summary: certified professional gooner eddie munson and his inconvenient and incapacitating crush on the intimidatingly hot and cool record shop girl.
a/n: needed somewhere to put this filth tbh! my ask box is always open, particularly if you have an urgent thoughts/inquiries about audio!eddie 🎧
content warnings: men who whimper, diabolical levels of yearning, audio erorica, depictions of sex work, cursing, generational levels of fumbling the bag, IT expert eddie, he's basically a foley artist idk, guuurl dinner, sex toys et al., ramblefaps, camboy steve cameos, and a whole lotta smut
the lps (series)
brb levitating
never underestimate my ability to pull - Friday, May 8th
The kindest thing that literature does is remind you that your little peculiar feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, felt equally bewildered by love, bored by society, tired of pretending, and hungry for meaning.
please look through the hiroshima peace memorial museum's august 6 exhibition and the stories of victims and survivors. today, august 6, is the 80th anniversary of the bombing of hiroshima, and saturday is the 80th anniversary of the bombing of nagasaki. please consider these events not only as a series of numbers or even a single day in world history but as the living hell they created for hundred of thousands of people. i realize a lot of people in the world probably don't know as much about the actual circumstances experienced by the people of hiroshima and nagasaki, as well as the indigenous people (downwinders and marshallese) affected by nuclear arms testing by the us, so instead of getting any more angry about how people talk about it (and how they dont talk about it) i just want to share. the images in those links are hard to look at but it's important, if you're in a safe place, please take the time to sit with them and what they say to you, it would mean a lot to me. all of the peace museum's permanent exhibitions are accessible for free online, i strongly recommend exploring them. & free palestine
today is the 81st anniversary of the bombing of hiroshima. august 9 is the 81st anniversary of the bombing of nagasaki. please take some time to remember the lives that were destroyed in these senseless attacks. it's also important to remember that there is no limit to what the united states is willing to do to any people it considers an obstacle to its imperial interest and there is no limit to what it will say in attempt to justify these atrocities.
When he’d entered the city from Old Kent Road and survived close quarters on the bridge budged tightly against wheeled carts and persons alike, it was as if the scales had finally fallen from his eyes. The first thing he’d noted was how crowded it was— not just squeezing past horses and alluding pick-pockets on the roads— but the buildings themselves were right up against another, leaning slightly to in some instances. And the smell, God’s blood, nothing could have prepared him for that. It was as if every corner revealed a new note of pungent rot, a waft of dried florals and spice quickly followed by the rustle of skirts and quick splash of a boot narrowly avoiding a puddle.
He’d been warned aplenty about his expectations being too high, how London would do her best but ultimately fail to meet them. And well? So far, his uncle’s words rang true. But he’d come all this way, slept under the stars and thatched roofs, walked until the soles of his shoes fell off, found himself jostling to stay aboard carts and wagons. A single knapsack and letter of introduction to his name, he dutifully followed the directions committed to memory to the Tabard Inn. If gossip served, playwrights and actors frequented the establishment regularly, and he’d be able to have a hot meal and warm place to sleep.
A long way from the country, finding himself in the city he’d dreamed of for so long. He would finally shake off the vestiges of his childhood, the taunts from grammar school, the slaps on his knuckles from tyrannical tutors, and, with any hope, the nickname some snot-nosed merchant’s son had stumbled onto:
Wart.
A bastardized form of Ward, short for Edward.
He shouldered open the wooden door, hinge squeaking loudly in his wake, and descended into a rather humid inn. People scattered everywhere, from the tables to the hearth, ladies sitting atop men’s laps and serving up shallow bowls of stew. He approached the inn-keeper, noting his high, ruddy complexion and politely requested a meal and lodging for the evening. His hand did not shake as he pawed the few coins from his pocket and passed them across the bar.
“Gon’ have a seat,” the inn-keeper slurred, badly concealing his belch. “Mary’ll see to you shortly.”
Weaving through the crowd, he pulled the strap of his knapsack closer and settled himself on a meager speck of space on a bench. There was a rabble of laughter from the hearth, the sloshing of ale from cups, and a comforting warmth. It was all welcomed after such a long journey, and a bone-deep sense of weariness settled over him.
“There you go,” a soft voice said, accompanied by a hand sliding a bowl before him. “Be back with your ale.”
He pulled his hand from his pocket, fingers lingering on the worn parchment between them. Secure with the knowledge that it was still there, he spooned the stew into his mouth, surprised with how flavorful it was. Another roar of laughter, this time rousing a man that had gone previously unnoticed. Continuing to eat, he watched the man place his quill to the side, saw how his earring glinted in the firelight, noted the puckish tug of his lips when he said:
“Careful there, Burbage.” He paused to swallow down a swig of ale, “Can’t have you spilling all of our secrets.”
Another man, Burbage he supposed, merely laughed and raised his tankard in salute before turning back to the fire.
So captivated by the sight before him, he hadn’t realized he’d nearly licked his bowl clean. There was a knowing tut at his shoulder as the bowl was taken from view, replaced with ale.
“Bring you another, lad. You clearly need it.”
Speechless as he was, he could only nod in thanks. It had to be now, he reckoned, pulling the letter from inside his coat and walking with purpose toward the hearth. There would never be a better opportunity than this. Though he willed it otherwise, this time his fingers did shake as he cleared this throat and began, “M-Master Burbage, I carry a letter of introduction from my sponsor.” He passed the parchment into the man’s hand and continued, “I apprenticed under a blacksmith in—“
“Ah, yes,” Burbage drawled, eyes scanning the letter in question. “We’ve been expecting you. Journeyman Munson, is it?” He shakes hands with the slack jawed youth and turns back toward the man at the corner table with a shit-eating grin. “Secured a blacksmith for us and your banquets of blood haven’t I, Will?”
When he’d entered the city from Old Kent Road and survived close quarters on the bridge budged tightly against wheeled carts and persons alike, it was as if the scales had finally fallen from his eyes. The first thing he’d noted was how crowded it was— not just squeezing past horses and alluding pick-pockets on the roads— but the buildings themselves were right up against another, leaning slightly to in some instances. And the smell, God’s blood, nothing could have prepared him for that. It was as if every corner revealed a new note of pungent rot, a waft of dried florals and spice quickly followed by the rustle of skirts and quick splash of a boot narrowly avoiding a puddle.
He’d been warned aplenty about his expectations being too high, how London would do her best but ultimately fail to meet them. And well? So far, his uncle’s words rang true. But he’d come all this way, slept under the stars and thatched roofs, walked until the soles of his shoes fell off, found himself jostling to stay aboard carts and wagons. A single knapsack and letter of introduction to his name, he dutifully followed the directions committed to memory to the Tabard Inn. If gossip served, playwrights and actors frequented the establishment regularly, and he’d be able to have a hot meal and warm place to sleep.
A long way from the country, finding himself in the city he’d dreamed of for so long. He would finally shake off the vestiges of his childhood, the taunts from grammar school, the slaps on his knuckles from tyrannical tutors, and, with any hope, the nickname some snot-nosed merchant’s son had stumbled onto:
Wart.
A bastardized form of Ward, short for Edward.
He shouldered open the wooden door, hinge squeaking loudly in his wake, and descended into a rather humid inn. People scattered everywhere, from the tables to the hearth, ladies sitting atop men’s laps and serving up shallow bowls of stew. He approached the inn-keeper, noting his high, ruddy complexion and politely requested a meal and lodging for the evening. His hand did not shake as he pawed the few coins from his pocket and passed them across the bar.
“Gon’ have a seat,” the inn-keeper slurred, badly concealing his belch. “Mary’ll see to you shortly.”
Weaving through the crowd, he pulled the strap of his knapsack closer and settled himself on a meager speck of space on a bench. There was a rabble of laughter from the hearth, the sloshing of ale from cups, and a comforting warmth. It was all welcomed after such a long journey, and a bone-deep sense of weariness settled over him.
“There you go,” a soft voice said, accompanied by a hand sliding a bowl before him. “Be back with your ale.”
He pulled his hand from his pocket, fingers lingering on the worn parchment between them. Secure with the knowledge that it was still there, he spooned the stew into his mouth, surprised with how flavorful it was. Another roar of laughter, this time rousing a man that had gone previously unnoticed. Continuing to eat, he watched the man place his quill to the side, saw how his earring glinted in the firelight, noted the puckish tug of his lips when he said:
“Careful there, Burbage.” He paused to swallow down a swig of ale, “Can’t have you spilling all of our secrets.”
Another man, Burbage he supposed, merely laughed and raised his tankard in salute before turning back to the fire.
So captivated by the sight before him, he hadn’t realized he’d nearly licked his bowl clean. There was a knowing tut at his shoulder as the bowl was taken from view, replaced with ale.
“Bring you another, lad. You clearly need it.”
Speechless as he was, he could only nod in thanks. It had to be now, he reckoned, pulling the letter from inside his coat and walking with purpose toward the hearth. There would never be a better opportunity than this. Though he willed it otherwise, this time his fingers did shake as he cleared this throat and began, “M-Master Burbage, I carry a letter of introduction from my sponsor.” He passed the parchment into the man’s hand and continued, “I apprenticed under a blacksmith in—“
“Ah, yes,” Burbage drawled, eyes scanning the letter in question. “We’ve been expecting you. Journeyman Munson, is it?” He shakes hands with the slack jawed youth and turns back toward the man at the corner table with a shit-eating grin. “Secured a blacksmith for us and your banquets of blood haven’t I, Will?”
Summary: Clark finds out about your deepest, darkest secret: you have a crush on Superman.
Pairing: Corenswet!Clark Kent x Girlfriend!Reader
Word Count: 2.5k
Themes: Established-ish Relationship, Crushing/Pining/Unrequited Love (just go with it, it's gonna be funny), Teasing, The Downside of Dating Someone with a Secret Identity, Tooth-Rotting Domestic Fluff, Left Open-Ended
Notes:
ANOTHER FUCKING FIC THAT HAS SAT IN MY DRAFTS FOR ALMOST A YEAR. August 18th 2025. I'm sure it's been done before, but I wanted to put my spin on it as someone who is loathe to admit they're crushing on a celebrity or new character. And the hypno Glasses aside, David has so many distinct looks in this movie that there is no way that it honestly feels intentional that he's made to look different between all of our different Clark/Superman iterations from one setting to the next.
So we're just going with it.
Please do not interact if you are not 18+.
Enjoy!
---
Nobody was supposed to know. Ever. Never.
You'd kept your crush on Superman a secret for three whole years. But it only took a few months of dating for your boyfriend, Clark Kent, to figure it out.
Actually, him finding out was coincidental. Despite the fact that he was smart as a whip, he'd stumbled into the little tidbit of information on a random night in at your place.
You were lounging on your couch after a long day at work, waiting for him to show up. Takeout containers were spread across your coffee table, along with a stack of DVD’s Clark had brought over from your last movie night.
“I pay for, like, every streaming service under the sun, Clark,” you told him the first time you'd invited him over.
“Yeah, but there’s just something special about DVD extras.” He said, voice squeaking. He looked a little bashful as he fussed with his glasses. "Have you ever seen Pirates of the Caribbean with the commentary track? It's an experience unto itself."
That was the start of your Friday night routine of dinner, movies, and then cuddling and chatting while you enjoyed whatever extras were on Disc 2. Maybe some smooching too if you were lucky. You were always lucky. It was the perfect date night in with the perfect boyfriend.
Only tonight he was late, and you couldn't exactly blame him. The evening news had a special bulletin about a giant robotic Toy Soldier terrorizing downtown, and all traffic was slowed down as Superman dealt with yet another unexpected adversary.
“Sources say that this might be the work of Winslow Schott, who has made public threats against the Metropolis City Council and LuthorCorp after the condemnation and subsequent closure of his toy factory in Queensland Park…” the anchor announced.
“Damn,” you muttered as clips of Schott were displayed on-screen.
But as time went on and the live news feed showed Metropolis' beloved hero handle the mechanical menace, you rightfully got a little distracted.
At first, it was just scrolling social media to see if anyone had a live feed of the attack from a different vantage point than the evening news did. Then it was the commentary on the recent rise of metahuman vigilantism, as was always the case whenever one of these attacks occurred.
Then your algorithm cursed you, and you were in deep with all of the Superman-specific videos. Especially the edits.
The thirst edits.
You honestly felt silly watching them. Laying on your couch, crab rangoon crumbs down your shirt, legs kicking in the air whenever you got too giggly and flustered. You always thought that the time of fangirl crushes and youtube edits of beloved celebrities and fictional character crushes was over for you. Not only that, you had the nicest, sweetest, handsomest boyfriend who caused your heart to ache whenever he was around.
But seeing all of the videos of Superman, soaring and fighting and smiling...all set to the catchiest music? You were done for.
That was why you would take the secret to your grave.
And why your heart skipped a beat as the door to your apartment opened and your boyfriend walked in.
And why you suddenly and unexpectedly played a game of Hot Potato when you fumbled to quickly close out of every app before he could notice how embarrassed you were.
"Sorry I'm late, I should've texted," Clark sounded a little winded as he dropped his work bag in the hall and shut the door behind him. "The...the, uh, the trains were all stopped, some big to-do out by City Hall. I had to turn around and then I figured that Perry would want me to get a statement for tomorrow morning's issue. And, well, you know how chatty Superman is."
You batted your hand against your airborne phone and sent it to the floor, then dove backwards on the couch, arms behind your head in some kind of sultry but sweaty, disheveled pinup pose as he rounded the corner and saw you.
"Uhh," Clark looked at you like you'd grown a second head. "What...uh..." His eyes darted to the dvd menu on the television screen and the food spread out on the coffee table, then back to you. His hand involuntarily reached up to fiddle with his glasses as he blushed. If you hadn't been so mortified you would find the whole thing hilarious. "What's...up?"
"You know, just waiting for you," you said, swallowing the bite of food that was still in your mouth. "Hey."
"Hey," he greeted suspiciously.
"Glad you made it."
"Me...too?" He laughed. You shifted and sat normally, dusting the wonton crumbs from the front of your shirt; he didn't hesitate to cross the short distance, lean down and kiss you. "Was I interrupting a moment between you and our dinner?"
"I mean, if I had the chance to trade you for an anthropomorphic spring roll from Spice Wok, I would be very tempted," you joked.
"Not the eggplant parm from Vito's?" he asked, easily reciting it alongside some of your other favorites from various takeout joints that had made an appearance recently--pad see ew, palak paneer, birria tacos. The fact that he knew them all off the top of his head after only a few months was impressive; none of your other boyfriends had ever bothered.
"Too messy," you answered. "All of them. I'd have to change the sheets a lot more."
He kissed you again and you sighed into his mouth; crisis averted.
He then fell onto the couch beside you and pulled the tie from his neck, easily getting comfortable.
"Looks like we're bringing out the big guns," he said, looking at the dvd menu on-screen again. Luke Skywalker stared at the twin suns of Tatooine, contemplating his fate. "Brave choice, starting with A New Hope. Have we really graduated to this level of trusting one another? How did you know I didn't want to start with Phantom Menace?"
"I didn't. But I feel like this is going to either make or break us, so it was best to get it out of the way so we could have a clean breakup," you explained, then winked. "Lemme get you a drink."
"Did you get Mountain Dew like you said you would last time you went shopping?" He smiled bashfully, the little dimple you loved making an appearance.
"Sure did," you laughed and poked him in the cheek. "Your favorite."
There was something about that dimple that nagged at the back of your mind as you walked into the kitchen. Not just how absolutely adorable it was, but something else. Like...like your brain was forcing you try to question something, you just didn't know what it was.
Maybe there was something else you were forgetting? What could it be?
"You dropped your phone, honey!" Clark announced as you opened the fridge and reached inside. It took you a second before you realized. You banged your head against the top of the fridge as you jumped in shock; you didn't know if you were seeing stars because you'd actually given yourself a concussion or because your blood pressure suddenly spiked to dangerous levels as you panicked. Your hand immediately went to your head and you winced at the initial soreness, then you beelined back to the living room.
"I'll come get it!" You shouted, trying to keep your voice even. "Haha, silly me, I must've forgotten. I need to put it on silent if we're gonna watch a...movie."
All of the blood felt like it drained from your body as you rounded the corner and the sounds of Ginuwine's Pony echoed through the room. Clark was hunched over your phone staring in disbelief as the video you shamelessly knew by heart because you'd watched it many times flashed before his eyes.
It started off tame with shots of Superman as he smiled and waved at the citizens of Metropolis, having saved them for the hundredth time. Then it got progressively steamier. Superman's shoulders flexing beneath his suit as he punched through Metallo's suit of armor. A zoomed-in shot of his handsome face, strained as he caught a meteor that had almost impacted the city-center...complete with a filter of cartoonish love hearts. And finally best worst clip of all, a super cut, pun intended, of the way his thigh muscles looked when he was about to take off in flight.
"Oh my god," you said, mortified. "Oh my god."
"What is this?" Clark muttered, voice soft and emotionless.
"It's...it's not what it looks like!" You scrambled over to him, leaning over the arm of the couch so you could grab your phone from his hands. He pulled it away and you almost face-planted right into the cushions. "It...I hate when tiktok gives you the craziest videos."
Clark's thumb brushed over the screen and the next video started.
"Go get it," Superman's voice came from the speakers. "You have to let the other dogs have a chance too, buddy!" You knew what video that was too. One of Superman playing with his dog in Centennial Park, amidst the background sound from the Lego Movie. You were screaming internally as it played on the phone.
Blah Blah Blah, proper name, place name.
Clark scrolled a few more videos and it was a lot of the same, and then you realized that he wasn't just scrolling through your FYP. No, he'd clicked into your likes.
"Superman is just..." You cleared your voice, trying to sound less like an idiot who was coming up with excuses. "All over the internet. Can't help but like the videos of him, you know?"
You finally swallowed you pride and looked up at Clark.
You didn't know what you expected. Maybe he would look at you with betrayal in his eyes. Or maybe disgust. But he was laughing. Like actually laughing. Eyes lit up, cheeks round and flushed, dimples at their most dangerous--to you, at least--shoulders shaking.
"What?" He shook his head and just laughed harder, eyes watering as he fought to control it. You went from horror to disbelief. "Clark don't laugh at me! He's just so handsome, I don't know. I have eyes. As do, you know, a million other people on the internet sharing these videos. Come on, what do you expect?"
He shook his head again and fell against the back of the couch. He dropped the phone on the cushion beside him, where you snatched it greedily and finally locked the screen to shut it up. He then slid his hands beneath his glasses to cover his face as he continued chuckling.
"Clark!" You climbed onto the couch, practically in his lap as you shook him. "Clark! Come on, talk to me. It's not funny!"
"It's..." He got one word out--ONE--before he broke out into laughter again. "It's funnier than you realize, honey. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You sighed impatiently and crossed your arms over your chest, almost letting yourself get angry as he continued chuckling here and there, finally coming down from the euphoric high that he'd apparently been afflicted with.
"Ah," he sniffed and sat up straight, fixing his glasses. "I needed that laugh. That was a good one."
"Was it?" you asked petulantly.
"Come on, don't be a grumpy wump." His fingers found your sides and you squirmed as he tried to tickle you to get you to stop pouting. You weren't falling for it, though. "My girlfriend is a Superman Fangirl. It's hilarious."
"Hey, watch it," you exclaimed and pointed a finger in his face. "I am not a fangirl."
"Uh, based on how many videos I just flipped through? You absolutely are," he nodded. "How come you never ask me about my interviews with him if you love him so much?"
You groaned and grabbed one of the throw pillows on your couch so you could whack him with it.
"I don't love Superman!" You shouted, each word emphasized with a whack of the pillow against him. "I love you, you big idiot!"
"Not the way I ever imagined us saying we loved each other for the first time," he teased.
"It's just nice to look at videos sometimes and be...lighthearted and crushy."
"Oh and you don't get that from me?" He feigned a pout and then started laughing again as you hit him again.
"Of course I do!" He grabbed the pillow before you could hit him anymore and he pulled you into his lap. "I have the biggest crush on you, actually, but you know...it's different. You're already my boyfriend, I can't be giggling over you."
"What I'm hearing is that you want Superman to be your boyfriend so you can stop giggling over him."
You groaned again and fell forward, burying your head in his shoulder. Your voice was muffled as you grunted, "I hate you."
"First you love me, then you hate me," he continued to tease and you poked him in the side, getting him to squirm instead, fleetingly ticklish as he was. He sighed and hugged you closer to him. "Honey, can I tell you a secret?"
You turned your head slightly to look at him. "You have a secret crush on Hawkgirl and you have a folder full of pictures of her on your phone?"
"No, of course I...wait," he paused. "Do you have a folder full of pictures of Superman on your phone?"
"...no comment," you muttered and went back to smother yourself in his shoulder, but he pushed you away.
"No, stop that, it's ok." He reassured you, smile returning to his face, dimples right there mocking you with their cuteness. You huffed an annoyed sign and tried to stay outwardly cranky but you couldn't. "I get it, and like I said, it's funny. Funnier than you even realize."
"Yeah? Because it feels like I'm going to die of embarrassment," you told him matter-of-factly.
"I’m gonna tell you my secret because I think we've been together for long enough, and because I not only trust you, but I love you," he poked at your sides again, clearly trying to get a smile back to your face, as though his admission didn't do it on it's own. "And it isn't that I secretly like the Star Wars Holiday Special."
Your brows jumped as you stared at him judgmentally for a second.
"Open mindedness, ok?" He asked, although you weren't sure if he meant it about the Star Wars Holiday Special or whatever his other secret was. "I'm still Clark Kent, still your boyfriend."
"I know that," you nodded and then waited patiently.
And you weren't sure what you were expecting from him.
But it wasn't the fact that he reached up and slowly, hesitantly, pulled his glasses off.
Suddenly, mild-mannered Clark Kent was no longer sitting before you. Well, yeah it was him, but it wasn't just him. Your brain finally put two and two together where you'd seen that dimple before, as he seemingly transformed in front of you.
Except he didn't. Except he did. Except not at all.
"You...you're..." You weren't sure what to feel. Your face get hot as you went through a whole array of emotions. Embarrassment, attraction, disbelief and finally anger. Because he'd had the audacity laugh at you. "You're SUPERMAN?!"
Please don’t let fandom ruin something you love. Walk away and unfollow the fans and enjoy the thing by yourself, or find a limited circle of people who ignore the discourse, or get your irl friends into the thing and collectively ignore the Internet community, or blacklist from here to the moon if you need to and only ever scroll through your rarepair ship’s tag on AO3. But don’t let fandom distort a show or a movie or a book or a comic you used to love so badly that you can’t enjoy the original anymore. Please. It isn’t worth it.
a library of confusion @rosewaterandivy - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
