this is not true. i purshased one of these watches and as soon as i removed the watch from the liquid an operative in a suit approached me and forcefully repossessed the water. i tried to drink what i could but he was strong and i was weak
giving increasingly loud sighs as I wait for my crush to ask "what's wrong?" so I can say I'm in a state of depression unless I can touch someone's boobs with no bra
[Your crush, on the phone to someone unseen] Yeah I think she needs to be put down, her breathing-- yeah I know it can be a problem for her breed, but it's getting really bad.
babe it's me i'm just covered in dirt and blood because i had to claw my way up into the light and crawl on my hands and knees back home to you stop screaming
your f/o is not ashamed of you, your looks, or your personality. even if they're more reserved and like keeping some aspects of their life private, they'd never feel shame about being seen with you.
if anybody asks them directly, or even indirectly, they'll always proudly proclaim how they're dating this one wonderful person... you! 🧡
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
Figured I'd post this flyer again without it being tied to any specific fandom. As a reminder, I am a freelance voice teacher working to get students so please refer to the flyer with any questions or any interest. I am also willing to give one free trial lesson to see if you'd be willing to do them long-term.
I oughta schedule these reblogs because I almost forgot. Weekly reminder that I am a voice teacher looking for students to do singing lessons with (mostly likely) over Discord! You can friend and DM the Sbruningvoicestudio account on Discord with potential interest as well as my main greatsabrecat account.
summary: clark had spent so long keeping you at arm’s length, knowing one moment too close could be his undoing. but here you were; curled in his bed, wearing his shirt, seeking his warmth. surrender, he thought, had never felt so gentle.
clark kent x slightly younger ! reader
themes: part two of sweet mr kent, angst, slight age gap, sharing a bed! smuttyish so pls be warned.
one | two
Clark closed the door behind him, the soft click almost too loud in the dark.
The room smelled faintly like you now- sweet, gourmand scented shampoo and fresh rain. You’d left a space for him on the bed without saying a word, your back turned, the blanket pulled to your chin.
He could see the curve of your side, a dip in the plaid duvet where the blankets fell into your waist. Your hair had already started to dry, splayed across his navy pillowcase in such a natural way that made his chest ache.
For a long moment, he just stood there, letting his eyes adjust. The lantern on the dresser was nearly spent, its glow weak and gold, flickering across the lines of your face.
He could hear everything. Every sense he owned heightened, reaching new levels of sensitivity as his body picked up even the faintest of things.
The sound of your breathing, quick and uneven. The faint tremor of your heartbeat under your ribs. His own heart raced to answer it, clumsy and far too fast.
You shifted under the blanket, making room. The invitation was quiet, unspoken, but it reached him all the same.
He moved slowly, careful. The bed dipped beneath his weight, the fabric whispering as he lay on his back, one arm at his side. The distance between you was small, but it felt vast.
For a while, neither of you said anything. The wind hummed against the window. He could feel the cold still clinging to your skin, the way you kept curling in on yourself.
He swallowed hard, staring up at the ceiling.
Don’t, he told himself. Don’t move. Don’t think.
It was dangerous, being here with you. It was torture to have you in his bed, so close to him, the perfect setting to every desirable thought he'd had about you ever since you batted your eyelashes at him and called him Mr Kent.
Clark clenched both his jaw and his fist, the arm closest to you draped across his eyes.
He couldn't.
He wouldn't.
He won't.
But then you shivered again- a tiny sound escaping you, small and instinctive- and that was enough.
“Come here.” he said quietly.
You thought you’d misheard him at first. The words were soft, barely there, as if even he wasn’t sure he’d meant to say them.
For a second, you just stared into the dark, your pulse thudding hard against the pillow. His words echoed in your mind like a trick, whispered so gently you weren't sure they'd even been said.
You wanted to move. God, you did.
But the weight of it- of him- pressed down on your chest before he even touched you. What if he didn’t mean it that way? What if he was just being kind again, the same way he always was?
You didn’t trust yourself not to make it into something else, not to want more than what he was offering. You were so sure that if you turned around, you’d see regret already forming on his face.
The air between you fell thick. You could feel his outstreched arm even from that small distance, steady and impossible to ignore. Your fingers twisted in the blanket, the fabric damp where your palms had started to sweat.
You told yourself to stay still, to keep the little dignity you had left. But then the wind howled through the crack in the window, and a shiver ran through you so deep it hurt- and you thought, maybe just this once, you’d let yourself believe that he meant it.
So you moved. Slowly, cautiously, like approaching something sacred. You couldn't look at him, refused to; so you shifted back, inch by inch, until your spine brushed his chest.
Clark froze.
The heat of you sank into him, the curve of your body fitting against his like it had been waiting to. He hadn't ever given the saying two perfect pieces of the same puzzle much thought until now.
He exhaled slowly, his arm hovering uncertainly before he let it rest- light, tentative- around your waist. His much larger body twisted from lying flat to its side, the warmth of his thighs now on the back of yours.
You drew a soft breath, the kind that caught halfway through. His shirt on your body creased as you settled, shoulders easing at last.
“Warm?” Clark's voice was low, a rasp against the hush.
“Y-yes." you murmured, and he felt it, the vibration of your word against his arm, the truth of it in the way you melted closer.
Clark closed his eyes. Guilt settled hard against his ribs, a familiar, punishing ache.
You trusted him- trusted this. And still, the simple nearness of you dismantled every wall he’d built, every vow he’d made to himself.
He could feel your heartbeat now, steadying, syncing with his. Each thud echoed through his chest until he wasn’t sure whose pulse belonged to whom.
He wanted to memorise it, keep it in a box, only to be opened on days he didn't feel like he could do it; the way your breath tickled his wrist, the feeling of you against him.
He told himself it was just for comfort. Just warmth. Just this one night. And tomorrow morning you'd go back to normal; him with a sheepish smile in the hallway and you with a wave, Thanks for last night, Mr Kent! You saved me. I would have frozen otherwise.
But when you sighed and your hand found his under the blanket, fingers curling loosely around his own- that vision blurred into nothingness, an abyss of the unknown.
Clark let it happen. Let it mean nothing and everything at once.
For a long while, you pretended to sleep. It was easier that way, to let the stillness swallow the truth that neither of you were truly resting. You knew he was doing the same; his fingers fiddled gently with the material of your shirt, absentminded, distracted.
You’d never been this close before. The idea of it had always lived somewhere in your imagination; soft-edged, impossible, reserved for those nights you needed a release.
And yet here you were, tucked against him, his arms resting absently against the hem of his own shirt draped over your body.
When you finally shifted, his hand stilled. You could hear the question in his breath before he asked it.
"Can't sleep?"
You shook your head, but you didn’t move away.
It was getting late now. Clark didn't have a clock in his room, but you could sense it; the incessant honking of city vehicles ceased well over an hour ago. Metropolis had finally entered that quiet lull you always loved; you wished you could do the same.
After a while, you began to move. You turned your head, enough so that you could close the gap between you.
The fleeting touch of your temple against his jaw caught Clark off guard- the contact had been for a fraction of a second, but his fingers tightened their hold on yours ever so slightly.
Your name came out of his mouth in a cracked murmur.
Not the careful, neighbourly version. Not kid or hon- just your name, low and broken in his throat.
You thought Clark might pull back then, laugh quietly and apologise, make it all go away like he usually did whenever your thoughts about him became too loud. But he didn’t.
His breath hovered near your ear. Barely a touch, but enough to start the unravelling of what you'd fought so hard to keep together.
You shifted, slowly rolling onto your back until your eyes found his.
Even in the dark, the angles of his face were prominent. You could see it, see all of him, slightly different now that he wasn't wearing his glasses; sharper, somehow. Structured.
The look on his face wasn’t the one you’d imagined. It wasn’t tired or confused or irritated.
It was wrecked.
You'd seen him after long, droning days at the Planet; when articles just weren't making any sense and his desk temporarily became his new home. You'd seen him when his cousin, Kara, came to visit and he was up all night calling her, making sure she was okay because she hadn't come home yet and she 'wasn't from around here'.
You thought you'd seen all sides to him; the happy ones, the ones in pain.
His eyes fell steady on yours, all restraint guarded behind bars you couldn't break. You'd seen that look before, familiar in its own right; like Clark had spent years trying to hold himself together and had just now realised he couldn’t do it anymore.
His jaw was tight, his eyes full of apology for things he hadn’t even done yet.
That should’ve stopped you. It almost did. But then you felt something click; accompanied by that pulse between you, steady and alive, the air thick with every unsaid thing that had been building for months.
You didn’t care anymore.
Not about what could go wrong, not about the walls you’d built around your own heart, not even about how dangerous this truly was. If you let this pass, if you didn’t do it now, you’d spend the rest of your life haunted by it- living forever with that quiet, gnawing curiosity.
Quick visions of yourself years from now played through your mind like a reel. You, in another city, another apartment, with someone else’s voice drifting across the room, and still the thought of him would wedge itself in your chest.
You’d replay this moment over and over, wishing you'd taken the chance; wishing you’d let yourself be wanted; wishing you hadn’t let fear decide for you.
You'd pack up and move tomorrow, you and Minnie, settle in Mark and his boyfriend's penthouse apartment downtown for a few weeks. You'd disappear from Clark's life altogether and leave him to his roster, to the countless women lucky enough to orbit him, to have a piece of him.
You’d do all of that and more if it meant you could take the leap of faith- just once.
So, you stopped thinking.
You let your hand drift toward him, fingers finding the cut of his jaw. Finally, you let your heart drive your body, let the ache and the longing take over.
It was a trembling collision. Your lips met his; a sharp, jolting press that stole the air from your lungs and began to silence the static forming in your mind.
And Clark… God help him, he kissed you back.
He couldn’t stop the way his lips moved against yours, the fire that ignited the moment your mouths met. Every principle, every lesson about right and wrong, clawed at him to pull away, to put distance between you.
Clark hadn't been raised this way, to take advantage of the very person he was supposed to save. Years of being Superman shaped his very being, guided his moral compass; yet he couldn't stop. Wouldn't.
You pressed into him, hands framing his face, eyes heavy and insistent, and something raw and real twisted inside him.
He broke the kiss just long enough to rasp, “I... I can't.” His voice cracked, thick with need, as his hands lingered at your waist, fingertips digging in.
You shook your head, lips parted, and he felt the impossible pull of it, of you.
Every inch of you dared him to ignore the rules he’d been guided by, and he was drunk off of it, his body alight with the adrenaline.
“I can't... I'll ruin you-” His voice was rough, broken, spilling out between desperate kisses as he pressed against you, as if the sound of the words alone might stop what was happening.
“You already have.” you breathed, your lips barely parting from his as you whispered it, letting the confession slide between the press of your mouths and the urgent touch of your hands.
He groaned, a low, helpless sound, and sank into you again, the kiss deepening, ragged and unrelenting, each touch and pull firelight.
The rational part of him screamed, but the thrill- the ache he’d buried for too long- was unbearable. He could feel it everywhere; in his hands, in his chest, in the area that dug into your leg; prominent and obvious, desperate to be touched.
He gave in; the sinful, unholy want consuming every fibre of his being. A hand looped under your leg as Clark swiftly pulled your body on top of him.
The kiss didn’t break. Your hands roamed, tracing the familiar and discovering the new, memorising every curve, every hollow and rise, every pattern that made you yours and him his.
Each movement was urgent, tender and so, undeniably reckless; a desperate charting of the space you both inhabited.
The rest of the night unfolded like that- tangled together, gasps and sighs and satisfied moans filling the quiet of the room. The bed shook, pleasure equating to pressure, shadows casting carnal shapes on the walls.
He made love to you in every way you deserved to be loved, and in every way he still feared he was unworthy.
And you- with every touch, every whispered plea, every quiet exhale against his chest- showed him he was deserving of the same.
Morning would come, and with it, practicalities: a fresh cup of coffee, a joke about your apartment needing fixing, small talk about the world that waited outside these walls. You'd sit on his kitchen stool and he'd make pancakes, both of you silent, needing to speak but letting it wait.
But for now, there was only this: you and Clark, tangled together under the sheets. Letting sleep come slowly, easily- as the first hints of 6am light brushed the edges of the room.
the love for this fic was so overwhelming i just had to do a part 2! i will very much miss writing about these two. hope you all enjoyed! <3
summary: clark’s always lived by ma and pa kent’s words; don’t rush love, just tend to it where it grows. when the girl next door starts smiling his way, that advice becomes his saving grace.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: clark yearning, alll the fluff, he loves and values ma & pa so much, neighbours, slight age gap, certified loverboy taking his wholesome farmer parents' advice on how to fall for the beautiful girl next door (u!!!). wrote this as a drabble so its not proofread im sorry, but enjoy!!! xxx
Clark Kent wasn’t used to wanting things just for himself.
He’d been raised to think about others first; to look out for the people around him, to listen more than he spoke. “There’s strength in stillness, son,” Pa used to tell him, “and sometimes love looks more like listening than talking.”
It was the kind of simple, steady wisdom that shaped every part of him.
But since you moved in next door, stillness had become something of a losing battle.
You were younger, twenty-five, and there was something about you that didn’t quite fit the rhythm of the city- too bright, too unguarded, too alive. You were loud but not crass, confident without the cocky.
He’d first met you in the hallway, wrestling with three boxes stacked precariously in your arms. One slipped just as he turned the corner, and he caught it without thinking.
You looked up, startled, eyes wide and a laugh bubbling out as you exhaled, “Oh my- thank you! That was so quick. You’re like a superhero, my god.”
He’d smiled at that- quiet, almost shy. “No, no superhero. Just your neighbour,” he’d said, and something in the way you grinned back made his heart skip in a way it hadn’t for years.
You smiled at him wide, offering him your name and the number of your apartment that was coincidentally right next to his.
"I'm Clark- Kent. I'm Clark Kent," he'd said bashfully.
"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Clark Kent."
From then on, he started noticing you everywhere.
He noticed the way your laughter carried through the hallway, the faint hum of your music through the walls, the smell of your morning coffee drifting out when you opened your door.
He noticed that you always ran late but never seemed flustered for long, that you talked to your cat as if he could understand full sentences, and that every time you smiled at him in the lobby, something in his chest warmed painfully, like sunlight through stained glass.
Clark had lived most of his life keeping a careful distance from people, afraid of what might happen if he got too close. But you were different. Undoubtedly. You had this quiet magnetism, a personal pull if yours that made it impossible not to be drawn in.
You didn’t even try to, and he knew that. You just were.
Of course, Clark tried- in small ways- to earn your attention.
He carried your mail up when it landed in his box. Fixed the light outside your door when it started to flicker. Left an extra cup of coffee at your door on mornings when he knew you’d overslept, piping hot so that it'd be the perfect temperature by the time you got around to it.
You always thanked him with that same soft brightness, a quick hug or two, maybe even a blown kiss- but you never lingered.
He told himself he didn’t mind. You were a busy body; always out, never home for too long. You worked hard and quite literally partied harder, often stumbling through the lobby with your heels in your hand as he tried extra hard to get rid of the worried-sick feeling he'd had all evening.
Still, Clark found himself looking for you more and more.
Then came the morning in the lobby.
He’d just stepped inside, reading the front page of the Daily Planet- when you rounded the corner too quickly, coffee in hand, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.
You collided squarely into his chest, the cup tilting dangerously. He caught it before it spilled all over you.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry-" you gasped, eyes wide.
“It’s alright,” Clark said, steadying you with one hand at your elbow. With a crooked, sheepish smile, he joked, “Third time this month, I think.”
Your laugh burst out then, surprised and musical. “Yeah, I know. I'm awful. At least I’m consistent?”
"Very much so." with a quick glance at the stack of folders under your arm, he then asked, "Need a hand?”
“Only if you’re offering, ClarkKentI'mClarkKent.”
His cheeks reddened at the way you recounted your first ever meeting. You spoke easy, tone teasing. “I must have been acting really weird that day for you to remember that.”
“You’re hard to forget,” you said before realising how it sounded. You looked away quickly, flustered. “You, uh- it was just sweet. How you said it.”
“Right,” he said softly, fighting back a grin. “Well, let’s head up. Four flights is a lot more than you think.”
Regardless, the climb up the stairs passed too quickly. You talked about work, your cat, the chaos of city life, and the small triumphs that made your days bearable.
Clark listened, exactly like his mother taught him to. He kept his eyes steady, his replies coming out soft and gentle, encouraging you to go on. “Eyes on them, honey. That’s how people know you care,” Ma had always said.
He always knew to trust her, even back then as a little boy with no real grasp on the importance of making other people feel understood. But he could see it in the way Ma moved with other people; how they made space for her, how she was quick to turn the most reluctant stranger into a friend.
It was a trait Clark wanted to have for himself one day, something innate that he craved.
By the time you reached your door, your breath had evened out but your smile hadn’t faded. “You really are the best neighbour ever,” you said, still half-teasing but warm all the same.
Clark smiled. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Well, helpful and modest. That’s a dangerous combination, Mr. Kent.”
He wanted to tell you that kindness wasn’t dangerous- that it was the only thing that ever made sense to him- but he only said, “Guess I’ll have to keep it up, then.”
You tilted your head, studying him for a moment longer than before. “You always do.”
When your door closed, the silence that followed was louder than it should’ve been.
He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing the rail where your hand had been, before heading back to his apartment.
That night, he sat at his desk with the city lights flickering through the window and thought about you. About how natural it felt to talk to you, how easily you laughed, how you made the dimly lit hallways of your apartment building a little less dark just by waltzing your way through it.
He wondered what his parents would’ve said if they could see him like this- a man with superhuman strength and senses, undone completely by the sound of a woman laughing in the hallway.
Clark could almost hear his mother’s voice, fond and amused, while his father chuckled to himself and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, “You can’t rush love, son. It’ll come when you’re steady enough to hold it.”
He wasn’t sure if he was steady, but he was certain of the pull in his chest.
A few days later, a knock sounded on his door. When he opened it, you stood there, balancing a plastic container and smiling brightly. “Apology Cake,” you announced.
“Apology Cake?”
"Apology Cake," you repeated once more, as if that was the answer and nothing more. "I've come to apologise,"
"For?" Clark asked in amusement, though he had already taken a step to the side to let you into his apartment.
“For all the coffee-related injuries I’ve caused,” you said. “It's banana bread. I bake when I’m stressed. Or bored. Or, you know, alive.”
He chuckled, following you inside and letting the door close, “That sounds like a good habit to have.”
“It’s really not,” you said, walking past him. “Last time I tried, I forgot the sugar and I had to borrow some from Dorothy downstairs. This time I think I nailed it though. I had sugar and butter.”
He smiled, setting the container down. “I’m sure you did.”
“You can’t say that before tasting it,” you noted, amused.
He took a bite. It was soft and imperfect and warm, like something made with heart instead of precision. He was 89% sure you took the saying 'measure with your heart' literally, and 11% sure you'd taken it out of the oven ten minutes prematurely.
“It’s good,” he said honestly.
“You’re just being polite.”
“Maybe,” Clark smiled faintly, “but it’s still good.”
You leaned against his counter, looking at him curiously. Your eyes narrowed as you watched him, your stare precise and intent.
After a while, you spoke.
“You’re just always like this, huh?"
He looked at you over the frames of his glasses, eyebrows slightly raised. "Like what?"
"You're always so gentle."
"Gentle," Clark echoed.
"You're just..." you gave a slight shrug, "Super kind. All the time. Like, this is just you- always,"
Clark paused, your question pulling him somewhere quieter inside himself.
A small silence settled between you both and for a split second, you wondered whether you made it awkward or not.
“My folks raised me that way,” he said finally, allowing your shoulders to relax.
“They taught me to be... kind. You know, the stuff all parents teach their kids. But, they'd always say, being nice isn't something you switch on or off. There's no conditions to it. You just do it, and that's how it has to be. No matter who it is or where you are. How you have to move through the world."
Your expression softened as he spoke. "And I know it's easier said than done. Stuff happens, you know? Bad days, worse days, I get that. But Ma always says, where there's room for anger, there's twice as much room for understanding."
You found yourself staring at him a little longer than necessary. It wasn’t just the words, though it was nice hearing them all the same.
It was the way he said them, like he’d lived by them his whole life and truly believed them.
Clark was always lovely, of course he was- everybody in the whole entire building loved him. Because he wasn't ever performative, or awkward, never a mask that you were waiting to let slip and expose; Clark's kindness was steady, real.
You knew it to be true because of all the little things. The way he held the elevator door for you even when he was late. The way he carried your groceries up the stairs without complaint.
The way he paused to notice if you were smiling, or tired, or needed a minute or so of silence before proceeding with the day ahead.
You could see it in his quiet gestures, rooted in something deeper than politeness. A good upbringing, raised on fresh farm air and pure, unfiltered love from two very kind-hearted people.
“They're right,” you said softly, words truthful. "I think that sort of thinking's rare nowadays. But I like it coming from you. It's nice,"
“Maybe you’re just not looking in the right places,” he said, meeting your eyes.
Something in the air shifted, a subtle but sure blanket covering you both. You smiled, slow and knowing.
“Guess I’ll have to start looking next door.”
Clark felt the words settle in his chest like a heartbeat.
After you left that evening, he stood at his window again, watching the city. He could envision your apartment light being on, warm and golden, like all the times he caught glimpses of it on his restless evening patrols as Superman.
He could imagine your shadow moving through the curtains, your silhouette reaching for something on a shelf, the little unguarded gestures of an ordinary life.
And somehow, that was what made him fall.
Not the dramatic moments, like your laughter echoing down the hallway or the way you brought him random gifts after not seeing him for a while- but the quiet parts.
The way you hummed under your breath when you thought no one could hear, the same old Billy Joel song you'd play every Sunday morning when he knew you were feeling overwhelmed.
The way you always offered a smile, even on days when you looked tired, especially on days when it would have been ten times easier to duck your head down in defeat and keep walking.
The way you noticed him, really noticed him, like he wasn’t just another face in the crowd.
Clark had known love in theory- he’d seen it, admired it, tried to understand it from a distance. But this… this was different. This was wanting to make someone’s morning easier. Wanting to hear the sound of their laugh again just to know they were okay.
It was soft, human, and so terrifyingly simple.
He thought of something his father once said, years ago, as they’d watched a summer storm roll in over the fields. They'd just had dinner, and Clark noticed his parents being extra attentive to each other during the meal; a sure sign that a minor disagreement had taken place prior.
“Real love isn’t about the lightning, son. It’s about the quiet after. The part where you stay.”
And as Clark imagined you, nimble fingers thumbing through the pages of a well loved book he'd have to ask you about one day, cross legged on your sofa with the radio on and your cat purring quietly on your lap- he realized that maybe, without even meaning to, you’d become that quiet for him.
He didn’t need to move mountains or save the world that night.
He just needed to know you were there; right next door, laughing softly at something he couldn’t hear, and making the whole world feel a little more like home.
i am so sleepy and tired but i needed to write something so here u go!!! as always thank you for reading adooooore you x
content: yearning, teasing, tension, soft fluff with a hint of spice
he’s so obvious it’s almost funny.
the way clark looks at you like you hung the stars — that soft, helpless kind of stare that lingers even when you pretend not to notice.
everyone knows. lois teases him, jimmy rolls his eyes, and you?
you love it. love watching him trip over his own words every time you walk into the room. love hearing that low sigh when you brush your fingers against his tie just to fix it.
“you’re doing that on purpose,” he murmurs one day, his voice dropping to that deep, dangerous tone.
“doing what?” you ask, batting your lashes, playing innocent while your thumb grazes his collarbone.
he groans softly, shoulders tensing. “you know what.”
you lean in close enough for your perfume to hit him, your breath warm against his ear.
“maybe i do,” you whisper, and that’s all it takes for him to melt — a quiet whimper slipping out before he can stop it.
he’s such a baby for you. yearning, desperate, always so close to giving in.
“just one kiss,” he pleads, lips hovering near yours. “just one.”
you tilt your head, smiling.
“maybe later, clark.”
and he exhales your name like it’s a prayer, a curse, a promise — eyes full of devotion that could move planets.
origamiaround
gracieabrams
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
titsay
