in your life, he thought, you looked lost.
You weren't the same girl he'd been steadying around the bullpen a few weeks ago, the one gushing about his alter-ego and making the tips of his ears go pink. Right now, right in front of him, you looked the complete opposite; reserved. Hesitant.
Scared.
“So...” Clark started, soft as ever. The way he looked at you threatened to break you even more.
“...are you finally going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”
It wasn’t an accusation, not in any way. Just pure, genuine curiosity tinged with a whole lot of hurt.
Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your shirt, nervous thumbs twiddling.
“I…” you started, “I didn’t want to. Promise. You know I would never, not for no reason,”
He felt like something had punched him right in the gut. So, there was a reason. His mind raced, listing all the possible things he could have done wrong.
Clark swallowed. “I know,” he mumbled, “Go on,”
You stared into the steam, trying to find words that wouldn’t make you sound completely unhinged.
“I had... a dream,” you started, cringing a little at the words that sounded so un-wise coming from you.
Clark blinked. “A dream?”
Your ramble came out then; slowly at first, then sporadically, all in one, “Uh- yeah. Not like MLK did, I just realised how that sounded. I had an actual, physical, real life dream- not a hope for the world, not anything worthy of a speech, an actual-“
Clark said your name softly then, amusement twitching at the end of his lips. “You’re rambling,” he said, words as unhurried as ever even though you were being anything but.
“Sorry,” you exhaled shakily, "I-I'm sorry, Clark- I don't know how to say it, but I don't know how to keep it to myself either," you felt like crying.
Clark could feel it, hear how your voice wavered.
“Hey, hey,” he coaxed, fingers brushing the hair out of your face. With a gentle press against your jaw, he smiled softly.
“Hey, look. You’re okay. Okay?”
You nodded a lie.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me. Alright?"
"Alright."
“Okay, then. Now, let's start from the beginning,” he set his own mug down, elbows on his knees now, leaning towards you and looking so damn good you wondered how you’d be able to stammer through this conversation.
You took a deep breath in.
“You dreamt about something?”
“Yes,” you exhaled quickly, before you could say anything else that made no sense. “About Superman.”
Something in his expression shifted- not panic, exactly, but wariness.
“Oh.”
“And you,” you added even quicker.
Now that got his attention.
His world stopped. Briefly. He’d been so focused on the rhythm of your heartbeat, the way your blood rushed hastily through your veins- to notice the hammering of his own.
“…Me?”
“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t- I don’t know how to say it,”
He nodded softly, though his own head began spinning, “I won’t rush you. Take your time.”
“It was a dream, about you, about us, having-” you cleared your throat, face burning at the memory, “You know. That. And, I thought it was Superman at first. It felt like him, or what my brain thought he’d feel like. But right before I woke up…”
I’ve got you, baby.
“It was you.”
His eyes widened behind his glasses, but he stayed quiet.
You took a shaky breath.
“And then I started noticing things," you interjected hastily, urging him not to think too deep about the implications of said dream.
"You... you disappear sometimes, Clark, and I haven’t asked you about it ever because I didn’t have any reason to. But you're always gone- right before all the stuff goes down and Superman comes out of nowhere, knowing exactly where to go and what’s going on. And the burns on your sleeve. The Paris macaroons. And your voice. God, your voice. It’s the same.”
Clark had been speechless countless times in his life. How could he not, when the world he was living in always felt far too vast, far too different to the makings of his being?
But none of those times held a candle to what he was feeling right now.
He swallowed, throat tight. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, huh?”
“Too much,” you admitted. “I know how it sounds. Crazy. I know you’re going to tell me I’m imagining it, or that I’m tired, or that there’s no way. But… I don’t know. I just needed to tell you. I just needed you to tell me, if I’m insane or not.”
He should’ve said it then; cut into your words with the easy thing, the safe thing. That you were imagining it, that you were tired, that it was all just coincidence. He could almost hear the lie forming in his throat, ready to protect you both from the truth that would undo everything.
But it stuck there, heavy and unmovable. Because you’d dreamed about him. Clark Kent. The mild-mannered reporter that grew up on a farm and was barely fitting in at work, who wasn’t a symbol of anything other than Daily Planet headlines and mismatched socks.
You’d seen him- not the cape, not the the red and blue, but Clark. And what if that meant something? What if, buried somewhere in that dream, there was the smallest chance that you felt the same way he did? The thought burned through him like sunlight through glass.
The other part of him- the part built on secrets and restraint- screamed that telling you would ruin it all. You’d look at him differently. You’d see everything he’d tried so hard to hide: the lies, the double life, the danger.
And yet, even knowing all that, when he looked at you now, eyes wide and trembling, he couldn’t bring himself to lie.
“You’re not crazy.” he said quietly.
That stopped you.
When you looked up, he wasn’t smiling, not like you hoped he would be. He wasn’t about to grin, that cheeky, wide, Kansas charm grin, and scoop you into his arms with a kiss on the forehead and some ill-timed joke about I can’t believe you thought I was an alien.
His face was open, soft- but there was something in his eyes you’d never seen before. Something heavy and tender and impossibly sad.
“Clark,” you breathed.
He stayed silent, eyes falling to his hands.
“Oh, my god,” a hand flew up to your mouth, “Oh. My-“
“I’m-“
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
He exhaled slowly, almost painfully, setting his mug down. His voice was low, rough with a mixture of longing and regret.
“Oh, my god, Clark.”
He froze, his eyes flicking down to his hands, and then back to you.
There was a pause, a quiet stretch of time where you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.
Then, finally, he whispered, “I… I didn’t know how to tell you.”
His voice was low, almost afraid to be heard. “I didn’t... I was scared you wouldn't want me in your life if you knew the truth,"
Your heart squeezed. “Clark…”
He ran a hand through his hair, nervous, frustrated with himself.
“I've been stupid, because I’ve fought it. Every day, I’ve fought it because I didn’t want to make things complicated. I didn’t want to risk what we have, what- what I mean to you, and what you mean to me.”
You stepped a little closer, reaching for his hand, Superman’s hand, and he didn’t pull away.
Instead, he let you, though his thumb twitched against yours like he couldn’t quite relax.
“You’ve been so honest with me,” he said, voice catching, “I owe you the same. I can’t hide it anymore.”
Enough of the quiet yearning, of watching you across the bullpen with half-lidded eyes and a heart that hurt far too much than it didn’t. Enough of watching you walk around his apartment like he was yours, yet refusing to have any right to claim that title.
Enough.
His hand came up, cupping your face once more. His eyes locked onto yours. Steadier, this time. Knowing.
“I love you.”
An inhale caught in your throat. Your legs did that thing again whenever he was too close- a slight wobble, steady enough to stand but a detriment to walking.
“I’ve loved you-“ Clark moved a strand of hair out of your face, blue eyes warming your own, “Since I caught your coffee on the first day, and you gave me half your bagel. The first time I heard you humming to that darn song I couldn’t get out of my head for weeks in the office kitchen- I saved it, and it’s still on my phone. I fell for you then. Since you asked me for a pen the third day because none of yours were writing right…”
You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to breathe. You felt like you were on a cloud, an alternate reality, in a dream; terrified that the faintest movement would shatter it all.
“…I’ve loved you. Quietly. So quietly, in every small thing, and now… now, I get to say it.”
"Clark..."
Clark’s gaze dropped for just a moment, almost ashamed. “You don’t have to say anything back,” he stammered. “I understand if this is weird, if I’ve made it weird. I just- I can’t stop thinking about you. For god's sake, I wake up and you’re the first thing on my mind. And every day that I’ve been away from you this week- it’s been hell. Not being near you, not seeing you, not waking up to you in my kitchen, in my shirt- it’s- it’s unbearable.”
He swallowed hard, and his hands curled slightly, like he was holding back something bigger than words.
“And if you let me," his voice cracked, "if you wanted me the way I want you,” he stepped closer, so close you could see every emotion flickering in his eyes.
“I would never leave your side again. I would never let you push me away, not like I did this week. Not for a day, not for an hour. I don’t care what’s happening out there, what’s happening in your head that you feel like I wouldn’t be able to take.
“I would stay. I would stay with you through it all.”
The world narrowed to the sound of Clark’s voice, leaving you silent.
There was no bravado in his confession, no attempt to impress you- just raw, honest Clark, the man you’d always known, revealing everything he’d kept buried because he was terrified of losing you.
You reached up, hand resting at the base of his neck, fingertips grazing his curls. In turn, he leaned into your touch, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.
“Please,” he murmured, voice low and trembling, “if you feel even a fraction of what I do… let me know. Let me love you. Let me have the honour of loving you.”
You didn’t give him a chance to carry on. Everything inside you- every thought, every hesitation- faded into a single, undeniable impulse.
Your hand clutched the back of his neck, and before your brain could catch up, your lips slammed against his.
A collision of need and relief, of longing held too long, and something inside you roared to life.
You couldn’t think. You refused to think. You just acted, letting your body take the lead, letting it speak what your words never could.
He froze for the barest second, then melted into you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly close.
“God,” Clark whispered against your lips, and it sounded like both a prayer and a plea.
The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, a push-and-pull of passion and tenderness. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, and his lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency, every motion a confession.
“I love you,” you breathed against him, between kisses, and his eyes fluttered open, searching yours, before finding your mouth again. “I love you, Clark.”
A slow, wide smile stretched across his lips. It reached his eyes, blue pools twinkling like sunlight on a stream.
“I have always loved you.” you repeated, voice rough with emotion, voice now part of the rhythm of your shared heartbeat.
Time dissolved around you. There was only the warmth of him, the taste of him, the ache of all the months you’d spent lying to yourselves finally spilling into this one, infinite moment.
All the late nights, the frustration, the longing for one another trapped behind closed doors and the craze of the bullpen- it had all been worth it.
You knew that, Clark knew that, and now this was your reward.
You kissed him again, stronger now, urgent and unrelenting, your body pressed against his as if letting go of yourself meant holding onto him forever. His hands looped swiftly under your thighs, and you soon felt them rest against the cold marble counter instead.
He groaned low in his throat as he steadied himself between your legs, a shiver running through you both.
Neither of you had any idea how long you stayed in that bubble; of kisses and featherlight touches and mumbles of newly-exposed truths. But neither of you cared.
Not even when the kisses started slowing, replaced by light laughter and fond gazes.
You pulled back just enough to look at each other, foreheads pressed together, shadows mingling in the low light of his apartment.
“I don’t ever want to be without you,” you whispered, voice soft.
“It’s always been you, Clark."
Clark’s lips curved into that half-smile again, swollen from all the kissing and irresistibly pink.
You wanted him to never stop; to keep smiling like that, to keep making you feel like the most important girl in the world.
His big hands rested on your waist, pulling you closer to him, revelling in the ease your position on the kitchen counter allowed. You let him, body molding accordingly.
Still between kisses, he mumbled teasingly, “Even over Superman?” though the glimmer in his eyes remained serious beneath the playfulness.
You shook your head, laughing softly. Your heart was still hammering, your lips tingling from the intensity.
"Even over Superman," you whispered lightly, mussing his dark curls with a touch that made him melt. Then, after a pause, "He’s not that cool, anyways.”
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours. “Watch it.”
A giggle left you, the high finally beginning to dissipate from your body. You were still very much suspended on Cloud 9- but now, you could breathe. Your words were finally working again.
“So…" you started shyly, tracing a finger down his jawline, over his dimple, "...no alien girlfriends waiting in orbit, right?”
Clark chuckled, pulling you close as he placed a kiss on your forehead.
“Nope. Just you. Always just you.”
You stayed like that for a long moment, hearts beating in quiet rhythm, the city humming faintly around you.
Metropolis stretched below, alive and endless. You didn't know what this meant now- not really. You had no idea what dangers lurked ahead, what storms Superman would have to face now that he had somebody to lose.
Things were bound to happen; problems were bound to arise. None of this would be easy- how could it be, loving someone who carried the sky on his shoulders?
Yet as the city murmured below and Clark's heartbeat steadied against yours, none of that seemed to matter.
For now, Metropolis could wait. The storms, the danger, the endless pull of tomorrow; they could all stand still for a while. Because in this fleeting, fragile calm, neither of you cared about what came next.
guys i OBSESSED over getting this right omfg pls tell me it was ok! love yas xxxx
summary: superman smiled at you this morning- and whose problem was that going to be? your sweet, polite, pg-13 rated best friend clark kent's, who is so in love with you he might throw up if you so much as mention how hot his alter ego is again.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: established friendship, clark yearning, lighthearted, you have no idea clark and the man u wanna mount is the same person!!! you absolutely do love him back but clark is far too angsty to see that.
one | two
Clark saw you burst into the bullpen like a whirlwind, cheeks pink from the November chill, hair a little mussed from the wind. You were holding a coffee cup like it was your only lifeline, and your smile was the kind of thing that made the grey morning seem irrelevant.
“Clark,” you said, voice breathless, eyes shining. “Oh my god! Oh my god,”
He looked up from his desk, alarmed, pen still poised above a half-finished article. “Woah- woah! Hey, slow down,”
You knocked into his desk, hip hitting the wood in a way that usually, would elicit a much bigger reaction from you. Nevertheless, he winced, darting a hand out immediately to soothe it.
But something had happened- something crazy, something big, something beautiful, and all you could do was bite down a yelp and look at your bewildered best friend right in the eye.
“I cannot slow down,” you told him, words bordering on a threat. "Do not make me slow down,"
“Golly. Must be serious.” He said, a tiny little smirk playing on his lips.
“Super serious,” you said, slamming the coffee down on his desk and leaning in close. It was only then that he realised it had his name on it, his heart warming at the sight of it. “You will not believe what just happened. Here, I got you a drink,”
He smiled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took it from you with a thankful nod. “Knowing you, I’d better sit down for this.”
“You’re already sitting.”
“Then I’m ahead of the curve.”
You tried to glare, but you were too excited. “Okay, fine- listen. Superman was at the bridge this morning. The Metropolis Bridge. I saw him, Clark. I saw him.”
He blinked once, twice, doing his best impression of confusion. He could still feel the breeze against his face, smell the petrol of the cars he had to hold up to refrain from falling into the water.
“Superman? At the bridge? Was there an accident?”
“There was a car hanging off the edge!” you said, waving your hands so wildly he had to rescue a stack of papers from flying off his desk. “Sorry,”
“Gosh, you’re like a hurricane.” He mumbled, moreso to himself, but you were too enamoured by your own story to notice.
“It was terrifying, but he just- he caught it, Clark. One hand. Like he was just holding a bag of groceries or something. And then he looked at the people inside and said, ‘You’re safe now,’ and I swear-“ you grabbed your own chest dramatically, “Oh my god, Clark. I nearly died.”
He laughed under his breath, low and warm. “You… nearly died watching Superman save someone from dying?”
You ignored him, still glowing. “His voice, Clark. It’s like- like someone grabbed hope by the neck and strangled it into sound and shoved it into one, thick, fleshy neck," he winced at your description of his body. "I don’t even know how else to describe it. He’s just..."
You sighed dreamily, “- he’s so good. He just wanted everyone to be safe and you could so tell,”
Clark’s smile didn’t let up but inside, his chest ached.
You had no idea how many times he’d said those same words to himself- make them feel safe. You had no idea that the person you were describing so reverently was the same one who’d offer you half of everything, the same person who'd rubbed the parts of your body that you insisted on clumsily slamming against everything.
Different voice, different clothes, different vibe altogether- but still, the very same man.
“He looked at me, Clark,” you said suddenly, like you couldn’t hold it in. “I swear he did. Just for a second, but I know he did.”
Clark's eyebrows raised, gaze falling to the flush on your cheeks, at the way your fingers fiddled with his coffee cup lid, and he thought- how could he not have looked at you? He was Kryptonian, not blind. You had no idea how magnetic you were, how you could pull every molecule of him toward you without even trying.
He remembered it exactly as you said it; he had looked right at you on the bridge. So much for being discreet. But he couldn’t help it; there was trouble, he had to help, and out of nowhere came the steady sound of a heartbeat he spent years listening to and looking out for.
It wasn’t anything new- Clark listened out for your heart all the time. On the way to the office, on the way back, the times you weren’t okay but pretended like you were. It became second nature to him; like having two beats in the same body.
He shrugged, “Maybe you imagined it.”
You gasped then, mock-offended. “Ugh, drink your latte. I would never imagine something like that. He looked at me. I mean- come on, maybe he was checking to make sure I wasn’t hurt. Or maybe-” you bit your lip, grinning “-maybe he’s in love with me.”
Clark coughed into his coffee. He couldn’t have looked more obvious if he tried, but thankfully, he had the scalding hot drink pressed to his lips to cover that. “In love? With you?”
You nodded sagely. “Yeah. Like—‘who is that beautiful, slightly disheveled civilian over there?’ Love at first sight, that sort of thing.”
He couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him, soft and adoring. You always did that; you made him laugh at exactly the moment he needed it, even when your words twisted the knife a little deeper.
You dropped into the chair beside his desk and groaned, letting your head fall against the backrest. “I sound ridiculous, huh? I didn’t mean that in love thing, I don't really believe that. But he did look right at me.”
Clark smiled, pretending to focus on his screen. “Not ridiculous.”
“Liar.”
“Okay. Maybe a little ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” you said dramatically, “for your honesty.”
He glanced over, eyes soft. “You’re allowed to be a little ridiculous about someone who saves lives.”
You peeked up at him through your lashes. “You’ve met him, right? Superman?”
Clark hesitated just long enough that you didn’t notice. “For the interviews, yes.”
“Is he mean? Or is he as kind as everyone says? Be honest, Kent.”
“He’s…” he tilted his head to the side, “Yeah. He’s nice, I’d say,”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding. So, he’s nice and hot?”
He cleared his throat, shifting his glasses. “I, uh- sure. If that’s what you want to call it,” truthfully, he was starting to feel a little weird about talking himself up to you- the one person who didn’t need in the slightest.
Sure, he knew that Superman had a certain... appeal, to the younger female population. He never really used his phone but he couldn't ever truly escape the gossip that floated around the office; people thought Superman was attractive. There was no shame in acknowledging that.
Still, it made him feel like caving in on himself; especially when he sat there in a spinny office chair, in a blazer a size and a half too big and odd socks that hadn't matched in weeks. What's the point, nobody's going to see them anyway, he'd think to himself. Then he'd hear Cat swooning over his other half's biceps and feel like even more of a fraud.
You leaned forward, gripping his sleeve. “What was he like? What did he say? Is it true- the harem thing?”
Clark’s eyes widened in offense, though he could still feel the fondness spilling out of him like light through cracks.
“Harem?!” his voice cracked, “You said you didn’t believe in any of that stuff-“
“I don’t, I don’t! It’s all superhuman controversies,” you waved dismissively, “I still read them, though. It’s interesting! But carry on, please,”
“He’s… humble,” Clark said carefully, slightly struggling to shrug off your previous comment. “Brave. I think he carries a lot, but never complains about it.”
You sighed then, folding your arms with a faraway look in your eyes. “Right. He’s basically perfect, then.”
He looked down at his notes, smiling sadly. “I wouldn’t say perfect. Just… he’s trying, I guess.”
As you watched the busybodies of the bullpen work in front of you, Clark couldn’t stop himself from watching you.
He could still remember the first time he met you- the day you’d arrived at the Planet, arms full of folders, juggling a coffee, a pen, and a bagel all at once. He’d caught the coffee before it spilled, and you’d laughed and said, ‘If you hadn’t done that, I would have gone straight home.’ You’d smiled at him, and that was the moment everything shifted.
Phones still rang, papers still printed. But to Clark, the world felt calmer somehow. Like everything, no matter what it was- evil, narcissistic billionaires or crazy Kryptonian dogs and drunk, flyaway cousins, you name it- would be okay.
From then on, he found you everywhere; in the way the sunlight streaked through his windows and hit the gloss of the kitchen counter just right; the way the wind would blow, gentle and breezy, against his cheek whenever he’d take off. The way the sound of your laugh would echo through the hallways, your heels clicking down the tiles, your warmth filling up every corner of his life.
He’d been there the day your first big story almost fell through and you sat at your desk at midnight, too tired to cry. He’d brought you coffee, left it quietly by your hand, and watched as you smiled when you saw it.
He’d walked you home after late nights, pretending it was for his peace of mind, though really it was so he could memorise the sound of your voice outside of the Planet’s stress.
It was always fuller, calmer, yet a lot louder. Never brazen, but always confident.
You spent a lot of time together; sometimes at your place, often times in his high-rise penthouse. You liked it better there. It was so him; so sensible, so Clark. You’d fall asleep on his couch and wake up in his bed, cracking the bedroom door open slightly to find him peacefully dozing away in the living room.
He’d saved you, too- more times than you’d ever know. Once, when a construction sign snapped loose in the wind, he caught it in midair and flew off before you could even turn around.
Another time- as Clark- when a taxi nearly clipped you at a crosswalk, he’d been there in a flash; steadying you with a sheepish, “Guess I should’ve been watching where I was going.” You’d laughed and called him your “clumsy guardian angel.” He’d smiled, because it wasn’t far from the truth.
Now you were here, telling him about your crush on the part of him you didn’t recognise. The half you weren’t allowed to see.
You stood up suddenly, pacing the floor. “I mean, it’s not like I actually think I have a chance with Superman,” you said, waving your hands. “He probably has… space girlfriends. Or whatever.”
Clark's amusement played on his lips, “Space girlfriends?”
“Yeah, like- women who can fly and don’t trip over their own two fee-,” you said, right before your boot got caught in the crack on the floor; a downright betrayal causing you to slip and crash forward.
He caught you before you could hit the ground, one arm around your waist, steady and sure.
You blinked up at him, laughing. “Damn. What is wrong with me?”
“I can think of a few things.” He said sheepishly, earning one of your infamous, soft yet quick arm slaps.
"Mean!"
"Sorry, sorry."
“I swear, Clark," you shook your head, straightening your posture, "you have insane reflexes. What are you, Spiderman?”
His heart stuttered. Close.
You were joking, of course. You always joked. But he still smiled and said, “Just lucky, I guess.”
You grinned. “Well, thank you, Lucky Kent. You saved me from both injury and humiliation.”
He smiled softly. “Anytime.”
You lingered there a second too long before stepping back, cheeks warm.
It was one thing gushing over a man you had a slight crush on, a world-famous superhero who would probably never find out- it was another to let your feelings for your best friend known, after so many months successfully keeping them hidden.
You'd decided mentally a while back, when Clark was at your apartment making breakfast for dinner, setting off the fire alarm in the process.
He could never be yours.
He was sweet, quiet, hesitant. He didn't need someone like you. Maybe you needed someone like him- but you thought, men like him never typically ended up with girls like you. They often got with the sensible types, the lovely ones, the girls that didn't need to try because everyone loved them anyway.
Fangirling over Superman was fun. Being in love with Clark Kent was pain.
The words came rushing out before you meant for them too, a protective barrier between you and the man before you.
“You’re a really good friend, you know that?”
The word friend landed somewhere in his chest like a soft, inevitable bruise. Clark blinked, tried to swallow back a choke.
"Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”
Later, when you finally left the office, still humming to yourself about Superman, Clark sat there for a long time, staring out the window. The city lights blurred in the glass, glowing gold and soft, and he could see the faint reflection of himself- Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter.
Somewhere out there, the world saw Superman as a symbol. But when he looked at you, he didn’t feel like a symbol.
He felt like a man who loved someone so deeply it ached.
Because the hurtful truth wasn’t that you were in love with Superman. No; Clark picked up on your tone, the joking way you wriggled your eyes and scolded him playfully for acting like you’d never have a chance. An infatuation, sure. Maybe it was limerence, even. Those he could handle.
No, what hurt the most wasn’t that you loved the other side of him. This pain came from somewhere much deeper, a nagging feeling that ate away at the back of his mind.
He was yours. Yet you’d never know, and he’d never tell you, because he’d rather keep it to himself forever if it meant he’d still have you in his life.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching your shadow disappear into the night below.
For a heartbeat, he almost let himself imagine it; a world where you knew, where you didn’t run away screaming. Where disappointment didn’t flood your face and you confessed your feelings back, with a kiss on his lips and your fingers tangled in his hair.
Almost.
But the city was calling again, distant sirens rising like a requiem.
Clark closed his eyes, his dream collapsing to dust in the darkness.
Maybe one day, he’d tell you.
Maybe one day, you’d look at him and see.
summary: you know you shouldn't feel this way. and yet clark kent- steady, older, infuriatingly attuned to every inch of you- turns every "kid" and "good girl" into fire against your skin; leaving you dizzy, flustered, and desperately wanting more.
clark kent x slightly younger ! reader
themes: age gap obviously, you're yearning this time! clark being a gentleman, domestic bits, heavyyy 'i want to / but i can't' vibes. enjoy!
Truthfully, you hated yourself for allowing this to be your Friday night.
It wasn't like you. You liked home, the comfort of it all, the lit candles and the perfectly brewed tea and the radio on low in the background. But you figured, you had to be this at least once, or you'd live forever curious. Or however that saying goes.
Sitting in a dingy bar with the rest of your co-workers, head ducked, nursing something far stronger than you'd asked for. Thankfully, Jimmy said he'd catch the train home with you when you were ready, so you didn't have to worry too much about the amount of alcohol in your system.
Except you'd been ready for the past thirty minutes, and there was no sign of the man anywhere.
For a brief second, you wondered whether he'd up and left, forgetting about you completely. But then you remembered Eve's flirty hand on his arm, dragging him somewhere hidden yet also very easy to get to, and immediately you knew he was close by.
Your shoulders slumped. At least someone's getting laid tonight.
If you were being completely honest, no part of you even wanted to be here tonight. It was a celebration of all sorts- someone's birthday meshed with six months of hard-hitting news- and when Lois dropped a packet of Advil on your desk the night before, claiming 'you're gonna need this for Saturday, because you are coming', well, you couldn't really say no.
That- and for some annoying, unbearable reason- a part of you was hoping that Clark would be here, too.
Not that it would change anything. No, you were sure of that; Clark Kent was completely off the table. Not even a contender in your dating scene; the bone dry, barren waste land that it was.
It was no secret to everybody but him; you liked him. Deeply. Achingly. He was your type; tall, dark, handsome- a cliche in many ways yet you adored him because he carried it well regardless. And you would have asked him out months ago, too (that had never been something you'd delayed in the past) if it wasn't for the fact that he simply did not see you that way.
You could feel it, like a constant blur in the air around you. The way he smiled softly at you whenever you spoke, urging you to keep going, like a teacher did with a difficult student. How you'd overheard him telling Perry that you were a good girl, always eager to learn, a genuine asset to the team when your boss grilled him on your work ethic. The way he spoke about you like you were twice the slight age gap between you both and then some.
How his smiles were always short and clipped, always quick, far too fleeting to find anything other than pure friendliness.
All patience, all praise- zero passion.
You’d tried once- really tried. After weeks of him bringing you coffee, staying late with you, insisting on driving you home, you’d finally started to let yourself relax around him. One particularly exhausting night, a careless step on a fallen sheet of paper sent you slipping- and Clark was the one who caught you. Who pulled you in too close, breathing the same fragile inch of air you were.
You’d closed your eyes. He’d swallowed hard.
And then- without warning- he jerked back like your touch had shocked him.
“Let’s get you home…” he muttered, already retreating. He didn’t meet your eyes for weeks after that; truthfully, neither of you were quite the same.
He’d always held himself back around you, but after that night it was different- sharper, almost deliberate. Even his voice changed, softer and steadier, like the real one was reserved for adults and he wasn’t quite sure you qualified.
At first, you thought you were overreacting. But then one day, you'd thanked him for helping you with an article- all batted eyelashes and a lip glossed smile and he looked at you, square in the face and said, 'No problem, kiddo. I'm here if you need me.'
Ugh.
Thinking about it now made you want to grab both eyeballs out and pull, hard.
It wasn't like you were looking for anything serious. You didn't even mind if he didn't flirt back- though that would be nice. You just wanted him to be normal with you, like he was with everybody else.
He'd crack jokes with Jimmy, both of their laughs in sync. He'd ask Lois for help with his articles, completely captivated by her amendments. He'd even listen to Cat's quips about Steve's dire fashion statements- all polo shirts and light washed jeans that should have been left in the 2000s.
Chasing, wanting, satisfied with their approval.
But with you? None of that. He'd see you coming and pull your chair out for you, sure, but the silence that hung above you both felt like complete torture after the conversations you heard on the way. He felt like a babysitter to you more than anything, one that was promised a bonus if he kept you happy and contempt.
Ever the gentleman. He grew up on a farm, that much you knew; only that Kansas charm seemed to stretch to everybody but you.
No amount of hiked up skirts, burgundy heels and vanilla perfume made Clark Kent look your way. You thought he had, once- when it was just you two in the bullpen on a Friday night, working on the same project.
A mix of tired delirium and hope had you believing that Clark's low lidded stare had anything to do with the way you'd bent meticulously over his desk throughout the night. Turns out, he was just really tired, and you were getting hot and heavy over his exhaustion.
"Don't stress, hon," Cat had cooed, the one time you opened up to her about how things were going at work. "You're just new, is all. You're a little baby, and he's a gentle giant,"
"Cat, I'm twenty-four," you'd frowned. Her smile didn't let up, as soft and comforting as ever.
"And Clark's, what? Thirty-something?"
"Thirty-three." you mumbled.
"Give him a break, sweets. He probably just goes into Dad-mode whenever you're around."
You wanted to throw up. As well as gouge your eyes out. Because although that made perfect sense, you hated it, hated that you'd not only been friendzoned- but family-zoned.
By Clark Kent! The only decent man in this city, built like a Greek God, written by a woman and adored by anyone and everyone- had family-zoned you of all people. All because of a few years between you where he'd unfairly been alive first.
"I don't think he likes me very much." you'd frowned the one time during lunch, fork stabbed upright in your salad as Lois picked at her own.
Her eyebrows had been raised for most of the conversation- as if she knew something you didn't- but also like she disapproved of the very discussion you were having; one that proved every Bechdel-test theory she despised right.
"Don't overthink it. He's literally just Clark."
You groaned, head heavy in your hands now as your previous differing conversations with both women crossed your mind. You hadn't noticed that your drink was gone until you felt something nudge towards you.
"Hey," Jimmy frowned, lips pursed tight as he watched you. "You okay?"
"I'm grieving."
"Oh. Cool," he shrugged lightly, and it was then that you caught the fain lipstick mark on his polo shirt collar. "Want some company?"
"Sure."
You liked Jimmy for that reason alone. If the office was really playing into the whole family dynamic, then he'd definitely be the big brother you never had; unhinged, insane, gave you snacks you didn't really like so he could eat them instead, yet still be able to feel like he did something good that day.
He nudged a second cocktail your way- something darker in colour and far more dangerous than the first- and you took it without a second thought.
"What is it?"
"Uh... I don't really know. It came straight from the bar though, so I know it's safe."
You drank it anyway, your mind so pre-occupied with your frustration to cringe at the taste.
The rest of the night unfurled like that. You, saying you didn't want to drink anymore but ultimately finishing whatever round you'd been dragged into.
It wasn't until your fifth beverage in that you sensed it - the sudden shift in the room. Like a light had turned on, and everybody could suddenly see in picturesque HD.
"Kent! Hey, Clark, over here!"
Jimmy grinned as you felt your pulse quicken.
He was late. So late, you'd given up on the idea of him showing up at all.
Yet here he was, dressed deliciously in a white t-shirt that clung to every ridge and muscle and bicep; navy flannel slung over his shoulder. It was worn in that farm-boy, days out in sun-soaked fields sort of way; delicious, tempting, and genuine.
You gulped. Your teeth crunched down on an ice cube as you stared- practically drooled- at the man before you.
"Sorry I'm late," Clark said sheepishly, "Something, uh... came up."
"Well, you're here now, buddy! Can I get you something to drink? It was my round, just."
"Uhm..." with a quick glance at the bar, Clark shrugged, "Just a water's fine,"
"Water? Dude-"
Clark dangled a pair of keys between his forefinger and thumb then, apologetic, "Sorry. Designated driver."
"Ugh, you're always the designated driver. You're no fun," Jimmy started shaking his head, about to head off when he paused- gaze darting towards you.
You willed him not to say anything, wanting nothing more than to disappear between the dingy cracks of the seats.
Unfortunately, Jimmy seemed to have a talent for embarrassing you in front of Clark without even trying. Once, he asked- far too loudly- if you were “doing alright” at the exact moment Clark leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, completely absorbed in his article; oblivious to your clenched jaw and crossed legs.
Everyone within a five-mile radius heard him. Clark included.
It took a lot of snacks you actually liked to get Jimmy out of that one.
"Do me a favour, watch her. She's like... four Disaronno doubles deep."
"Five." you slurred, holding up six fingers.
Clark stared at you in amusement, though there was something else in his eyes that you couldn't quite read. For a split second, you swore he stole a glance at your legs- flesh, bare, exposed by the too-short skirt you wore that had definitely been created with only standing occasions in mind.
But again, it was probably just wishful thinking.
As Jimmy walked away, you could feel it; that same, heavy atmosphere again- identical to the one that inhabited the air around your desks at the Planet. Immediately, Clark straightened. His eyes softened.
And you groaned.
"Are you okay? Can I get you a water?" he asked, politely, hovering next to you even though there was plenty of space to sit down.
You shook your head. "No, thank you, Clark."
He nodded. You traced shapes on the condensation of your empty glass, willing him to leave you alone, willing Cat to come and save the both of you with gossip about people you didn't even know.
Usually, you'd tune her out, try not to absorb any unwarranted information; but you promised yourself that, in this instance, you'd even take notes if you had to.
But she never came. And Clark didn't move. His eyes flickered constantly between the crowd and you, the glass in your hand, the way your fingers danced against the droplets.
These moments were the worst. He was always so careful, so calculated, so aware of everyone around him. It felt like being under a microscope; if a microscope was beautiful, six foot five and had the bluest eyes known to man.
After what felt like forever, you decided you'd had enough. You pushed yourself upright, body slinking somewhat-gracefully out of the booth.
Clark barely had enough time to register what you were doing before you knocked into him; knees wobbling, heart racing, the drink travelling up and down your body now that it had sensed some movement.
Swiftly, he steadied you, large hand wrapped around your elbow, another steady on your waist.
"Woah- hey, now. You alright?"
"Whoops," you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks, filling the spot in your chest. "Sorry. I didn't- I didn't realise how..."
"Drunk you are?" he finished for you, smile polite yet very obviously finding this very funny.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"I am not drunk,"
"Okay, sweetheart," he chuckled, and your stomach flipped at the nickname- a threatening move on your part- but Clark didn't seem to notice. "Whatever you say. Where are you headed?"
You assumed he meant where in the bar; to the toilets, over to Lois and Cat, to join Jimmy at the packed front. But you'd had enough, and the intoxication was starting to hit, and in your mind there was no time for a mirage of goodbyes.
You just had to get out. Fast. Clark was starting to look far too good and his voice was far too deep for you to justify torturing yourself in his presence any longer.
"Home."
He blinked. A beat passed where you expected him to convince you to stay, briefly, but would ultimately shrug and watch you amble towards the door by yourself.
But before you could open your mouth to contest, he was already leaning over the booth, hand on your lower back.
When he pulled back, your coat was slung over his arm, your tiny little clutch engulfed in his hand.
"Let's go, then."
"No-"
He said your name then- in that stern yet soft, commanding yet hesitant way of his. The same voice he used to remind you not to be so hard on yourself at work, the same one you dreamt about in more ways than one.
"Let me take you home. I wouldn't feel right leaving you out there alone like this."
It was torture. Agonising, debilitating torture.
Yet as Clark led you out of the bar, a respectful hand hovering where you wished he'd just touch, you didn't stop him.
When he opened the car door for you and you slotted in, head falling back against the head rest, willing yourself not to close your eyes- you didn't fight it.
You just watched as he slid into the driver's side, brow furrowed at the temperature of the vehicle.
"Are you cold?" he asked, worry taking him over.
You shook your head truthfully, the alcohol now creating a haze where a permanent giddy feeling stayed snug in your chest- waiting for the perfect opportunity to come out.
Uh oh. That usually meant that you'd probably have a very difficult time remembering anything past this point tomorrow.
You welcomed the thought with bubbly, open arms. And a giggle. Always a giggle.
Regardless, Clark turned the heating on; full blast, his sensible pick-up a box of hot air as it barrelled down Metropolis' empty streets. You often wondered how he got it all the way here from Smallville- it didn't exactly have much life left in it for even a full hour's trip.
"You didn't-" hiccup. "You didn't have to do this you know, Clark. I woulda been fine on my own,"
"Mm," he hummed, watching the road, unconvinced. "I'm not too sure about that. You had what, six drinks? Doubles?"
"Five." you held up four.
"Five," he smirked slightly, "Glad to see you can still count while drunk,"
"I am not drunk! I told you- I only had five!"
He tried to stifle the laugh threatening to escape, the amusement tugging even more at the corners of his lips. You realised, this was probably the most normal Clark's ever been around you.
"Still too much for you, kid. You gotta pace yourself next time."
And there it was.
He turned the corner. Your heart broke at his words.
Kid.
That god-awful, disgusting, annoying, god-awful (did you mention it was awful?) word that meant you would never, ever, in this world or any other- be anything more to Clark Kent than an intern.
A silly little girl who had no chance- with both him and the world beyond.
"I'm not a kid." you muttered, so faint he barely heard you. The bubbly high faded faster than it came.
It was stupid. It wasn't a big deal. If you were sober, you'd probably be able to brush it off.
But right now, in the heat of the moment, you couldn't stop yourself.
While sober, your crush ran deep, but it was always controllable. Fixed with a pint of ice cream and a steady twenty minute window of full, uninterrupted yearning, a moment to recharge.
But now, with liquor in your veins, sat in the darkness of his pick-up and the very reason for your spiral sitting so comfortably next to you- you just couldn't stop it.
“You’re not even a whole ten years older than me, you know.” You muttered, the alcohol threatening to slur your words even more than it already had.
Buildings blurred into sidewalks as Clark sped past them, quick yet controlled. You watched the way his hand gripped the top of the wheel, the wrist of his other resting gently on the gear stick.
Lord help me.
He smiled, “I know.”
“So why do you call me a kid so much?” your eyes narrowed in accusation, though you knew he couldn’t see it.
He gave a small shrug, “Never thought about it. Just seemed… fitting,”
“So you do think I’m a child,”
“What? Gosh, no-“
“And you do hate me.”
“Hate you? What on earth-“
“Just admit it,” the theatrics came out of you then; a heavy, heaving sigh spilling out of your lips as you fell back into the seat. The entire car smelled like bubblegum, the familiar pink and blue freshener swinging haphazardly from the rearview mirror. “You hate me, Clark Kent.”
He paused for a second, all traces of amusement now wiped off his face. You felt a flip in your stomach at the very sight of him so serious.
“I really can’t tell if you’re joking, or not.” He said, exasperation clinging onto every word.
It was your turn to shrug, “I say what I see.”
“Oh, yeah?” he turned another corner, knuckles white against the wheel. “And what do you see?”
It was getting warm now, you realised. The heating had been blasting on full power and your body had adjusted more than twenty minutes ago.
“You don’t speak to me,” you said, a faux nonchalance hanging off your tongue. In reality, your heart was thudding so hard, you were afraid he could hear it. “Not anymore, at least. And you don’t look at me.”
“I look at you,” he said defensively.
You cocked your head to the side, eyes burning calm holes into the side of his head.
“Not the way I want you to.”
That got him. Your eyes settled on the way his jaw clenched, the slight shift in his seating.
“What do you mean?”
In all honesty, not even you had any idea what you meant by that.
In hindsight, you probably shouldn't have left with Clark. Up until this point, you'd done a terrific job at admiring him from afar, a distance safe enough to wonder from.
You didn’t need to be doing any of this, to be saying half of it. You could have lived the rest of your life with this ridiculous, unrequited crush, and he would have been none the wiser.
But the four-five-six cocktails in your stomach were finally mixing, an intoxicating feeling blooming throughout your entire body. You were pretty sure it had taken over every inch of your bloodstream, so much so that they'd began to pull on your tendons; as well as your voice box.
You felt lighter. Easier. Like you just had to get the words out- any words, no matter how incriminating.
“You know what I mean,”
“I… I really don’t,” his eyebrows furrowed and he braved a glance your way. “Are you feeling oka-“
“God, Clark. How many times do I have to pull my skirt up and bend over your desk for you to get it?” you almost-snapped, patience wearing thin, non-existent now that the liquid courage had hit.
Clark made a noise so strange you briefly wondered if he was about to sneeze, crash the car, and combust all at the same time.
"W-Wha-"
"Oh, Clark," you groaned into you hand, "Please, I am begging you, to get there faster."
“You didn’t… actually say that,” he said, voice thin with denial, though he very much had heard you.
You slumped even deeper into the seat, annoyed and buzzing and far too hot from the heat. “See? This is the problem. You’re always pretending I didn’t say things.”
“I’m not pretending,” he insisted. “I’m- uh, processing. I'm trying my best, believe me,"
“Mm.” You watched him carefully. “Your best involves acting like I don't exist most of the time.”
He blinked at the windshield like it had personally insulted him. “I don’t ignore you.”
“Yes you do,” you countered. “You ignore me at work. And you ignore me at meetings. And you ignore me when I’m right in front of your face.”
“That’s not-” His jaw worked for a second before he tried again. “I don’t ignore you.”
“Then what do you call it?”
He let out a sigh, the kind an overworked teacher gives a student who has somehow turned in an essay written entirely in glitter pen. Which, in all honesty, was a very you thing to do. “I’m not ignoring you," he repeated, "I'm just... trying to handle things the right way.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You definitely don’t do half the things you do for me for anyone else. But then you’re not as relaxed with me as you are with everybody else, either. So, what is it?”
His grip tightened again, knuckles pale. “I do plenty of things for everyone-”
“No, Clark,” you cut in. “You really don’t.”
You weren’t yelling. You were just irritated, in that sharpened way alcohol gave you. The part of your brain that usually let things slide decided tonight wasn’t the night.
You continued, ticking things off as you spoke. “You pull out my chair. You help me with every article I panic over. You drive me home the second you think I shouldn’t be walking alone, even if you’ve barely been at the bar long enough for your coat to get warm. And don’t get me started on the ‘good girl, asset to the team’ comment.”
His face went scarlet so fast it was almost impressive. “That- you weren’t supposed to- I mean, it wasn’t-”
“And Jimmy told me you bought him a cab home last month,” you added. “You didn’t drive him.”
“That was a different situation-”
“He sprained his ankle!”
Clark let his forehead rest very briefly against the steering wheel, muttering something that sounded like a gentle plea for strength.
When he sat upright again, he said, “Okay, fine. You’re upset with me. I can tell.”
“Well,” you gasped dryly, “congratulations. You finally noticed something about me.”
His shoulders fell a little. Not in an offended way- more like someone who’d just realised they’d dropped the ball on something important. “I notice a lot of things about you.”
The car fell briefly quiet.
You weren’t sure what expression you made, but something in it made him backpedal instantly. “Not in a weird way,” he added. “Just in a… a careful way.”
You looked at him for a long moment, taking in how he was- tense, earnest, fumbling in that Clark Kent way that made everything he did both irritating and unfairly endearing.
“See?” you said at last. “This is exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You’re careful with me,” you said. “Since that night- God. I don't know what it is, but you've been acting like I’m made of literal glass-”
“You’re not made of glass.”
“Then stop acting like it!”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, then tried, “I just- look, okay, there’s lines-”
“Whose lines?” you challenged.
He hesitated. “Mine. And I don’t want to cross them. It wouldn’t be right,”
You let out a breath, surprised by how tired your voice sounded when you asked, “Why are you so afraid of me?”
His eyes widened- like he’d never, in his entire life, considered the possibility that someone might see it that way. Him, Superman, known for facing the universe's biggest threats and everything in between- scared of you, your burgundy heels, your tequila fuelled, leopard print-purse wielding body.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said, too fast.
You raised a brow. “Clark. You’re terrified.”
He ran a hand over his face, glasses shifting slightly.
“It’s- no, it’s not that. I’m not scared of you. I just… there are things I shouldn’t do. Things someone like me can’t risk. And I...I don’t want to make things weird for you.”
“You already do,” you pointed out. He winced at that.
You stared out the window as he pulled up to your building, the street outside washed in that soft, late-night glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.
When he put the car in park, the silence settled differently- heavier, but also expectant.
Clark turned off the engine and shifted toward you just slightly, enough that his knee bumped the console.
“I don't mean to ignore you,” he said quietly.
You let him speak, eyes scanning the faint glow coming from the window of your apartment. You always liked to leave the hallway light on; it made coming home feel a lot less lonely.
He leaned his forearms onto the wheel again. “You’re not someone I can ignore.”
The honesty slipped out before he could stop it, and you felt something in your chest pull- tight and confusing. Yet, you didn’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, you turned to him fully, and he swallowed when he saw the steadiness in your eyes. You might’ve been tipsy, yes, but your thoughts had never been sharper.
They always were when you were around him.
“You act like you don’t notice me,” you started, “But you notice everything.”
He didn’t deny it. Of course he didn’t.
If anything, Clark looked absolutely stunned by the truth of it. In that moment, you wondered whether he'd ever believed differently; whether those nights spent together meant a lot more to him than you thought.
You studied him more openly now- how his jaw clenched, how his Adam’s apple bobbed, how the curl of hair at his forehead always tried to escape when he got flustered.
And he was definitely flustered. Maybe more than you’d ever seen him.
“So what are you trying to do here, Clark? Be noble? Be the older mentor who keeps me in line?”
He straightened a little, uneasy. “I’m trying to look out for you.”
“Who decided that?” you asked. “Because it wasn’t me.”
Clark rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the windshield. “It just feels like the right thing to do. I can't... gosh, I'm not supposed to-”
"Supposed to what?" you interrupted, but his worlds were already tumbling out before he could stop them.
“-I'm not supposed to want you."
The car went quiet.
He didn’t look at you at first, as if avoiding your face would undo what he’d just said altogether.
Your heart thrummed hard, so hard that you could feel it travelling down to the pads of your fingertips. Suddenly, breathing became difficult; your chest unable to fall into a steady rhythm next to him.
You glanced up at your apartment window. At the people walking past, fists shoved in coats, heads ducked down like Clark's currently was. Anything but the interior of the car; anything but him.
When he finally turned his head, there was no denial in his expression, no attempt to smooth it over.
Just the uncomfortable, undeniable weight of what he’d just admitted.
Clark's lips parted, just slightly, as if he was about to say something of actual substance that would derail the conversation, make it better. But he didn't.
He didn’t have to.
Because suddenly the air felt far too thick, and the space between you felt far too small, and the car felt like the kind of place where something could happen if either one of you breathed wrong.
You blinked at him, swallowing back a a sickly, stunned feeling.
You'd imagined this very thing before; telling him, hundreds of times. You'd imagined it happening in hushed whispers in the Archives, at his apartment, maybe even driving home after a long, gruelling day at work. But you never imagined it like this.
You weren't sober. Nowhere near. And he was tired, exhausted, probably annoyed that you'd started something that wasn't quite so easy to finish. You were angry and snappy and frustrated, when all you wanted to be was soft and kind and understanding when the time came that your not-so-secret crush finally came to light.
Suddenly, thoughts weren't coming to you as easily. Words even more so. You just leant forward, ever so slightly, enough to smell his cologne and hear the irregular pattern of his breathing.
Not much. Just enough. Enough to fill the too-big gap between you both.
Clark froze- not in alarm, but in that bracing way a man does when the thing he’s spent months trying not to want suddenly turns and looks him in the eye.
His gaze flicked to your mouth.
Just once. Half a second, if that, before his wide eyes found yours again and you saw a slight plead in them. But it was enough.
He leaned in, too- slowly, like someone trying very hard not to scare a wild animal. His lashes lowered slightly, breath growing shallow, the smallest shift of his weight bringing him closer, close enough that you felt the warmth of him, close enough that you knew-
He would let you.
He would absolutely let you.
After months of restraint, no control on your part and a ball that had definitely always been unmoving in his court- you finally had the perfect opportunity to get what you wanted.
Which was exactly why- to your own bewildered disbelief- you didn't take it.
You weren’t going to. Not tonight.
You stopped just shy of him- just shy of that groundbreaking, earth-shattering kiss you’d imagined since you first felt his hand brush against yours- and tilted your head, watching the realisation flicker across his features.
Then you let the faintest, saddest hint of smile curl at the edge of your lips.
“Goodnight, Clark.”
His eyes widened, and you felt a dull, painful spark of unearned triumph settle oddly in your chest.
You pulled back before he could fully recover, fingers already reaching for the door handle. Your balance wobbled just a little stepping out of the car, but you didn't care. You just had to get out; had to leave. You got what you wanted. And it didn't feel like enough.
You didn’t look back at him as you shut the door lightly behind you, though you could feel his gaze anchored to you like gravity itself had shifted.
You walked toward your building with a slght confidence that had nothing to do with the drinks and everything to do with knowing- finally, undeniably- that Clark Kent wanted you.
Behind you, in the quiet car, he sat stunned.
Heart pounding. Breath uneven. Watching as you waltzed into your apartment building without so much as a glance back.
And even though he shouldn’t have leaned in, even though he absolutely knew better, even though tomorrow was going to be complicated- he still hoped you’d remember it all in the morning.
• The kind of partner who walks you home under lamplight and kisses your knuckles like a scene from a black-and-white movie.
• Has an old-school sense of romance—flowers on your desk, handwritten notes tucked into your coat pocket, opening doors not out of habit, but devotion.
• He listens to you like nothing else matters. Like you’re the most important voice in any room.
• When you’re sick, he makes soup from scratch and reads to you in bed—even if it’s your guilty-pleasure novel or a comic book.
• Tells you about Brooklyn like it’s a fairy tale. And when he takes you there, he shows you the corners that meant everything to him once.
• You catch him sketching you sometimes—quick pencil lines on the edge of mission files or napkins, soft lines capturing your smile, your eyes, your laugh.
• He’s your biggest fan. Brags about you to Sam and Bucky. “Did you see what she did back there? That’s my girl.”
• When he kisses you, it’s with his whole soul. Like he’s trying to memorize the feeling in case the world falls apart again.
• In quiet moments, he’ll pull you onto his lap, wrap his arms around you, and just… breathe. Like being near you helps him feel human again.
• If you ever ask why he loves you, he’ll say: “Because you remind me what I was fighting for. What I still want to protect.”
Nine Times she thought she was, and the once she actually was #1
Pairing: Rosie Rosenthal & Ida Brady, intimacy journey.
Warnings: very few, still, typical warnings apply, 18+, discussions of a past rape and fear of intimacy
Requested? ☑️
Circa: October 1945
Mother held up a very frilly, decidedly see-through garment with a bashful grin, bridal boutique exclusivity and the comparative privacy of the dressing room making her as cheeky as a Catholic housewife ever dared. That was Robert’s effect on everyone, it seemed, he was so solidly wonderful, so obviously perfect, his mere attention so great a compliment that becoming his wife? —everyone rightfully gave Ida no peace over how fortunate she was. Her mother more than anyone, after watching the blood sport that was their courtship, egging on one declined proposal after another until at last they were here, a week out and assembling a hasty trousseau for an even hastier wedding to be followed by a lengthy overseas assignment.
Together. Nuremberg.
“You’d like Germany in the fall.” he’d told her.
It made one’s head spin, as did the very notion of donning that toilet paper excuse for nightwear. Maureen had not needed to be told, one grunt from Ida over the phone when a trousseau was mentioned was enough: “I’ll send you a portmanteau or two”, Maureen had concluded easily, without even needing to be told why. She’d also sent along perfume, rich and woodsy with just enough vanilla that Ida felt almost a bride in it. Ida worried such deep consideration was perhaps the product of the Clevens’ own marital struggles and adjustments to peace, but that was not her concern.
“Mother.” Ida begged now with a laugh, mildly unused to such familiarity with her parent, or with such liberal inclinations.
“You’ll be married Ida!” her mother responded, pleadingly happy, “If that’s not the time for it, when?”
When indeed? That hung like a thundercloud over this whole marriage and yet Rosie had set his face to the storm and welcomed it. “So long as you’re doing the ruining” he had blithely responded to her dire predictions for marital misery in his promising young life. Companions, he had declared them
-companions didn’t wear things like that.
“I- I don’t think it would suit me.” she fibbed, thumbing at a sensible set of mulberry colored silk shorts instead.
“My dear, think of him a little.” Mother meant well, words that would make Ida bristle were said so kindly and with such good intent she could only wince while deflecting them.
Ida gave her a curt nod before slipping behind the curtain and shimmying into a slip, very much like the ones she already owned with a pretty little trim of lace around the decollege. Dove gray and striking with her complexion. She already owned and wore such a piece often, the idea of wearing it next to him sent her stomach plummeting, suddenly she saw herself as he might, boyish limbs and the slight swell of breasts leading to a trim waist and only moderate hips; she was flat and tall —it still felt too clingy.
Mother’s voice startled her on the other side of the drape, “Here’s that other size you wanted.” she offered and Ida drew back the partition. Mother stood as if aghast in admiration.
“My beautiful girl.” her voice grew thick with emotion and Ida too felt a lump in her throat at the thought of how many years had been robbed from them, first by the seperation and then by the war, they might have had many such outings and none of them so burdened. “You’ll be irresistible in that.” she said it with such pride and Ida tried so hard to cling to that as her world grew cold and her fingers and lips with it, creeping doubt and pernicious terror raising itself at last at the sheer loneliness of not even her own mother having any idea what horror such a compliment evoked. “Ida, Eye Eye, what’s wrong? My sweets what’s wrong? What did I say? Sit, sit! -there, Ida, darling.”
Ida did not realize she was crying until she was sat on the pretty velvet bench beside the mirror, sobbing like a girl in her mothers arms. “I don’t want to be irresistible.” she tried to explain through her sobs, “I don’t want to tempt him at all.”
Confused as she was, mother did not argue the rightness or wrongness of temptation and desire within marriage. She just held her daughter like she had wanted to when her father died, when her plane had been downed, when they sent her away to Florida so someone else could feed her and she came back more pilot than woman. “Alright, then you don’t need to.” Mother said instead and it brought Ida such relief a new flood of tears were unleashed, years of pent up grief and disgust flowing out of her. “Be yourself. You’re precious Ida, never meant other than that.”
-see how ugly you have now become? the Kommandant had asked her before shearing her hair.
Crumpled against her mother, red faced and quite unimpressive, she wished she were even uglier for once. Poor Robert. She had warned him.
Gaining some composure back, Ida pulled herself away and squared her shoulders, allowing mother’s arm to stay loped around them. She did not deserve to be rebuffed after such kindness. “Mother,” Ida found her voice sounded gravelly and distant even to herself but needs must, “in the war, after I was downed-“ she chose her words carefully, eyes fixated on the most unoffensive thing in the mirror, mother’s sensible brown shoes, she had long debated whether to ever even tell her,, “-I think you know, or have heard or, but, there were things…done to me…that I cannot…easily forget. Robert knows, there’s no, no um, defrauding? no defrauding happening, I have told him, he knows. But I, I don’t want -I don’t want to be irresistible.”
Ida had watched the face of her brother process what had been inflicted on her, Johnny had watched her body swell with lurid proof of it, he had wrapped the bloody product of it in the only white garment left in the camp and buried it with last rites and a muttered Ave. A shroud of innocence for a life conceived in anything but.
Ida had no appetite left to watch a mother’s face when she learned her daughter had been violated.
Mother was now the one who cried, and Ida numbly felt the burgeoning impulse to hold her in return. Awkwardly but with growing surety, she lifted her arm and tucked mother’s smaller frame to her chest, holding her shuddering shoulders, “My brave child.” mother managed in grief, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’d do anything to take it away-“ it was a natural sentiment and Ida had grown to feel herself quite unnatural for not regretting the course of duty that had placed her in such jeopardy. “Robert is -he is a good man,” mother could not grieve for herself a full minute without returning reassurances, “I wouldn’t let a lesser man have you. But now I know— no one else will do. He will be good to you and if he is not, your father’s house is always yours.”
Ida had never doubted it but to hear it vocalized, to hear it with a recently unburdened heart, the last of her terror calmed to only simmering nervousness, and with the purchase of the demure mulberry shorts, it set her lightly on her last week of singlehood.
That night, the night of her wedding, Ida brushed her teeth alongside Rosie and splashed her face alongside her husband like she had with dozens of men hundreds of times in the shower rooms. Nothing remotely off there. Nothing until she closed the door on him, he to don his pajamas in the suite and she to don them in the bathroom, then the anxiety struck lethal and sharp.
“Don’t fail me now.” she muttered to her nerves as she tried her utmost to efficiently step into the sensible mulberry satin shorts after pulling off the sensible and smart wedding suit she’d been wearing.
She stalled at the door, trying to prepare herself for anything on the other side of it. Robert greeting her with excitement despite all their talks to the contrary of trying anything tonight, or any other night in the near future. Robert hitting the whiskey and passing out pleasantly only to forget his promises in the middle of the night. Or somehow worst of all -Robert lying in bed stiff as a board while waiting for her to shuffle under the sheets already and lay beside him. What then? shut the lights out like two senile dotards? That could hardly be borne, despite how dreamy he made it sound to have celebate sleepovers and chaste companionship. She’d rather take matters into her own hands tonight and pull him bodily inside than endure such stiltedness.
When she opened the door and spied him, nothing could quite prepare her. But then again, surprise was hardly the predominant sentiment. It was gratitude at being right. For deep down in all her doubting she had anticipated him taking her by such pleasant surprise she would never guess it -but never to be confounded.
Prim and homely in his flannel cover and blue pajamas, hair still immaculately lacquered except for where her voracious kisses had done them harm, sat Rosie on the suite carpet, cross legged before a meticulously stacked tower of wedding presents. Beside him was an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries.
“You absolute dreamboat.” she accused in a gush, hand over her gaping mouth.
Robert’s eyes flicked up, blue and warm all at once, and those smile lines carved their way deeper into his cheeks. “Come on,” he held up a neatly wrapped present, “I can’t guess this one by shape and it’s driving me nuts. Let’s get it open so I can sleep.”
When they had gone to sleep, Ida had imbibed so much champagne and indulged in enough kisses she was foolish and pliant. She wiggled her eyebrows when he rolled beside her, close enough to heat the cradle of her thighs; Robert had only laughed warningly and rolled off. When she woke to sunlight streaming into unfastened drapes, warmth near her but not pressing against her, and Rosie’s dark mustache aglow with amber flecks, she was rewarded for her good faith. The curls had come to harm in his sleep and she pushed them off his forehead to wake him.
“Morning.” she whispered.
His smile was dazzling, somehow even more so with his puffy eyes and his loose, drousy lips catching against her palm, “Morning, Mrs Rosenthal.” his voice tickled her, “We’ve got a boat to catch.”
💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.
MOTA taglist, I only have one so ignore if this is not the universe you signed up for:
I love to see the incremental healing here! This is genuine true love, if I’ve ever seen it.
Ida’s mother’s reaction was so sweet and heart wrenching! “You’re precious, never meant to be anything other than that” omg so sweet.
And opening the gifts together?! Adorable.
I also liked the subtle detail of the sleeping shorts instead of something like a nightgown or slip. Maybe I’m reading into it too much but it made sense for where she is and what she’s ready for, ya know?
tangentwithtanner
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