Content: 1k words | fluff, undernotes of angst, but it's mainly just Clark being Clark and overthinking. Clark is also very shy and very much in love with reader, reader is kinda flirty, but they're both whipped let's be real. Reader knows Clark is superman, but they don't talk abou it. And they're not in a relationship but not..not in a relationship. I don't think there are any content warnings, but let me know.
Summary: In which you can't believe Clark Kent hasn't been to a concert, not even once in his life, and he can't believe he gets to stare at your cherry vanilla glossed lips.
A/N: Man oh man... It's been a while since I've posted any writing, and this time it's not about kpo, so I'm very nervous... Please leave feedback, I would really appreciate it! Thanks for reading!
“Clark Joseph Kent.”
It was almost funny—no, downright absurd—how the 6’4” Kryptonian, a man who could bench press a train and shoot lasers from his eyes, visibly flinched at the sound of his full name spilling from your lips.
What did I do? he panicked silently, apology already locked and loaded behind his teeth, ready to fire.
But then he caught it—the mischievous curl at the corner of your mouth—and the tension in his shoulders melted like butter on a summer sidewalk. Crisis averted. For now.
His reprieve didn’t last long.
“What do you mean, you've never been to a concert?”
“I’ve never bee—”
“No, I heard you the first time,” you cut in, half-scandalized, half-teasing, turning toward the man awkwardly perched beside you on your horrifically uncomfortable, tragically budget couch.
Calling it a couch was generous. It was more like a tortured rectangle of springs and regret. If furniture could commit spine crimes, this thing had a rap sheet.
Everyone hated it—your friends, your ex, your chiropractor. Everyone except Clark.
And maybe that’s why you liked him so damn much. Even if the concept of a rhetorical question still seemed to elude him, as if it were written in some ancient language.
“Oh! Well, it’s just—you asked what I meant, and I thought clarifying would be helpful… clarifying is good,” Clark mumbled into the ether, fingers anxiously nudging his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. A nervous tic. Especially common in your presence.
You quirked a brow, amused. Fascinated, even. How could a man who could literally bend steel be so adorably unsure of himself?
You leaned forward to grab your phone from the coffee table—also thrifted, also possibly haunted. Determination set into your features like wet cement, lips pursed in thought.
Clark stole a glance at you, eyes tracing the arch of your brows, the tiny frown forming on your glossed lips.
Cherry vanilla. His undoing.
His mind drifted—betrayed him, really—back to that rainy night two weeks ago. A rare downpour in ever-sunny Metropolis. He’d offered to walk you home, gallantly holding his jacket over your head like some kind of sepia-toned romance cliché.
You had been fuming. Not at him—never at him—but at the cumulative weight of his relentless, infuriating kindness. Too sweet. Too thoughtful. Too much.
Each small gesture, every word so painfully earnest, pushed you closer to the edge. And when he offered to carry you over a puddle, like you were a princess in a fairytale? Your resolve cracked like cheap lightning.
You’d grabbed him by the tie, yanked him close with stormwater clinging to your lashes, and kissed him like a sentence you’d been dying to finish.
He remembered everything. The scent of your lip gloss. The heat of your breath. The way your lips had fit with his, like puzzle pieces drawn by fate.
Now, as you tapped on your phone, he was blushing again. Crimson bloomed across his cheeks, coloring the tips of his ears and crawling down the column of his throat.
He wanted to kiss you again. Desperately. Wanted to snatch the phone from your hands, toss it into the next time zone, and replace it with himself.
But instead, he sat there. Heart pounding. Palms damp. A 6’4” solar-powered pile of nerves.
Some Superman, he thought. Leaps tall buildings, saves the planet, but turns to mush over lip gloss and eye contact.
When your eyes finally flicked up from your phone, the first thing you noticed was the color climbing Clark’s face.
The second? He was staring at your mouth like it held the answer to every cosmic mystery.
“Clark?” you asked, fighting a grin.
His eyes snapped up—guilty, wide, caught mid-swoon.
Before he could unravel into his usual Clark-flavored babble, you flipped your phone around, the screen’s blue glow lighting up his glasses.
Two tickets. The Mighty Crabjoys. Thirty-five days from now. Meteor Stadium.
“They’re your favorite, right? You mentioned they were coming to Metropolis, and since you've never been to a concert, I figured we should go! Seats kinda suck, but hey—music’s the point.”
You beamed. Bright. Hopeful. Like you didn’t realize you’d just casually handed him the sun.
But he didn’t smile.
Not right away.
Your grin wavered. That sinking feeling crept in—quiet and cold, like a draft under a locked door.
Why wasn’t he saying anything?
He was too still. Too serious. This wasn’t your Clark. Not Big-Smile Clark. Not Nervous Babble Clark. This was some new, unreadable version.
You shrank back slightly, pulling your phone toward your chest.
“Or… you know, you don’t have to go with me. You could bring a friend. It could be—like—a late birthday gift?”
“My birthday was a month ago.” His voice was low. Almost unreadable.
“Okay. Fine. Late-late. No need for semantics, Kansas.”
You threw in the nickname like a lifeline. Trying to coax out a smile, a shrug, anything.
You had no idea that Clark’s brain was currently short-circuiting.
Two minutes ago, he’d been daydreaming about kissing you again. Now you were remembering his favorite band, buying tickets just because he’d said he’d never been to a concert?
That wasn’t just kind. That was intentional. That was you like me coded in Dolby surround sound.
He blinked. Breathed. His chest rose, and the flannel stretched faintly with the motion.
And then—he moved.
Not in the super-speed blur kind of way. But in the quiet, steady way that meant something was about to change.
He leaned in. Not much. Just enough for his breath to ghost against your cheek.
You froze.
Your heart was somewhere near your throat. His gaze was impossibly soft, reverent. Like he was watching a star fall in slow motion.
He searched your face like it was written in a language only he’d ever be patient enough to learn. Every part of him ached to close the space between you.
But of course, he paused.
Because Clark didn’t leap recklessly. He didn’t kiss first and explain later.
He waited. Gentle. Thoughtful. Earnest to a fault.
And so, he asked—quietly, like a secret folded into the air between you.
