High School Sweethearts… Sort Of” - Superman/Clark Kent
[ Clark Kent / Superman x Reader ]
Everyone has that one high school crush they never forget. You were his, the cheer captain with the bright smile. Eleven years later, Superman saves you on live television, and suddenly Clark Kent is reliving Friday night lights all over again.
Everyone had that one high school crush. The person you could never quite forget. Maybe it was the classmate who always lent you a pencil, the senior who never noticed you, or the star quarterback who felt miles out of reach. School law. Some people never grew out of it.
Fifteen years later, people would come to the reunion still looking for them. Wondering what could have been.
For Clark Kent, that person was you.
Clark graduated from Smallville High eleven years ago, at eighteen. He still remembered the smell of cut grass on the football field, the endless Kansas sky, and the squeak of sneakers against the gymnasium floor. He remembered his friends from the AV club, the hours in the dim journalism room, the nervous quiet he carried in the halls.
But most of all, he remembered you.
Ms. Popular herself. Cheer captain. Bright smile, perfect laugh. The kind of girl who could walk into a room and have the whole place orbit around her. You said you were going to be a TV star someday, and no one doubted it. How could they? You seemed destined for it.
Your family’s farm wasn’t far from his. Wheat, cattle, corn — and your father made good money off it, enough that you always had nice clothes, a clean car. You were the girl everyone loved, the one parents whispered about — she’ll be famous someday, you wait.
You weren’t cruel, though. You’d smile at Clark when you passed him in the halls. Sometimes, after a football game, you’d pat him on the shoulder and tell him “good job.”
And Clark… Clark would go red all the way to the tips of his ears.
Because even though he stood on the football field, he wasn’t on the football team, not really. He sat on the bench, year after year, careful never to risk too much, never to let his “abilities” slip. Mr. Kent had made sure of that. No touchdowns, no glory.
According to Tommy H., the quarterback, and everyone else, Clark Kent didn’t stand a chance. Not with a bombshell like you. Not with the cheer captain. Not with the girl who was leaving Smallville behind the second graduation caps hit the ground.
So Clark did what he always did. He kept quiet.
At graduation, he sat behind you. He watched you beam with your friends, heard your mother sob happily in the crowd, and saw your father’s proud grin.
When it was over, you turned, smiling at him with that blinding sunshine of yours, and Clark managed to stammer out a soft, “Congratulations.”
It was the last thing he ever said to you.
And then you were gone.
Clark Kent had plenty of secrets. He grew into them, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. He became a man, a reporter, a hero. He wore glasses and smiles and hid in plain sight.
But every now and then, when he let his thoughts wander back to those endless Kansas fields and the old Smallville High gymnasium… he still thought of you.
The girl he couldn’t stop thinking about all these years later.
It had been eleven years since you graduated from Smallville High.
Back then, you left with stars in your eyes and your sights set high — Hollywood, Broadway, the bright lights of New York. You swore you’d be a star, the next Dolly Parton, a household name by twenty-five.
It hadn’t quite worked out that way.
The competition was brutal. There were dozens of girls who looked like you, sounded like you, maybe even wanted it more. You landed a few commercials, a catalog shoot, even an extra role or two. But it wasn’t the career you had imagined when you strutted across that stage in your graduation cap.
Your agent suggested another direction. “You’ve got presence,” he said. “Camera loves you. Why not news?”
So you took the leap.
Now, eleven years later, you weren’t a movie star — but you were something. A recognizable face on Metropolis News Channel 1. A reporter with a reputation for her pretty smile, soft voice, and stubborn tendency to plant herself right where the action was.
You chased the biggest stories, no matter how dangerous. You’d been shoved by rioters, drenched in rainstorms, nearly flattened by a falling lamppost. You never got your exclusive with Superman, though god knows you tried, but you were always there. On scene. First with the mic.
It had become something of a running joke with the crew. You were always the first one to dash toward the blue-and-red blur with your microphone extended, calling out breathless questions. And you were always ignored. Superman never stopped, never even looked your way. You could see him in the background of your reels sometimes, just a streak of cape and muscle flying past, and your coworkers would tease you for it.
“Your boyfriend’s playing hard to get again,” they’d say, and you’d roll your eyes, laughing, but a small part of you burned with frustration.
It wasn’t the life you planned, but it was a good one. People knew your name. You never had to worry about your rent. You laughed with the crew in the studio after long shifts. And sometimes, late at night, you wondered: if the chance to audition again came…would you even want it anymore?
“Are we rolling?” you asked, tightening your grip on the microphone as you smoothed your hair back.
Your cameraman gave you a thumbs-up, his face pale as rubble shook the ground beneath you. He tried not to look at the monstrous figure wreaking havoc just yards away, probably because if he did, he’d bolt.
You pasted on your brightest smile. “Hello, Metropolis! This is [Name], reporting live from Fifth Avenue, where a surprise attack has just unfolded!”
A boulder the size of a sedan crashed into the street behind you, the sound rattling your teeth. You didn’t flinch, not on camera.
“As always,” you continued, voice steady, “we are first on the scene—”
The words cut off as you and the cameraman ducked instinctively. A car spun through the air above your heads, slamming into a lamppost and crumpling like foil.
You popped back up a second later, brushing dust from your sleeve, still smiling into the lens. “—and as you can see, the attack is still very much in progress.”
Behind you, the sky was a blur of blue and red, cape snapping in the wind.
“But our very own Superman,” you said, voice catching just slightly, “is doing a wonderful job holding the line.”
Your cameraman muttered under his breath, “You’re insane,” as he steadied the shot.
But you didn’t move. You adjusted your mic, eyes tracking the blur of motion. Superman darted forward, intercepting another chunk of falling concrete before it could crush a bus full of terrified commuters. You moved quickly with your cameraman, repositioning closer to the action, giving the audience at home a ringside seat to the chaos.
“Superman has just pulled four civilians from the wreckage of an overturned taxi,” you reported breathlessly, walking backward as you spoke, the camera following you. “Despite heavy damage to the block, no fatalities have yet been reported. Emergency crews are on route, but until then, Superman is the only thing standing between Metropolis and disaster.”
The ground trembled as another explosion rocked the avenue. You ducked instinctively, but when you straightened, you caught him again, cape flashing, body colliding with the villain, sending shockwaves rippling through the air.
The words died on your tongue.
You didn’t notice the massive chunk of concrete spiraling end over end toward you until it was already too late. Your cameraman shouted, throwing his arm up uselessly, and your breath caught in your throat—
A shadow fell over you.
And then impact.
The slab smashed against something solid just inches behind you, splintering into harmless rubble that clattered across the ground. The shockwave never touched you. Because floating there, broad shoulders squared, cape falling heavy around him, was Superman himself. The debris had struck his back and crumbled like chalk against steel.
You blinked up at him, stunned, your mic trembling in your hand. He didn’t even glance at the wreckage — his gaze was fixed on you, sharp, unyielding, voice low and edged with disapproval.
“What are you doing?”
You froze. The mic nearly slipped from your fingers.
He looked bigger up close, broader, radiating a power that made the air hum around him.
And then his gaze snagged on you.
For just a moment, his stern expression faltered. His eyes widened.
“[Name]?” he breathed.
Your heart skipped. Superman knew your name?
You blinked, and then — because live television had never scared you, you grinned at the camera and quipped, “Well look at that, Metropolis! Superman knows my name. Guess I really am famous now.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but bit it back, rolling his eyes skyward instead. Before you could say another word, his arm slid firmly around your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. With his other arm, he snagged your shrieking cameraman and the heavy equipment like it was made of cardboard.
“Wait-hey! We’re still rolling!” you protested as the ground dropped away beneath you. The wind whipped your hair, your mic still clutched in your hand.
In seconds, he set you both down at the far end of the street, beyond the police barricades. The crowd gasped, phones flashing as you stumbled onto solid ground. Superman hovered above you, cape billowing, eyes sharp again.
“Stay away from the danger zone,” he ordered firmly. “You make it harder for me to work.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already turning. Panic flared. “Wait! Can I get an interview after?” you shouted, lifting your mic toward the sky.
For a heartbeat, you thought he’d ignore you.
Then, mid-flight, his voice carried back over the crowd, rich and low: “Maybe!”
The cheers of the bystanders drowned out your laugh, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you adjusted your hair, turning back to your wide-eyed cameraman.
“Please tell me you got that on tape.”
Your cameraman stared at you, pale and shaking, clutching the camera like his life depended on it. Slowly, he nodded.
“Oh,” you said, breath hitching with giddy disbelief, “this is gonna make the highlight reel.”
The battle was over.
The villain was cuffed and groaning in the custody of the Metropolis SCU. Fire crews were dousing the last of the flames, smoke curling into the morning sky. The streets were chaos, crushed cars, shattered glass, civilians trickling out from hiding places with wide eyes.
And Superman hovered above it all, cape heavy with soot, eyes sweeping the crowd.
He wasn’t sure if he’d actually give that interview you shouted for — truth be told, interviews were dangerous, distracting, and complicated. But still…he found himself scanning for you. Not the crowd of reporters clawing for attention at the barricade, screaming his name into microphones, cameras flashing like lightning. Not the news vans lined bumper to bumper down the avenue.
You.
And suddenly, he understood why he probably hadn’t noticed you before. Among this sea of lenses and shouting, you’d have been just another face, another voice calling his name. But now—
“Superman!”
His head snapped toward the sound.
And there you were.
Not at the barricades. Not wedged between the dozens of elbows and microphones. No — you’d somehow slipped behind the protective gate, standing tall atop a toppled-over car, balancing like you belonged there. Hair windswept, eyes bright, microphone still clutched in one hand. You weren’t shouting like the others. You just were. And somehow, that was louder than all of it.
He sighed, but the corner of his mouth curved before he could stop it. Of course it would be you.
He drifted toward you, footsteps landing lightly on the cracked asphalt as the crowd roared behind him. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks, “Superman! Superman, one question! Over here! Please, just one statement!” but he only saw you.
“Good job,” you said, smiling up at him like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And suddenly, Clark wasn’t standing in the rubble of Metropolis anymore. He was seventeen again. On the football field in Kansas. You were in your cheer uniform, sunlight bouncing off your hair as you leaned over the railing, giving him that exact same smile. “Good job, Kent!” you’d said back then, clapping him on the back after a game he barely played in.
For the first time all day, Clark felt warm.
The crowd noise dulled as you tilted the mic toward him, grinning like you had the upper hand.
“So,” you said, balancing on the crumpled car, “how about that interview?”
Superman’s jaw flexed. He meant to brush you off, meant to give you the usual half-answer that never promised anything, but the words slipped out before he could catch them.
“I’m free tomorrow.”
Your brows lifted in delight, lips parting in surprise. “Tomorrow?”
His stomach dropped. Too late to take it back. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
You smiled wider, teeth flashing. “And how exactly will I find you, Superman? Do I just…shout into the sky?”
He exhaled, trying to play it cool. “Give my friend Clark Kent a call. He’ll put us in touch.” The words came out too quickly, too casual, but he tried to cover it with a faint shrug. “He’s the guy that usually interviews me.”
Your eyes lit up instantly. “Clark Kent!?”
He stiffened, blinking as if he’d been struck. “You…know him?”
“Of course I know him!” you said happily. “We went to high school together! Smallville, class of—well, I won’t date myself. But yeah. Clark’s the sweetest.”
His heart nearly stopped.
You were beaming now, eyes faraway with nostalgia. “I had the fattest crush on him back then. Everyone thought I’d move away and forget all about Smallville, but…” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’ve actually been wanting to reach out. Catch up, you know?”
Clark’s ears rang. He was so close to giving himself away then and there, tearing off the glasses he wasn’t even wearing in the moment, shouting it’s me. Instead, he swallowed hard and forced his voice to stay even.
“Well,” he said, managing a small, sheepish smile, “I’m happy to reconnect you two.”
It sounded smooth enough, but inside he was screaming.
Because all these years later, after hiding, after doubting, after convincing himself you’d never thought twice about him, here you were, telling Superman of all people that Clark Kent had once been your high school crush.
Score.
It was late evening in Smallville when Clark asked you to go for a drive. The air was warm, cicadas buzzing in the trees, and the fields rolled endlessly under the fading light. He hadn’t told you where you were headed, only smiled that nervous, boyish smile as he guided the truck down the familiar dirt road.
When he parked, you realized exactly where you were.
The high school football field stretched before you, bleachers a little rusted now, grass patchy in spots. The goalposts still stood tall against the darkening sky, and for a second you swore you could almost hear the faint echo of cheers and the marching band.
“Clark,” you said softly, stepping out of the truck. “The field.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, following you toward the fifty-yard line. “Yeah. I thought…maybe it was fitting.”
“Fitting?”
He chuckled nervously. “It’s where you always told me ‘good job,’ even when I hardly played. You were the one who decorated my locker during spirit week. You were the only cheerleader who ever really noticed me. And I think about that all the time...that smile, the way you made me feel like I mattered.”
You blinked at him, your heart swelling.
And then Clark Kent, the boy you’d once pined for and the man you loved now, dropped to one knee in the middle of the field. The empty bleachers, the scent of cut grass, the faint glow of the stadium lights — it all wrapped around the two of you like the past had been waiting for this.
“[Name],” he said, voice steady but his hands trembling, “I’ve loved you for longer than I can admit. Will you marry me?”
You gasped, tears springing to your eyes as laughter bubbled out of you. “Clark Kent—you absolute sap—YES!”
He slipped the ring onto your finger, and you tackled him before he could stand, the two of you collapsing into the grass, laughing and kissing like teenagers who had just been given a second chance.
Later, you drove back to the farms.
The porch lights glowed warm against the twilight, and the smell of cinnamon and peaches greeted you before you even made it through the door. Martha had baked pies, two, just in case one wasn’t enough and your mom arrived with a basket of wine bottles that she declared were “absolutely worth opening tonight.” By the time everyone was seated around the Kent table, it was a chorus of voices, glasses clinking, chairs scraping against the old floorboards.
Stories flowed as easily as the wine. Your dad teased Clark about his “clean” football jersey back in the day, while Jonathan proudly retold the tale of Clark’s very first tractor job like it was a superhero feat of its own. Martha and your mom couldn’t stop gushing, trading hugs across the table until you swore they might fuse into one person.
And through it all, Clark never let go of your hand. His thumb traced absent circles over your ring, his eyes darting to it as if he needed constant reassurance it was real. Every time you caught him staring, you gave his hand a squeeze, and he’d smile at you like no one else existed in the room.
When the first toast came, you clinked your glass against his, grinning ear to ear. “So,” you teased, “does this make us high school sweethearts now?”
Clark ducked his head, cheeks pink, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s…not how it works.”
“Sure it is,” you nudged, bumping your shoulder into his. “You’re my quarterback, Kent.”
That made him laugh, soft and shy, the kind of laugh that warmed the table more than the wine ever could.
Dessert came next: peach pie, still warm from the oven, and cobbler that your mom insisted was “just a little burnt, but perfect with ice cream.” Everyone dug in with the kind of appetite only farm families could muster, forks clinking, laughter spilling.
It was then, while Clark was mid-bite, that you leaned toward him with a grin, lowering your voice to a stage whisper that your parents couldn’t not overhear.
“Oh! We have to invite Superman to the wedding. I mean, he was our matchmaker.”
Clark froze. Utterly. Mid-bite, fork still hovering in the air.
Then he coughed, nearly choking on the mouthful of pie, and fumbled for his napkin. Both families turned to look at him curiously as his ears flushed bright red.
“Superman?” Jonathan echoed, amused. Looking over at his wife knowingly “Now that would be some guest list.”
Your mom perked up, eyes gleaming. “Oh! Could you imagine the photos? We’d make every magazine in Kansas.”
"Whose superman again?" asked your father
You laughed, leaning back in your chair, clearly entertained by the idea. “Well, it’s true! If it wasn’t for him allowing me an interview, Clark and I might never have reconnected. He’s practically our cupid.”
Clark pressed his napkin to his mouth, looking like a man trying to hide in plain sight. He set his fork down carefully, too carefully, and gave you a sheepish, helpless little smile.
“Honey,” he said, voice low but carrying just enough weight to hush the room. His eyes flicked nervously between your parents, his parents, and then back to you. “There’s…something I need to tell you.”
The table went quiet. Even the clock ticking in the hall seemed to stop.
If he was going to tell you, he might as well tell your parents too. Because how else would he explain, a few years from now, when your kids started flying around the barn loft or shooting laser beams through the back fence?
You blinked at him, eyebrows raised, lips quirking with a half-smile. “…Clark?”
And suddenly, he looked exactly like the boy you remembered, flustered, earnest, heart on his sleeve, only now he had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
“Superman’s already going to be at the wedding,” he said carefully.
You tilted your head. “Oh? You invited him?”
The whole table leaned in, waiting for his answer.
Clark exhaled. His hand found yours under the table, squeezing tight. “No,” he said softly, almost sheepishly. “I am him.”
For a beat, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then your mother let out a squeak, blinked twice, and fainted clean out of her chair.
Martha was quick to scoop your mother upright, guiding her back into the chair and pressing a cold towel gently to her forehead. “Deep breaths, sweetheart,” she said kindly
Clark was still stiff as a fence post, eyes flicking nervously between your family, worried maybe they'd disapprove suddenly. He opened his mouth to try again, but you cut him off with a grin.
“Clark,” you said sweetly, leaning into him. “I already knew.”
His head whipped toward you so fast you thought he might give himself whiplash. “You knew!?”
You shrugged, sipping your wine like it was nothing. “Yeah. I figured it out after a while.”
“After a while?” His voice cracked, his ears turning bright red. “How long have you—”
“Oh, months.” You waved your free hand casually, trying not to laugh at his scandalized expression. “Honestly, it wasn’t hard. I know you too well. Besides I'm a news reporter”
You smirked, leaning over to poke Clark in the chest. “I just liked seeing you sweat.”
Clark groaned, burying his face in his hand. “Unbelievable…”
But he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips, not when you were beaming at him like that.
