You're curled under the covers, screen glowing in your face, finger mid-scroll. Clark shifts beside you, already in his usual sleeping position: one arm tucked under his head, the other reaching for you blindly like a sleepy sea creature.
"Baby," he mumbles, voice low and warm from sleep. "Put the phone down."
"In a sec," you murmur. "Just one more thing."
“Mhm.” He doesn’t believe you. He never does.
Instead of arguing, he does what he always does — rolls over slowly and wraps himself around you like a human weighted blanket. Big chest pressed to your back. One leg thrown over yours. A soft kiss behind your ear.
“Five more minutes,” you promise.
Clark lets out the smallest dramatic sigh. “That’s what you said twelve scrolls ago.”
You snort. “Are you counting now?”
“Yes,” he says. “Because I’m being ignored. Neglected. Replaced by a tiny glowing rectangle.”
He nuzzles into your neck like a needy puppy. “I’m cold. And alone. And possibly dying.”
“You’re 6'4" and 200 pounds of cuddle,” you giggle, leaning into him.
“Exactly,” he says, smug now. “You’re lucky I haven’t suffocated you with affection yet.”
With that, he gently but firmly grabs your phone and sets it on the nightstand. The room dims immediately, leaving only the soft yellow hue of your bedside lamp.
“Hey!” you whine.
“No more blue light, sweetheart. It’s time for cuddles.”
And then he tucks you into him. Tight. Chin over your shoulder, arms around your belly, one hand petting slow, sleepy circles into your hip.
“See?” he whispers. “Way better than doomscrolling.”
You huff, but you’re already melting. The warmth of him, the rhythm of his breath, the safety of his arms — it’s your favorite place on Earth.
“You’re annoying,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
“I’m Mr. Bedtime,” he corrects, smiling against your skin.
You roll your eyes. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
And before you can argue, he whispers:
“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
You fall asleep five minutes later. Phone forgotten. Heart full. Clark already snoring softly into your hair like the big bedtime menace he is.
summary: it’s no secret; superman can do anything. save worlds, stop disasters, even play the role of a clumsy reporter. but after the day he saves you, there’s one thing he can’t do: forget you.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: clark yearning (of course he is), happyish ending, you’re a sweetheart, clark’s an even bigger one, slightly funny, lighthearted. again quite short drabble !! enjoy xox
Clark Kent had tried absolutely everything to get you off his mind.
Throwing himself into his work- rewriting already published articles, shouldering other peoples’ deadlines, even answering the most ridiculous of Superman calls. He saved at least fifteen cats out of trees already and it wasn’t even Wednesday yet, all so he wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts at home.
In all honesty, it was starting to get ridiculous. It was affecting him at work. He kept handing Jimmy the wrong lens, overloading Lois’ coffee with salt instead of its usual sweet counterpart. Clark found himself fumbling his way through articles, missing apostrophes and semi-colons, forgetting to cite certain sources altogether. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten around to interviewing himself yet- that’s how bad it was.
It had been two weeks since that night; the night Metropolis had nearly collapsed under its own weight. An explosion at the power plant had sent a shockwave through the city’s east side, and Superman had been everywhere at once, or at least was trying to be.
He’d carried entire families from burning apartments, lifted debris that weighed more than freight trains, and flown fast enough to blur the horizon. Red and blue barrelled into purple as he stretched himself thin, wishing, praying and hoping it wouldn’t all be for nothing.
He had a duty, a promise to the people; it wasn’t a new feeling for him to hate himself for only being one man. If he could clone himself, he would.
But what he remembered most vividly wasn’t the screams, or the smoke, or even the fire.
It was you.
You were standing on a cracked rooftop, a sheet of flame rising behind you, the ground thirty stories below. You were mumbling a prayer to the universe to help you out; an escape route, a person to share the torment with, anything. You’d been hit very hard by something- he could see the purplish-pink already beginning to form on your arm.
He’d swooped in on instinct, arms outstretched, ready to carry you to safety like so many others that night. Thankfully, you hadn’t been bleeding, but Clark knew better than to take something like that at face value. He needed to get you on the ground, hopefully to a paramedic. He didn’t really have the time to, but that didn’t matter- he’d find it.
Unfortunately, you had other plans.
“Wait,” you’d said, your hand gently pressing against his chest- an almost absurd gesture, considering the difference in strength between you. But he’d frozen all the same.
“There are people still inside,” you’d told him, your voice steady despite the chaos around you. Billows of smoke threatened the sanctity of your lungs, but Clark could see it in your eyes that you didn’t care.
“I’ll be fine, I swear. Just- please, save them first.”
He remembered the way your eyes had searched his, not for reassurance, but for confirmation that he understood. And he had. He’d wanted to argue, to insist, but the sincerity in your expression- the quiet urgency of it- disarmed him. You weren’t afraid for yourself. You were afraid for everyone else.
“Let’s get you somewhere safer first please, ma’am,”
“But-“
“I won’t be able to do any of that with you still up here,” he told you sternly, though your words threatened to melt his façade like ice. “Please. Can I do that?”
You were hesitant, the fearful pounding in your chest multiplying as you nodded. Superman wrapped an arm around your waist and placed you carefully atop a building not too far away from the wreckage, his arms strong and safe and so, unbelievably warm.
But you could still hear the screams, envision the flames. Your mind raced, happy memories of your apartment block being glazed over by grey.
That couple that lived below you, with the two pugs and one cat that hated other people but always seemed to love you. Mrs Drummond on the fifth floor, who baked every Sunday morning and would often take some up to you on the sixth. Mark next door, the quiet single-dad that only ever laughed when his kid was in the room.
Your heart twisted at the thought of any of them being left behind. You did your best, nobody could deny that; you yelled and screamed and called as many people as you could, evacuated as many floors as possible. You’d been so preoccupied trying to help everybody else that the only clear path out had been blocked by debris and flames; resulting in a very stumbled trip to the roof.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. None of it was. It was headline worthy, a tragedy for months to come, something to be remembered years in the future during talks of a city rebuilt and Superman’s greatest quests.
It was so bad, your fear split in half; one side reserved for the people just like you, and the other half for the God that stood before you.
When he turned to fly away, your hand had caught his arm for just a moment.
“Be safe, okay?” you’d said softly, as if he weren’t about to lift half a building off its foundation. As if Superman needed anyone to tell him to be careful.
He nodded, slow and unsure, watching as you let your hand fall, wrapping your arms around you.
He said nothing more, but the warmth of your voice had lingered with him long after the smoke cleared, like the smell of freshly brewed coffee in his apartment in the mornings. It stuck with him even as he collapsed on his couch at home, ripped, battered and bruised, waiting for the sun to come up to give him some relief.
Now, sitting at his desk at the Daily Planet, Clark Kent couldn’t seem to get that voice out of his head.
He’d been typing the same sentence for the last five minutes, staring blankly at his monitor while the newsroom bustled around him. Lois was on the phone two desks over, chewing out a city official about some budget report, while Jimmy was fussing with a camera lens and humming off-key.
Clark’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his mind was elsewhere- back on that rooftop, in the golden light of the fire, hearing you tell him to be safe. Reliving the moment you pushed him back ever so slightly, soot and ash marking your clothing, begging him to put other people first.
You were scared. So scared. He could hear it in your heartbeat.
“Earth to Kent,” Lois called, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “You’re writing slower than Steve during off-season. You okay?”
Clark blinked, looking up so quick he felt a slight click in his neck. “Sorry, I was just- uh, thinking.”
“Thinking?” Jimmy piped up with a grin. “About what? You’ve been staring at your screen like it’s a love letter.”
“It’s not a love letter,” Clark said quickly, adjusting his glasses. “It’s an article about urban redevelopment.”
“Uh-huh,” Lois said, raising an eyebrow. “And which part of ‘urban redevelopment’ makes you blush like that?”
Clark frowned, and sure enough, Jimmy leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the monitor. “You haven’t even finished your lead, dude. You got three words and a comma.”
“I’m just… distracted,” Clark muttered.
Lois folded her arms. “You’ve been distracted all week. First you forget your coffee order, then you nearly call Perry ‘Pa,’ and yesterday you accidentally signed an email ‘Best, Calvin.’”
Clark winced. “I typed that?”
“Oh yeah,” Jimmy grinned. “I swooped in before you could finish it with Klein, and Lois made me delete it before Perry saw. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Clark sighed, pressing the bridge of his nose. “I appreciate it.”
Lois leaned forward on her desk. “Alright, Kent, what’s going on? You’re not usually this-“ she gestured vaguely at him- “Well actually, you are. But not this bad.”
He hesitated. What could he even say? That he’d met someone as Superman, someone whose name he didn’t even know but could spot in a crowd in a heartbeat. Someone who’d seen right through him- not through the disguise, but past the cape itself.
What was he supposed to tell them? That he couldn’t shake the thought of you, the look on your face, the scent of your cherry vanilla perfume? That you were an anomaly in his life, because you’d looked at him not like a god or a saviour, but like a man trying his best in an impossible world?
“I guess I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately,” he said softly, deciding against it all.
Lois gave him a long, skeptical look but let it go. “Well, try to keep your head on straight, Clark. Perry’s in one of his moods today. You don’t want to be the first one he sees.”
Jimmy chuckled. “Yeah, he’s been yelling about deadlines since eight a.m. I think he scared the janitor.”
Clark let out a small laugh, the vision of Perry spewing abuse at their janitor and being met with a broom handle back to the face. It had happened before; Tony didn’t take very kindly to unwarranted constructive criticism.
Almost on cue, Perry White’s office door burst open. “Kent! Lane! Olsen!”
Clark flinched slightly. He’d heard the man’s footsteps coming from his desk, but it had startled him all the same- especially the bellow that already cut through the entire Planet’s bustling system.
“Good morning, Chief,” Lois said, her tone genuine yet disinterested. “Got any more deadlines for us today?”
Perry ignored her words, though his facial expression screamed exhaustion. He was holding a folder in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, looking like a man who’d already fought three wars before noon.
“Kent, you’re getting an intern.”
Clark blinked. “Another one?”
He couldn’t think of a worse thing to be assigned today. With his exhausted eyes, an article that hadn’t even been brought to fruition and the constant, swirling thoughts of you plaguing his brain- Clark would have much preferred rotting away at his desk until the clock hit 5pm and he could go home and rot on the couch instead. Or, save another cat. Either worked.
“Yep. Transferred from Gotham News, supposed to be sharp. Figured you could use the help, considering how behind you’ve been lately.”
Lois smirked. “Told you.”
Perry waved the folder, “She’s starting today. Try not to scare her off with all that Kansas charm of yours.”
“I’ll do my best,” Clark murmured, trying to refocus, though his mind was still tangled in thoughts of you.
Usually, he quite liked having the interns; they were often kind, and clueless, and so eager to learn that it brought Clark back to simpler times. He could see glimpses of himself in a lot of them- it was the main reason Jimmy and Lois never volunteered and often let him do it.
Perry turned toward the bullpen entrance. “C’mon in, kid!”
Clark didn’t look up right away. He was still adjusting his glasses, still trying to remember where he’d left off in his 3-word-one-comma article. His thoughts drifted again- to the glow of firelight on your face, to the way your voice had sounded steady even when the world shook beneath you.
He’d gone back for you on that rooftop- of course he did. He didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like he could talk to you, ask you out, take you to dinner in the suit and cape and act like everything was normal.
That would have been weird; to everybody else, yes, but to him too. He didn’t do all of this to get something out of it.
Yet still- he had that hope. A tiny, flickering flame inside of him, that hoped maybe you’d let him walk you home at least. Something small yet significant, a kind gesture that would have at least earnt him your name.
But when he came back for you, you were gone.
He heard footsteps approaching, a voice speaking politely to Perry, something about being honoured to work here. It was soft, familiar somehow, though he couldn’t place why. It made his entire body go rigid.
“Alright,” Perry was saying, commandeering attention by clapping his hands, “that’s Lois, Jimmy. And this is Clark Kent- one of our best reporters. You’ll be shadowing him for the next few weeks. Learn the ropes, get a sense of how we do things around here.”
Clark still didn’t look up, his fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard. “Nice to meet you,” he said automatically, kind but distracted.
“You too, Clark.”
The voice hit him like a bullet, those three simple words amalgamating into one sharp jolt of electricity. His head snapped up so fast his glasses nearly slipped down his nose.
It felt like everything happened in slow motion. Clark’s heart stuttered as he stared, lips parting in shock.
The new intern stood beside Perry White, smiling nervously, eyes bright in the fluorescent light.
On their arm, a bruise that had just begun to fully heal; leaving a faint, discoloured mark in its place.
The same eyes he’d seen through smoke and ash. The same voice that had told him to be safe.
For a moment, the bustling newsroom fell away. All Clark could hear was his own heartbeat, steady and loud in his ears as a lump formed in his throat.
You.
i really do just love writing half fics like i could have carried on but the block hit me hard after that last paragraph </3 hope everyone's having a looovely day xxx
Clark Kent request!! Idk I went to a dessert place and saw a couple and the guy I saw with his wife was so Clark Kent coded with glasses and his work fit + with his baby daughter strapped to his chest🥺 I’m picturing like reader finally healed after birth and asking Clark if they can go to this cute little dessert place down the street? He promises her he can go after work after he comes home, and takes the two of them? He has his little baby strapped to his chest the wholeeee time from going there, to eating, to leaving, yet is still so attentive to whatever reader is rambling abt while being attentive if his daughter wakes up? Like Clark giving reader a cute little date after birth!!
you’d been talking about the place all week. a little corner shop down the street, bright tiles and old booths, the glass case always fogged with sweet things you could never quite decide between. you’d walked past it a hundred times since coming home, hand resting instinctively on the stroller handle, gaze lingering a second too long on the neon sign in the window.
so when you finally ask — voice still shy around wanting things again, after months of only wanting rest and quiet and space to breathe — clark barely lets you finish the sentence.
“after work,” he promises, eyes warm behind his glasses, tie a little crooked from where you tugged him down to kiss goodbye. “we’ll go tonight.”
and he keeps his word, of course he does. he comes home later than either of you meant, his tie looser now, hair a little mussed. but he drops his bag at the door, kisses you once, twice, and holds out his hands for your daughter with that look that still softens your whole chest.
it takes barely a minute before she’s tucked close against him, strapped around and to his chest in that carrier you picked out together, her tiny face smushed sleepily against his shirt. one of her little fists curls under his tie, like she’s claiming him. clark’s palm comes up to steady her without thinking.
and then you’re out the door. together. not rushing. not worrying. just you, him, and her.
the place smells like sugar and warm butter, small enough that the three of you feel like you fill it. clark holds the door for you, careful of the stroller even though you left it folded outside, and you can feel him watching — not hovering, just making sure. always making sure.
you pick a booth by the window. him sliding in across from you, baby still nestled to his chest, and the sight of him there — work shirt rolled to his elbows, glasses slightly askew, wedding ring catching the soft overhead light — its all enough to make your breath catch.
you talk, rambling about the new flavors on the menu, a silly video you saw earlier, how your neighbor finally fixed his porch light. clark listens like there’s nothing else in the world. his eyes loving, mouth tilted into that small, private smile he only ever wears for you.
when your daughter stirs, he’s already on it: palm smoothing gently over her back, voice dropping even softer — “hey, sweetheart. it’s okay. daddy’s here.” he assures, the words so easy, so tender it makes your throat tighten.
and then back to you, without missing a beat.
“sorry, what were you saying sweetheart? the strawberry one? you should get it. i know you’ve been craving it.”
you end up sharing, fork passed back and forth, his big hands careful not to jostle the baby too much. powdered sugar dusts your fingertips and he brushes it away, thumb lingering on your knuckles.
he listens to everything: your half finished sentences, your worries about going back to work, the story you’re telling even though you keep forgetting where you left off. and the whole time, the baby’s tucked right there against his chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
when it’s time to leave, he stands first, adjusting the strap gently so she stays snug and comfortable. even carrying her, he still holds the door open for you, his free hand reaching for yours, certain.
outside, under the soft streetlight glow, he leans down, forehead brushing yours. “was that good?” he asks, voice a little hoarse from the day. you just nod, your eyes wet without meaning to. “yeah,” you breathe. “it was perfect.”
and it is — him, you, her. its sweet on your tongue, warm in your chest, and safe in ways you couldn’t quite put into words… ♡
