if you're too shy (let me know)
pairing: clark kent x reader—superman x reader
summary: clark kent is the definition of a southern gentlemen, however that also means he isn’t accustomed to the fast-pace dating scene of metropolis. good thing you’re there to help him slow down.
word count: 4.3k
extra: not beta read, we die like real men. happy valentines to everyone !!
series masterlist — main masterlist
you meet clark kent on a tuesday.
tuesdays are never dramatic. they are beige days. unremarkable days. days that taste like burnt coffee and stale printer ink.
so of course, that’s when he happens.
you’re halfway through arguing with perry over column space—gesturing with a pen like it’s a weapon—when you notice a presence beside you. not looming, exactly. he never looms. clark kent occupies space like he’s apologizing for it.
“um,” he says softly, like he’s interrupting a prayer. “ma’am—uh—you dropped your notebook.”
you turn, still fueled by rage-induced adrenaline, and find him holding the corner of your battered reporter’s notebook with two careful fingers, like it might explode if mishandled.
he’s tall. taller than tall. broad-shouldered in a way that looks accidental, like someone stacked too many good traits onto one person and then forgot to adjust the humility dial.
his tie is slightly crooked, and glasses sit a fraction too low. his posture suggests he’s constantly trying to fold himself smaller.
you grin. “wow. a gentleman with an accent? don’t let the rest of the bullpen hear, country. you’ll ruin your reputation before you even get it.”
he flushes instantly.
it’s impressive, honestly. you’ve seen politicians less reactive.
“oh—no, i—um. it’s nothing,” he says, and ducks his head, eyes flickering anywhere but your face.
you take the notebook from him. your fingers brush his, and he freezes.
you clock it immediately. the stiffness. the hesitation. the way his breath seems to stutter.
interesting.
“thanks, country,” you say brightly. “you just saved democracy. or at least my grocery list.”
he lets out a small, startled laugh, like he didn’t expect his body to make that sound.
and just like that, the dynamic is set.
you’re everything he isn’t.
you’re loud in the newsroom. not obnoxious—just alive. you talk with your hands. you argue like it’s a sport. you laugh like it’s a dare. you’re confident, unapologetic, and allergic to shrinking.
clark, meanwhile, writes like he’s trying not to be noticed. his articles are devastatingly precise. humane. kind. brutally honest in a way that never feels cruel.
he never raises his voice. he never interrupts. he never makes a scene.
and yet—somehow—you keep ending up assigned to the same stories.
“partner up,” perry orders one morning, waving his hands. “kent, you handle background. you—” he points at you, “—bring the heat.”
clark nods immediately. “yes, sir.”
you flash him a grin. “ready to bring the heat, smallville?”
he nearly drops his pen.
“i’m—not—uh—” he clears his throat. “yeah. of course.” he sounds like he’s bracing for impact.
which, honestly, is fair.
you notice things.
you notice how clark listens to you like you’re the only sound in the room. you notice how he laughs quietly at your jokes, even when you’re pretty sure they weren’t that funny. you notice how he turns red when you stand too close. you notice how he never quite meets your eyes when the conversation turns personal.
and, maybe most interestingly, you notice how careful he is with you.
not in a patronizing way. not in a fragile way.
more like he’s holding something precious he doesn’t believe belongs to him.
you’re working late one night, the newsroom dim and humming with that low electric fatigue that settles in after midnight.
clark sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. he looks more like himself this way, slightly less put together, slightly more real.
“you’re staring,” you mutter without looking up.
his pencil stops moving. “i—sorry. i wasn’t—” he falters, then admits softly, “you just… work very intensely.”
you glance up, smirking. “is that a complaint?”
“no!” he says quickly. “no, not at all, it’s—um—it’s impressive.”
that word lands heavier than it should.
you lean back in your chair, studying him. “clark kent, are you flirting with me?”
he goes scarlet.
“i—what? no. i wouldn’t—i don’t—” he looks like he might short-circuit. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”
you laugh. “relax. i’m teasing. mostly.”
he tries to smile. it comes out crooked, shy, sincere.
you realize something then.
he’s not oblivious, he’s terrified.
there’s a rhythm to the way you work together.
you chase leads. he verifies facts.
you kick down doors. he makes sure no one gets hurt in the process.
you call sources at reckless hours. he sends follow-up emails that somehow sound like handwritten letters.
sometimes, your leg bumps his under the conference table, and he stiffens like he’s been struck by lightning. sometimes, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. sometimes, you wonder what would happen if you asked him, point-blank, what he feels.
you don’t.
not because you’re scared.
but because it’s… fun. the tension. the slow burn. the way he seems to hover at the edge of saying something and never quite steps over the line.
one evening, after a long assignment, you end up walking out together.
metropolis hums around you. neon. sirens. wind curling down the streets.
“you ever get tired of this?” you ask him, gesturing at the city. “the noise. the chaos. the pressure?”
he thinks for a moment. “no,” he says quietly. “it reminds me that people matter.”
you blink at him.
god, he’s earnest.
“that might be the most clark kent answer in history,” you say, smiling.
he chuckles softly. “and is that… bad?”
“no,” you hum. “it’s refreshing.”
there’s a beat.
you catch him glancing at you, then looking away again like it physically pains him to hold eye contact.
“you know,” you say casually, “most people would’ve made a move by now.”
his heart stutters so hard you swear you can see it.
“a move?” he echoes.
you tilt your head. “yeah, you know coffee? dinner? a risky workplace flirtation? you’ve had plenty of openings.”
he swallows. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he admits. “or assume anything.”
you soften despite yourself. “that’s considerate,” you say gently. “but you’re allowed to want things, clark.”
he looks at you like that sentence is brand new. “i do,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.
your breath catches.
he looks horrified at his own honesty.
“i mean—i—what i meant was—” he stumbles, face burning. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—”
you step a little closer.
“hey,” you say quietly. “if you’re too shy… you can just say so.”
his eyes flicker up to meet yours for half a second longer than usual.
“i’m… working on it,” he says.
and something about the way he says it makes your chest feel too full.
later that night, lying in bed, you think about clark kent.
the way his voice softens when he talks to you. the way he holds doors open like it’s a sacred duty. the way he looks like he’s constantly trying not to take up space, despite being physically incapable of doing anything else.
you wonder what it would take to make him brave. you wonder if he’s thinking about you too. you suspect he is.
he’s not very good at hiding it.
you start noticing how close clark kent stands to you.
not close close. never anything bold. never anything that could be called intentional. but closer than he stands to anyone else. close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when you lean over a document together. close enough that your elbow brushes his sleeve more often than coincidence would allow.
he always freezes when it happens.
not like he’s offended.
more like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t freeze.
you find that strangely compelling.
the story that really bonds you happens in the rain.
a whistleblower. corporate corruption; the kind of thing that makes people nervous, that makes phones go silent, that makes editors suddenly careful.
you and clark spend days chasing leads, cross-referencing financial trails, knocking on doors that open only a crack.
you work like a storm. he works like a steady current.
together, you’re dangerous.
late one night, soaked from a sudden downpour, you duck under the overhang outside the daily planet. your jacket is damp, hair frizzing, pulse still buzzing from adrenaline.
clark stands beside you, rain clinging to the shoulders of his coat.
“you okay?” he asks quietly.
you exhale a breath that feels like steam. “exhausted, wired... ready to flip a table.”
he smiles, soft and private. “you always look like that right before you publish something incredible,” he says.
you blink. “that’s oddly specific.”
“i pay attention,” he says before he seems to realize how that sounds.
he goes red.
you laugh, gentler than usual. “you’re allowed to look, clark.”
“i know,” he says. then, quieter, “i just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
you tilt your head. “and if i told you i wasn’t?”
he looks at you. really looks at you.
for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look away.
rain rattles against the pavement. the city hums. the world keeps moving, oblivious to the small, electric moment happening between you.
“i’d still be careful,” he says.
something in your chest tightens.
“why?”
“because,” he says, voice barely above the rain, “i care what you think.”
the words hang there.
you feel them settle under your ribs.
you start texting more.
at first it’s strictly work. links, deadlines, notes.
then it’s memes. headlines that make no sense. a blurry photo of a terrible vending machine dinner.
clark replies faster than he probably should.
sometimes his responses are overly formal. sometimes they’re unexpectedly dry. occasionally, he makes a joke so quiet and sharp you wonder how many people miss it.
late one night, you send: ‘ur still up?’
a pause. ‘yes. i couldn’t sleep.’
you consider your next message, then type: ‘me neither. wanna admit why?’
three dots appear. disappear. reappear. ‘because i keep replaying conversations in my head.’
your breath hitches. ‘with who?’ though you already know.
a longer pause. ‘you.’
you stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot. ‘u know u can just say things the first time, right?’
a moment later: ‘i’m afraid i’ll say the wrong thing.’
you type: ‘try me.’
another pause. this one stretches.
Finally: ‘i like you. i just don’t always know how to exist near you without feeling like i’m doing something wrong.
your heart stumbles.
you type slowly this time. ‘you’re not doing anything wrong. you’re just being you.’
three dots. ‘that’s what scares me.’
in person, it gets harder.
you catch him glancing at you when you laugh. when you argue. when you concentrate so hard your tongue peeks out between your teeth.
once, you lean over his desk to grab a file, and your shoulder brushes his chest.
he inhales like the air just vanished.
you pull back, studying him. “clark?”
he swallows. “yes?”
“you okay?”
“yes ma’am,” he says too quickly.
you step closer, lowering your voice. “you don’t have to flinch every time i get near you.”
“i’m not flinching,” he says, but it sounds like a confession.
you soften. “you look like you think i’m going to disappear.”
he meets your gaze, tentative and open. “sometimes,” he admits, “it feels like you belong to a world that moves faster than i do.”
you smile gently. “so keep up.”
“i’m trying,” he murmurs.
there’s a night when the power flickers in the newsroom.
backup generators hum. screens glow. outside, thunder mutters like distant applause.
you’re both still working. of course you are.
you bring him coffee. he thanks you like you’ve given him something sacred.
you sit on the edge of his desk.
“so,” you say lightly, “why haven’t you asked me out yet?”
he nearly chokes. “i—i didn’t think—”
“you didn’t think i’d say yes?”
“i didn’t think it was appropriate,” he says carefully. “or fair. or—”
you swing your legs slightly. “clark. look at me.”
he hesitates. then he does.
you hold his gaze, refusing to let him look away.
“do you want to ask me out?” you ask.
he breathes in, slow and controlled. “yes,”
you grin. “then ask.”
he pauses. looks terrified. then, quietly, honestly: “would you… like to get dinner with me sometime?”
there’s nothing flashy about it. nothing smooth. no bravado.
it’s perfect.
“i would,” you smile. “very much.”
his relief is immediate and almost heartbreaking.
he smiles like he’s been given permission to breathe.
later, as you pack up to leave, he walks beside you again.
the city feels different now. brighter. expectant.
at the corner, you stop.
“hey,” you say softly.
he turns to you.
“if you ever feel too shy,” you say, “you can let me know.”
he smiles, warm and bashful and real. “and if i do?”
“then i’ll meet you halfway.”
his voice is steady when he replies, “i think… i’d like that.”
clark kent treats your first date like it’s a diplomatic summit.
he arrives early. of course he does. he’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s been pressed within an inch of its life, tie straightened three times too many, hair just slightly more tamed than usual.
you show up five minutes late on purpose, because you refuse to let him think this is an interview.
when he sees you, his breath stutters like he forgot how lungs work.
“you look… incredible,” he says, immediately flustered by the fact that he said it out loud.
you grin. “you clean up like a man trying very hard not to cause property damage.”
he laughs, relieved.
the restaurant is warm and dim and humming with soft conversation. candlelight glows between you. every little sound feels louder than it should—the clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices, the quiet hum of the city outside.
clark sits across from you, posture careful, hands folded like he’s afraid to knock something over.
you rest your chin in your hand. “you always this nervous smallville?”
he considers lying. he doesn’t.
“yes,” he says simply. “around you.”
your chest tightens. “that’s not exactly a reason to be afraid,” you say more gently.
“i know,” he says. “but it feels… important to get this right.”
“you don’t need to get it right,” you say. “you just need to get it honest.”
his eyes lift to yours. “okay,” he says quietly. “honest, then.”
conversation comes easily, which almost feels unfair given how tense the air between you is.
you talk about work. about your childhood. about the first stories that made you want to chase stories of your own.
clark listens like every word is something he intends to keep.
when you talk about ambition, he watches you with something like awe. when you talk about fear, he watches you with something like devotion.
at some point, you realize his knee is almost touching yours under the table.
not quite, but close enough to feel the heat.
you wonder if he notices. you suspect he notices everything.
after dinner, you walk.
metropolis at night feels like a living thing. lights pulsing, trains roaring, wind tugging at coats and hair.
clark keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but alert, like he’s constantly bracing for something.
“you know,” you say lightly, “you’re allowed to flirt.”
he nearly trips. “i—i don’t know how,” he admits.
you step a little closer. “try.”
he thinks for a long second. “you… um… make the world feel louder,” he says. “in a good way.”
you stop walking.
turn to face him.
“that might be the most clark kent flirtation i’ve ever heard,” you say softly.
he blushes, but he doesn’t look away this time. “i meant it,” he says.
you hold his gaze.
for once, he holds yours back.
you end up on a quiet street corner, traffic distant, the city’s noise softened into a low, steady hum.
the moment stretches.
you can feel it pulling tight between you.
“so,” you say quietly, “is this the part where you overthink everything?”
he smiles ruefully. “usually.”
“and?”
“i’m trying not to.”
your heart thrums.
he looks at you like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff.
“i’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he admits.
“do what?” you whisper.
he hesitates. then steps closer.
not rushing. not overwhelming. just enough to close the space he’s been so afraid to claim.
his voice is low. “be brave.”
you tilt your head slightly, giving him the opening without forcing him to take it.
his hand lifts, hovering like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed.
“may i?” he asks.
your pulse spikes.
“yes,” you say.
his fingers brush your cheek. he looks like he might fall apart.
slowly, carefully, he leans in.
the kiss is soft.
not urgent. not hungry.
just warm and tentative and full of everything he hasn’t known how to say.
when he pulls back, he looks stunned by his own courage.
you smile. “well,” you murmur, “you survived.”
he lets out a breathless laugh. “barely.”
later, actually walking you home instead of wandering aimlessly, he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize the fact that this is real.
at your door, he hesitates again.
“thank you,” he says. “for… being patient with me.”
you step closer.
“clark,” you say gently, “if you’re too shy—”
he smiles. “—i’ll let you know,” he finishes.
“exactly.”
he leans in and presses another soft kiss to your cheek this time, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
as he walks away, you watch him go, heart buzzing.
you know this is only the beginning.
he’s still holding back; still keeping secrets, still afraid of taking up space.
and you’re already wondering what will happen when he finally stops.
dating clark kent feels like discovering a hidden room in a familiar building.
everything is quieter. softer. more deliberate.
he opens doors for you. walks on the street-side of the sidewalk. remembers the exact way you take your coffee, the story you once mentioned in passing, the song you hummed absentmindedly while fact-checking.
he never rushes you. he never assumes.
and yet, the longer this goes on, the more it feels like he’s holding back something enormous.
you notice it in the pauses.
in the way he sometimes goes still when sirens echo in the distance. in the way his jaw tightens when the news mentions disasters, crime, people in danger. in the way he sometimes looks at the sky like he’s listening for something only he can hear.
once, in the middle of a conversation, he just… vanishes.
you blink, check the hallway and the stairwell.
thirty seconds later, he returns, breath barely altered.
“everything okay?” you ask.
“yes,” he says too quickly. “i just… needed a moment.”
you believe him. you also know there’s more to it.
the feelings deepen anyway.
you sit on the newsroom roof one evening, city lights spilling out below you like stars that forgot how to behave.
clark brings takeout. you bring sarcasm.
“you ever think about the future?” you ask, leaning back on your hands.
he follows your gaze across the skyline.
“all the time,” he says.
“does it scare you?”
“only when i think about losing people,” he admits.
you glance at him. “people like me?”
his breath catches.
“yes,” he says without hesitation.
the honesty knocks the air from your lungs. you smile to hide it. “smallville, you’re getting bolder.”
“only because you make me feel like i’m allowed to be,” he says.
you almost call him out on it.
on the strange disappearances. on the impossible timing. on the strength he pretends not to have when he lifts things that should strain him.
but you don’t.
not because you don’t notice. because you trust him.
and because part of you wants to see if he’ll tell you on his own.
one night, the tension spikes.
a major story breaks. chaos, sirens, helicopters. the newsroom turns into a battlefield of ringing phones and shouted updates.
you’re chasing leads when the building shudders.
distant explosions. screams somewhere outside.
you feel fear curl in your stomach.
before you can even turn, clark is at your side.
“stay here,” he says urgently.
you grab his sleeve. “clark—”
his eyes lock onto yours, blazing with emotion he can’t quite hide. “i promise,” he says, voice low and steady, “i will come back.”
then he’s gone.
minutes pass. then more.
your heart hammers against your ribs.
when he finally returns, his hair is wind-tossed, his glasses slightly askew, suit rumpled in a way that makes no sense.
“you’re okay,” you breathe.
“yes,” he says softly.
but he looks like someone who just carried the weight of the world.
later, when the adrenaline ebbs, you corner him near the empty copy room.
“clark,” you say quietly, “what aren’t you telling me?”
he stiffens.
“i’m not—”
“you disappear. you come back shaken. you act like the city’s pain is personal,” you press gently. “i’m not asking to accuse you. i’m asking because i care.”
he looks like he might break.
“i want to tell you,” he admits.
“then do it.”
he hesitates, voice trembling. “i’m afraid if i do… you’ll see me differently.”
you step closer.
“clark kent,” you say softly, “i already see you differently. that’s the point.”
his eyes shine with emotion he rarely lets surface. “you make me want to be honest,” he whispers.
“then be honest.”
he almost does.
you can feel it—right there, hovering on his tongue.
but fear wins.
“soon,” he says instead. “i promise.”
you nod.
“soon,” you echo.
the romance deepens anyway.
soft kisses at crosswalks. hands brushing in elevators. late-night phone calls where his voice sounds lower, more unguarded.
once, half-asleep, he murmurs, “you deserve someone brave.”
you smile into the dark.
“then keep practicing,” you whisper.
you don’t find out on a quiet day. of course you don’t.
you find out on a day when the sky fractures.
a crisis erupts downtown—panic, collapsing scaffolding, screaming sirens, people flooding the streets in fear. the newsroom explodes into motion, and so do you.
you grab your coat, your phone, and your resolve.
and then you realize clark is gone.
again.
you don’t think. you just move.
outside, wind howls between buildings, carrying dust and debris. emergency crews shout over one another. somewhere above, something massive groans under strain.
you push through the crowd, heart racing.
“clark?” you breathe, like the city might answer.
and then,
a shockwave.
the world lurches. people scream. you stumble backward as part of a structure gives way overhead.
you brace for impact.
it never comes.
instead, arms catch you mid-fall. strong, unyielding, impossible.
you gasp as you’re lifted effortlessly out of harm’s way.
you look up.
clark.
not hunched. not hiding. not shrinking.
he stands full-height, coat torn at the shoulder, tie gone, the left frame of his glasses shattered. his face is tilted away, but you could recognize that tie anywhere—the one martha bought for him when he first got hired at the planet, the tie you used to tease him for. wind presses against him like it means nothing.
his face is bare of pretense. his looks… unmasked.
“clark?” you whisper.
he looks at you with something like fear and relief and love tangled together. “i’m sorry,” he says softly.
behind him, metal groans and settles. sirens wail. people stare.
you stare back at him.
and suddenly, everything makes sense.
the disappearances. the timing. the restraint. the weight he carries like it’s a duty carved into his bones.
“you’re—” your voice trembles. “you’re him.”
he doesn’t pretend not to understand. “yeah,” he says.
you laugh once, breathless and stunned.
“of course you are,” you murmur. “clark kent, mild-mannered reporter, secretly the literal impossible.”
he winces like he deserves that.
“i wanted to tell you,” he says. “but can we talk about this later, baby? please?”
“what’s there to talk about?”
“i have to much to tell you, i promise. i just… i was afraid.”
you search his face.
“afraid of what?” you ask quietly.
“of losing you,” he admits. “of you thinking everything about me was a lie.”
your chest tightens. “you idiot,” you whisper, voice thick. “the only thing that would’ve hurt is you thinking i couldn’t handle the truth.”
he looks at you like that sentence might shatter him.
later, when the city settles and the adrenaline fades, you sit with him on a quiet rooftop.
the skyline stretches around you like a held breath.
he stands at the edge, wind tugging at his hair, looking like a man who has carried too much for too long.
“i never wanted to deceive you,” he says. “clark kent is still me. i just… didn’t know how to be both with you.”
you step closer. “you’ve always been both,” you say. “you’re gentle. you’re kind. you’re awkward. you’re brave. you’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing.”
a faint smile flickers over his face.
“and i like all of that,” you add.
he turns to you fully, eyes bright with emotion.
“you’re not afraid?” he asks.
you shake your head.
“i’m not afraid of you,” you say. “i’m afraid for you.”
he exhales shakily.
“i’ve wanted to be honest with you for so long,” he admits. “but i didn’t think i deserved someone who could see all of this and still stay.”
you reach for him, resting a hand over his heart.
“you don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you say softly. “that’s my call.”
he laughs quietly, teary and relieved.
“you’re incredible,” he murmurs.
you tilt your head. “and you’re still too shy,” you tease gently. “even when you can literally lift a building.”
he smiles more fully now. “i’m braver with you,” he says. “you make me feel like i’m allowed to want things.”
“good,” you say. “because i want you.”
the words feel like stepping into open air.
he looks stunned. then certain. then impossibly tender.
he cups your face and kisses you like he’s finally stopped holding back.
not rough. not consuming.
just honest.
like everything else he’s finally letting himself be.
