She/her/hers. This is a whole mess of a blog, but I love fanfic and writing in general (even though I'm usually too busy to actually post in a timely manner I'm sorry š )
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summary: your father did everything for you. because of it, the men in your life had called you spoilt, unreasonable, a girl with unrealistic expectations. after years of heartbreak and disappointment, you start to believe them- until clark kent proves that love can be gentle, steadfast, and safe enough to let yourself fully trust it.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: tooth rotting fluff, whatever the opposite of daddy issues is, clark being so sweet and domestic. princess treatment, reader being oh so wonderfully loved, very feel good. enjoy! xx
Your father would do anything for you.
From the second you were born, you had zero need to lift a single finger. Your shoes were always tied. Ice cream always scooped. When the rhinestones started falling off your favourite bejewelled headband, it was replaced within a matter of minutes.
By the age of fifteen, you had your own personal chaffeur. He'd drive you around the block with a big grin and a janky car that rattled when it turned, while your mom watched proudly from the living room window.
He loved her too, of course. So very much. Sometimes, they'd go about their day and you'd just smile and watch them; how he spun her around the kitchen table, the giggles that fell from her lips, the open bills forgotten on the table right next to them. None of them mattered. They ceased to exist the second they laid their eyes on one another.
He'd kiss her cheek, ruffle your hair, call you both his best girls.
You told yourself it was a love you wanted one day- when you were a little bit older maybe, when the right man finally came along. Your father showed you best how a woman should be treated; made it so that princess treatment wasn't a 'luxury' to you, nor would it ever be.
It was a god-given, fully expected birthright.
However, little girls had to grow up sometime.
So when twenty-two finally came, and you packed your bags and headed off to the big city of Metropolis- your father's tearful wave accompanying the faint smell of smoke that always clung to him in the hug goodbye- you simply didn't have it in you to prepare for the dangers ahead.
"You call me if you need a thing," he said gruffly, though the tears in his vision contrasted his voice completely. You nodded, falling into yet another tearful hug, "Don't be a stranger."
You tried.
But- as expected- life took over. You got busy. You'd still call, but visited far less frequently.
And the downside to previously having such a loving dynamic followed you right through adulthood.
How could they be so awful, when your father had only ever shown you the kind side to men? How did you accumulate so many horrible dates, land in so many awful situations that would have the man who raised you barrelling down the freeway with narrowed eyes and anger emcompassing every acceleration?
Your first situationship wasn't real. It was experience.
Your first ever boyfriend didn't like you. He liked the idea of you.
Because he'd never proven himself, not really. And you needed that proof like your very existence needed oxygen.
He never opened doors for you, never bothered to memorise your coffee order. The vanity you bought months and months ago sat untouched, collecting dust at the corner of the room because he'd promised to put it together one day and just... never did.
Your father would have. He would have driven the whole twelve hours down to central, just to get his hands on a hammer and a nail, and you'd be powdering your face in a fresh mirror within minutes.
So, you took a leap of faith and ended the three year relationship. You moved out into your own studio apartment right in the heart of Metropolis, a few blocks away from all your favourite places.
You thought, maybe love just wasn't for you. Perhaps there was something wrong with you that meant nothing human would ever measure up. Or perhaps, you winced, you truly were as spoilt as your many exes had accused you of being.
"Daddy's girl." your first one had scoffed.
"Ain't ever gonna land a good man with that attitude," the second one spat.
"How... but... I-I did everything right." the third lied tearfully.
But then, just when you started to lower your expectations and announce to the world that you were finally giving up on finding the perfect man, you met him.
Clark.
Clark Kent.
And everything those horrible exes had tried to convince you that you were flew entirely out of the window.
He was soft, sweet. You both met on a rainy day in July, the water warm and faint, making everything smell like fresh air and ozone.
"Oh! I'm sorry-" you blushed, your body bumping against his as you failed to watch where you were going.
"No, no- that's alright," his smile was kind. Patient. The type of smile to base a frequent daydream off of. "Please, after you."
Clark got his first. He paid for yours in advance, tipping the barista 40%, before slipping unannounced straight back out of the door.
When you finally decided on an oat milk vanilla latte, he was gone.
The second time you met him, the key to your apartment had jammed in the lock, and you'd gone back down to the lobby to ask someone for help.
And for some reason, the kind man from the coffee shop was right there; only just about to get in the elevator, when he caught your eye and once again, let you in first.
You were neighbours, would you believe? A few floors apart, sure, but living in the same building regardless.
What were the chances? You made a mental note to thank him for your coffee another time, hopefully on a better day under happier circumstances.
"How's your morning been?" he asked you politely.
On a good day, you typically wouldn't overshare- it was just super unfortunate that he happened to catch you on a very, very, very bad day.
So naturally, you told him everything.
How the wind had ruined your hair the very second you stepped out of the building to go to work; how none of the emails you'd sent made any sense, and how your lunch was gross despite the fact that you always got the same thing. Then finally, how you came home absolutely exhausted and still, your key got stuck- with nobody in reception willing to lend a helping hand.
"It's a couple hundred dollars for a locksmith," Clark's eyebrows raised, in a slightly stunned way that would have had you blushing if you weren't already so frustrated. "I'm not one, but... I could take a look? If you'd like? I grew up on a farm, and we had these old fashioned keys that'd get jammed all the time... I know my way around a keyhole."
You tried not to let the surprise on your face show. You didn't have to beg, plead, barter for this man to help you out- he just did, wanted to, for seemingly nothing in return.
And you weren't even acquiantances, let alone friends. He owed you nothing and still, came to your floor and jimmied the key right out. No struggle, no sighs of exasperation to make you feel bad- just a pleased smile and a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes.
"There," he grinned, plopping it in your palm carefully, "All fixed."
You thanked him, weak at the knees. It was then that you realised just how gorgeous Clark really was- if it wasn't the baby blues, it was the smile, the dimples in his cheeks and the impressive way his shoulders filled out the dress shirt he wore.
But most importantly, he was kind.
That just made him all the more stunning.
You ran into each other for a while. Often in the elevator, and afterwards he'd walk you to your door like it was midnight in Gotham. Never asking to be invited in, just happy to speak to you for an extra twenty seconds of his day.
When you did eventually muster up enough courage to ask him to come inside, you had no idea what you were in for. Truly.
Because that one cup of decaf coffee turned into multiple. It turned into dinner under the lowlight of your apartment (a thanks for the coffee he'd bought weeks ago) and another dinner a couple of weeks later at Clark's penthouse (a thanks for your thanks for the coffee he'd bought a month ago), right at the top of the building you both shared.
Naturally, it turned into something more.
A drawer at his, a space at yours. Two toothbrushes in both bathrooms, one tube of toothpaste. Your mugs began to invade his cupboard space, amended articles with his neat handwriting filling your coffee table.
So when Clark asked you to be his girlfriend four months after your first official date, of course, you said yes. Because by then, you already knew.
He wasn't like the others. They were boys, silly little things that knew nothing of what it meant to really, truly love someone.
But Clark did.
He remembered everything about you, not even just the important stuff like what you didn't like and what you loved- he remembered the exact way you liked your clothes folded, your skincare routine, how you hated cobblestone paths because it made your footing uneven. You were a carefully penned article, one that he was determined to memorise.
Clark never made you feel like you were asking for too much. If anything, he made you feel like you deserved it all and more.
The bookshelf arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.
It came in a flat-packed cardboard box that was nearly as tall as you were, dropped unceremoniously in the hallway outside your apartment by a delivery man who barely spared you a glance before disappearing back into the elevator.
"Delivery for ya, little lady."
You stared at it for a long moment.
Clark was working late at the Planet. He had texted you that morning, a bunch of emojis clouding his gentle words of, Donāt wait up, honey. Perryās got us chasing three different stories today.
You told him to take his time. Said youād order takeout, enough for him to come home to, and curl up with a book.
Instead, you dragged the box inside.
It started innocently enough. A pair of scissors slicing through packing tape. The rustle of protective styrofoam that went everywhere and made you huff. Instruction manuals unfolding like complicated maps written in languages you only half understood.
"God." you muttered miserably, narrowed eyes glaring at the box with vice.
By step four, you were sweating.
For step six, you had somehow assembled two panels backwards. Step nine wasn't any better, because that was when the screwdriver slipped in your grip and your knuckles slammed hard against the unfinished wood.
You hissed, sucking in air through your teeth, blinking rapidly as tears pricked your vision. A thin line of red blossomed across your skin.
It wasnāt even the pain that made your chest tighten. It was the echo of a memory.
A different apartment. A different box. A different man sighing loudly from the couch while scrolling through his phone, irritation dripping from every exhale as you asked, softly, if he could help you assemble the vanity heād promised to build weeks ago.
In a minute.
After this game.
Why canāt you just do it yourself?
It had taken you three weeks of gentle reminders and swallowed pride before he finally assembled it- muttering the entire time like your request was a personal inconvenience. Only to drop to one knee a couple of months later, claims of you being the love of his life dripping from his mouth like venom.
The screwdriver clattered from your hand. You tried again anyway, because who else was going to do it?
Clark found you sitting cross-legged on the floor when he finally came home, surrounded by wooden panels, scattered screws, and instructions wrinkled beyond recognition. The bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, uneven and half-assembled like it might collapse if someone breathed too hard.
The smile on his face dropped, gaze trailing down your arm to your hand, wrapped clumsily in paper towels speckled pink.
He froze in the doorway.
"Honey?"
You looked up, offering a sheepish smile that didnāt quite reach your eyes. "Hi."
His eyes flicked between the blood, the mess, the lopsided shelf, and something inside his expression shifted. Not anger- never anger with your sweet, careful Clark- but a quiet, wounded confusion that hit you harder than you thought it would.
"ā¦Why wouldnāt you ask me to do it?" the softness in his voice made your throat tighten.
You shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the carpet fibres beneath your fingertips. "You were working. I didnāt want to bother you."
Clark set his bag down slowly, carefully, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile between you.
"Youāre never a bother," he said gently, kneeling in front of you. His large hands hovered near yours before carefully taking your wrist, inspecting the cut with such delicate concentration it made your chest ache. āDoes this hurt?ā
"Not really."
It did. Just not in the way he meant.
So, you explained it to him.
The string of bad exes. The sighs of annoyance that used to follow your requests like thunder chasing lightning. The vanity you once loved and now hated because it took weeks of quiet grovelling just to convince someone who supposedly loved you to build it.
The slow, creeping shame that made you believe asking for help meant being difficult. Being high maintenance. Being too much.
"I just..." you winced, "I just got so used to my dad doing everything for me. I'm sorry."
Clark listened to every word.
"You never have to be sorry for that," he told you gently, reaching a warm hand out to soothe you. "All it means is that you grew up knowing what real love looks like."
You went quiet for a bit, not really knowing what to say back. Never in your life had you told a man about your dad and been met with anything other than an eye-roll or a raised eyebrow.
"Iām not like them," he then said, softly.
You swallowed.
"I said Iād take care of you," he continued, his thumb ghosting across your knuckles with careful tenderness. "Let me take care of you."
There was no arrogance in it, no possessiveness. Just quiet certainty, like gravity. Like sunrise. Like truths that simply existed without needing to be proven.
And then, because your ever-loving boyfriend was Clark Kent, he kissed your injured hand like it was the most natural thing in the world before standing up, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, and assembling the entire bookshelf in under thirty minutes.
"Take a seat, baby," he cleared the couch of instruction manuals and nails for you, "Relax for me, okay?"
You didnāt question how he managed it so quickly. You just watched him, warmth blooming in your chest like something long frozen had finally begun to thaw.
It reminded you of home. Of laughter spilling from kitchen walls, smoke clinging to familiar flannel, strong hands that had spent your entire life making the world feel softer around the edges.
And maybe that was why the next step felt less like a choice and more like destiny.
Meeting your father wasā¦ inevitable.
Terrifying for both of you, but inevitable.
Clark ironed three different shirts before settling on the blue one you told him brought out his eyes. He rehearsed greetings under his breath. He even brought flowers for your mother, even though sheād insisted repeatedly over the phone that it wasnāt necessary.
"We just want you both here, safe!" she chirped happily. Even so, you still felt like throwing up and Clark was still ruffling a nervous hand through his unruly hair.
Your father opened the door with that same familiar scent of cedar clinging to him, his pose rigid, still protective, still the safest place youād ever known. He sized Clark up in less than three seconds.
Clark extended his hand immediately.
"Sir," he nodded slowly, "itās an honour to finally meet you."
Your father gripped his hand firmly, gaze sharp but not unkind. When he spoke, you felt your boyfriend loosen up a little, though the dread was still apparent in the way he stayed a respectable distance away from you.
"Any man willing to drive six hours just to make sure my daughter doesnāt travel alone already gets a few points in my book." your father replied.
Dinner was loud. Warm. Filled with overlapping stories and constant laughter that bounced off the four walls you'd grown up in. You watched them carefully, nervously, but it didnāt take long before your shoulders relaxed.
Because your father refilled your glass without a word.
And Clark draped a neatly folded napkin across your lap, a soft smile brushing your lips before he turned back to your motherās story.
When your plate ran low, your father quietly spooned more onto it, telling the story of the day you were born as if the two moments were on- care and memory intertwined.
And then Clark, silently, took the cherries from his own dessert and placed them on yours, his fingers brushing yours just enough for you to notice, your favourite part of a favourite thing now doubled.
Together, wordlessly, seemingly without noticing- they moved around you like two steady orbits around the same sun.
By the end of the evening, you wandered toward the living room while they insisted on washing up. You meant to help, but your footsteps slowed when you heard your fatherās voice through the kitchen doorway.
He handed Clark the final dish, water dripping from his hands.
"I know youāre a good man," your father said quietly. "And I trust youāll take care of her. But pleaseā¦ if anything ever changes. If you ever feel differentā¦ donāt hurt her."
Silence stretched for a moment.
"Just bring her back to me."
You peeked around the corner just enough to see Clark swallow, his shoulders straightening with quiet resolve.
"Yes, sir," he said, steadily.
"But please... believe me. I would never hurt her. I wouldnāt even think of it."
Your father nodded once, satisfied. You pressed your hand against your mouth, blinking rapidly as emotion swelled behind your ribs.
And Clark was right. He never hurt you. Never even came close.
Not even when he finally told you he was Superman.
He confessed on a quiet evening, glasses set carefully on the coffee table between you like a confession waiting to breathe. His voice trembled in a way youād never heard before, words tumbling out in uneven fragments about responsibility and fear and how loving you had become both the bravest and most terrifying thing heād ever done.
You listened. You watched the man you loved stand before you stripped bare- not of strength, but of certainty.
You forgave him before he even finished explaining.
Because deep, deep down, you believed that you had always known.
Maybe not consciously. Maybe not in ways you could put into words. But the late nights, the impossible saves. The way he sometimes looked at the sky like it was calling him home, the sirens that alerted him more than they should.
You loved Clark Kent. And in turn, you were also in love with Superman.
It didnāt change the way he warmed your side of the bed before you climbed in, or how he held all eight grocery bags in one hand and yours in the other. It didnāt change the way he still insisted on tying your shoelaces if he noticed they were loose, dropping down on the busy pavement just to provide you some ease.
If anything, it only deepened your understanding of how extraordinary it was that someone capable of carrying the world still chose to come home and carry you, too.
Years passed.
The love- as well as the space- that you both shared, grew.
Two apartments turned into just one, and that one apartment became a four bedroom house just outside of the city; one bought with a nursery and young child's bedroom in mind one day.
Your wedding day smelled like fresh flowers and nervous anticipation.
Your fatherās arm trembled slightly where it linked through yours as he walked you down the aisle, though whether from emotion or age, you couldnāt tell. You clutched him tighter, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm of his steps.
Clark waited at the altar, eyes glassy, smile already breaking across his face like dawn spilling over the horizon. His good friend Jimmy sobbed into a napkin, Lois right next to him hissing to pull it together- though you could see it too, the glossiness in her piercing blue eyes.
Halfway down the aisle, your father leaned closer.
"I loved you first," he whispered, voice thick with unshed tears.
"I know," you whispered back, hoping for a joke, hoping for a threat towards the only man in the world you knew he'd ever approve of. Anything to ease the nerves, the dread of everyone's eyes on you.
But instead, your father nodded towards where Clark stood, voice barely a croak.
"And now, he gets to love you forever."
Your chest squeezed painfully, beautifully, as he placed your hand into Clarkās waiting one.
Clark held it like something sacred, irreplaceable, something he would protect with everything he was and still had yet to be.
Your father pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping back, pride and heartbreak and joy colliding in his eyes all at once. When the officiant began to speak, and you caught Clark's eyes boring so lovingly into your own, it was then that you fully realised.
You were never impossible to love.
And it was never that your expectations were too high.
You were simply raised knowing what love looked like when it was done right- when it showed up without being asked, when it stayed without being begged, when it took care without making you feel guilty for needing it.
Clark never tried to compete with the love you grew up with. Never tried to make you feel smaller for wanting it to last forever. He never asked you to unlearn the gentleness your father built your world around, or reshape yourself into something easier to hold.
Instead, he treated it like something special, something worth protecting. Something worth proving, day after day, that it could exist outside childhood memories and smoke-scented hugs goodbye.
And in the end, he never tried to stand where your father had. He simply stepped in beside him, honoured- ready to continue the love that raised you.
i cried a little while writing this. hope you're all doing amazingly !! so so happy to be back xx
summary: four times you and Clark didn't ruin your friendship, and the one time you did.
pairing: female reader x clark kent
warnings/tags: mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, coming of age, lowkey kinda cheating implied but not really? it's in a high school 'relationship' context, fluff, angst, mentions of alcohol and reader gets drunkkkk, swearing, a family pet passes away in this so pls be mindful!!!
notes: I think this is my fave fic I've written for Clark so far, go me. This song is one of my favourites off life of a showgirl, Taylor always gets me in my feels. Hope you all enjoy :)
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
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masterlist
one
You remembered the first time you saw Clark differently.
You had just turned ten, and it was school camp. You sat in the car, peering out at the monotony, your fingers danced on the sill of the car door as you drove under a grey overpass.
The September rain made the grass glisten, like tiny diamonds twinkling back at you.
Your mum had dropped you off, loaded you up with your sleeping bag and snacks, pressing I love yous and have funs into your youthful skin.
You stood there resembling a packing mule, waving her off as she reluctantly reversed out of the car park. You were doing what kids do, putting on a brave face and trying not to let her see how nervous you were, but like all parents, she knew.
Your smile dropped the second she rounded the corner. Your backpack suddenly too heavy, the back of your knees slicked with sweat.
Then you saw him.
Clark Kent, your best friend since first grade. As reliable as the sun rising and setting, he was always there next to you. A part of you. Like your shadow.
He was leaning against the trunk of a tree, his camping gear discarded at his feet, like he had been waiting a while. He was wearing a vest that was miles too big for him, a baseball cap concealing his mop of curls.
His smile widened at the sight of you, like it stretched for miles.
You felt it then, the way the beat of your heart jumped erratically. Your stomach flipping, anxiety curdling in your bones. You didnāt quite understand what it meant in that moment.
āYou excited?ā He beamed at you as you approached him.
āYeah, the quad biking looks awesome.ā He loaded his stuff up onto his spindly shoulders, grabbing one of yours off you before you could say anything.
āMum bought me snacks, I reckon we eat them after dinner in our tent.ā
āBoys and girls canāt share tents.ā You both turned to see your classmate Susie Jenkins appear around the tree, a gaggle of her loyal followers behind her. She crossed her arms over her tiny body, her eyes gleaming.
āWhy not?ā Clarkās forehead furrowed in confusion.
The girls looked at eachother and giggled. āYou might do things, like k-i-s-s-i-n-g.ā
Your nose scrunched up, āwhy would we do that?ā
Kissing was gross. Only adults like your parents kissed. Or in Disney movies.
āBecause thatās what boys and girls do when they like like each other.ā
She said it so matter-of-factly, like she knew everything there was to know about feelings. Maybe she did, she was two months older, which in the mind of a ten year old might as well have been decades.
Your cheeks grew crimson at the accusation. You dared a glance at Clark to see him growing a similar shade.
āWe donāt like like eachother.ā You snapped back quickly in defence of both of you.
The girls giggled again and exchanged looks, like they knew something you didnāt.
āCome on, we're playing cops and robbers!ā A boy from your class ran past, shouting at the top of his lungs as he tried to rally as many kids as he could.
The girls' attentions shifted in the blink of an eye. Playing with the boys was much more interesting than teasing the two of you.
āYou and Clark are going to be k-i-s-s-i-n-g!ā Susie sing songed, sticking her tongue out at the both of you before scampering off to join the flock.
You and Clark stood still for a moment, the red slowing draining from your cheeks under the autumn sun.
āThat was stupid.ā
āVery.ā You agreed quickly.
āAnyway.ā Clark shrugged. āYou want to share snacks tonight?ā
You paused, Susieās words still ringing in your ears.
āMaybe- maybe we shouldnāt share a tent." You suggested, twirling a strand of your hair between your fingers as you avoided his gaze. "We don't want everyone thinking we like like each other, right?"
A look your young brain hadn't learnt to decipher flashed across his features, before settling into one you did know. Disappointment.
You felt it then, something shifted between you two. Like a coat of your innocence had been permanently stripped away. Looking back, you guessed it was because it was the first time you'd been put in a gender shaped box and Clark had been put in a different one.
"Yeah, maybe that's a good idea."
You looked up at him. Your stomach did that strange flipping thing again, like it couldn't decide if it was nervous or excited, or both.
"Come on, I'll help you set your stuff up."
You watched him curiously as he hauled your bags up onto his shoulders. Boys were very annoying. And had germs. Clark was a boy, yes, yet heād always been the exception. But you'd never felt anything like this before when you'd looked at him.
He looked over his shoulder at you and shot you a grin, "you coming or what?"
A thought popped into your head as you smiled back at him, one that left you rethinking your whole world view.
The thought that maybe kissing wouldn't be that gross...depending on the person.
two
The wooden floors of Smallville High's gymnasium had been polished so aggressively that you could see your reflection in them.
The aging hall had been decked out with streamers and balloons. An old disco ball twirled half heartedly in the centre, casting everything in cheap neon hews of pinks and purples.
The air conditioning puttered weakly, trying to unsuccessfully cope with the mass of teenage bodies clustered together.
Beads of sweat pilled at the base of your skull. Your wilted corsage dangled from your wrist as you wrapped your arms around the nape of your dateās neck.
āI know Iāve said it like a hundred times, but you look really pretty.ā
You giggled as you mumbled your thanks, averting your gaze as your cheeks flushed.
Over your date's right shoulder you caught a glimpse of him.
He was already looking at you.
He had always been taller than the other boys, a mess of gangly limbs and black curls. But as he stood there in his tux he somehow looked even larger, heroic even, a Clark shaped diamond in the rough of acne-ridden hormonal teenagers.
You had caught him off guard, not giving him enough time to hide the raw cut of his features. You noted the tick of his jaw under the disco light, the crease of his brow, the look in his eyes that - if you wanted to be hopeful and perhaps delusional - you would say looked something like longing.
It happened so quickly you thought you might have imagined it. You blinked and his features had gone neutral, like he'd slipped a mask on. He shot you a grin from across the dance floor before slipping back into the crowd of creased tuxedos and poofy dresses.
"You ok?"
You hadn't realised you'd been staring. You looked back up at your date. Owen McIntyre, the Smallville High quarterback, sweet, respectful.
Not Clark.
The reminder was like an unexpected smack in the face. The room suddenly felt far too crowded.
"Um- yeah it's just hot in here."
His face pinched with the perfect amount of concern. "Do you want me to go get you a drink?"
"Thank you but I think I might just pop out and grab some air." You squeezed his arm gently, as if it might soften the blow. "I'll be right back, I promise."
"Ok." He nodded, "I'll be here." You felt flushed with guilt as you shot him one last smile before leaving him in the middle of the dance floor. The pink sparkles of your dress winked back at you from the wood as you moved.
The cool spring air was a welcome relief on your skin as you slipped outside. The music and laughter of your classmates faded into a dull roar behind you. You picked up your dress and descended down the back steps towards the football field.
He turned lazily to face you, almost like he knew you would find him out here. Perhaps he did, you both always seemed to find your way back to one another.
"Needed a break too?"
"It's like a sauna in there." You complained as you sat down on the bench beside him, internally praying that your dress wouldn't get marks all over it.
"I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did."
He watched as you kicked off your heels, planting your throbbing feet on the dewy grass. You sighed, tipping your head back as you let the breeze blow through you.
"I can fly to yours and grab you another pair of shoes."
"Thank you but these ones go best with my dress and unfortunately beauty is pain. Besides aren't you meant to only be using your powers at the farm?"
He shrugged. "What Ma and Pa don't know won't hurt them."
You shot him a bemused smirk before letting your eyes flutter shut. "Since when were you such a rebel?"
"Blame yourself. Ma always said you were a bad influence."
You snorted at that, "nice try. That woman adores me."
"That's true." He admitted softly, your closed eyes giving him a chance to admire you freely. "You're having a good time?"
"Yeah I am."
"And Owen he's-" You peaked one eye open at that to see Clark looking at you like he half regretted even opening his mouth.
"Owen is behaving himself don't worry." You teased him. "Very gentlemanly...for a football player."
He chuckled at that, although his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"That's good. You deserve it."
You ignored the way your heart fluttered at that. You'd become a master at it, pushing those feelings deep down into a little box and throwing away the key.
"Susie looks like she's enjoying herself." Another thing you'd mastered. Deflection, distraction.
"Yeah I think she's having fun."
You snorted at that, making Clark jerk his head to look at you, a ghost of a smirk threatening to twist up onto his lips. "What?"
"Nothing it's just- I can't believe you're going steady with Susie Jenkins of all people."
The tips of his ears turned pink. "Susie's nice." He protested. "And we spend a lot of time together."
"No I get it, all those late nights working on the next issue of the Smallville High Chronicle or the debate club, it's romantic stuff, I mean who wouldn't fall in love?"
You laughed as he lightly shoved your shoulder playfully. You swung back his way, nudging his ribs.
"If that's your way of telling me I need to take her on a proper date, don't worry I'm working on it."
Your stomach felt familiarly nauseous at that.
"Also like you can talk." His eyes met yours once more. "The quarterback and the head cheerleader? Talk about predictable."
His words weren't designed to hurt, but they did, hitting you square in the chest. Another reminder of the stark differences between you and him, the rift between you that you felt deepen more and more everyday.
You did well at school sure, but Clark? He was one of the best and brightest. Chess club, science fair, debate club - he did it all. Alongside Susie Jenkins. They made perfect sense on paper, hell even when you saw them walk down the halls you had to admit to yourself that they looked like the perfect couple. Like their photos belonged side by side in the 'most likely to succeed' section of your yearbook.
There'd been a part of you that had hoped he might ask you to prom, that you could fall back on the promise you'd both made when you started high school. The promise that if you didn't have dates, you'd go with eachother.
But then he started holding Susie's hand in the hallway and sitting with her at lunch. So when Owen asked you, what else were you to do other than say yes?
"Alright fair play Kent." You raised your hands up in mock surrender. "Touche."
A heartbeat passed between the two of you, just enough silence to make you genuinely laugh at the way Clark delivered his next words so incredulously.
"And who says going steady anymore?"
He watched you as you laughed, memorising the way your mouth split open, the way the corner of your eyes crinkled.
"I do. Trust me, I'm bringing it back."
He knew you had no idea how true that statement actually was. That you could make any phrase you wanted a trend. He saw what you didn't. The way others orbited around you, hanging onto your every word. The longing glances the boys shot you in the hallway, and the envious ones the girls made behind your back.
If you hadn't been friends since childhood, would you even spare him a glance? You probably would, because you were, well, you. The kindest, most generous person Clark had ever met.
His heart hammered traitorously in his chest as you casually leant your head on his shoulder, your eyes fixed on the constellations hanging above you. He supposed there was one perk of living out in the country. You let out a cute yawn. Ok, two perks.
"Should we go on a double date?" The words blurted out before he could stop them. Like his brain was trying to remind him that you both were indeed here with other dates.
You pulled your head off his shoulder to look up at him in disbelief. "Why on earth would we do that? Susie hates my guts."
"She does not!"
You raised a brow sceptically. "She doesn't exactly try to quieten her voice when she calls cheerleaders 'brainless bimbos' during gym."
Ok, you might sort of have a point. Susie did kind of hate you. But it wasn't because you were a cheerleader. It was because Clark had accidentally let slip that he was thinking of asking you to prom one night while the two of them had been working on the paper together.
In Clark's defence, they hadn't even really gone on a date yet when he said it. But Susie had kept that locked in the unbreakable vault that was her brain and had never let him forget it.
It was a stupid idea anyway. The second he had heard Owen talking about his plan to ask you to prom with his football friends, he'd completely scrapped it. You were you, Owen was Owen and Clark was Clark. You deserved to go with someone like Owen, headstrong and equally as dynamic and adored. They might as well have already handed out your crowns for prom king and queen.
Thankfully, the faint hum of a familiar song spared him from having to respond to you.
You sat up excitedly, "I thought Eric specifically banned the Mighty Crabjoys from the prom playlist?"
Clark shrugged, unable to hide the smile on his face at your excitement. "Guess he changed his mind."
You didn't need to know that Clark had bribed Eric from chess club and also the DJ for the evening with the offer of doing his homework for the rest of the semester to get him to play this song just for you.
He rose to his feet, trying to fight the tremors in his hands.
"Would you-" He swallowed down his nerves. "Would you like to dance?"
Your attention was fixed on him then. A slow smile spread across your lips as you looked up from his extended hand to his face. "Thought you'd never ask Kent."
Clark felt like he was floating in that moment.
You must have been a sight. The two of you awkwardly twirling around on the field, your grass stained bare feet stepping clumsily on his boots, your head tipped back as you laughed.
You weren't exactly sure when the song had ended. But even when you realised that it had, neither of you made an attempt to move.
You suddenly became painfully aware of his hands on your hips, the feeling of his hair at the nape of his neck curled around your fingers.
"You're beautiful."
You weren't sure if he'd meant to say it out loud. He said it so quietly, bordering on reverently. In that moment, you knew that no one had ever looked at you like that before and perhaps they wouldn't ever again.
You knew in that moment that if you kissed him right now, you were almost certain that he would kiss you back. It would be inconvenient, messy, but possibly the best mistake you could make.
But then you thought about Susie and Owen, the look on your parents' faces if things didn't work out. The fact that you were pretty sure your heart would give out if he rejected you, or even worse, if you lost him as your best friend.
You could tell he sensed it was coming by the way his hands stiffened at your waist and his face hardened ever so slightly, like he was bracing for impact.
"We should probably head back inside."
"Yeah." He nodded. You felt empty without the weight of his hands on you.
You watched as he knelt down to pick up your shoes.
"Um- there's something I have to tell you." You tentatively took your heels from him, clutching them against your chest as you waited for him to keep speaking.
"I found out today that I got a full ride to UM."
You blinked as you processed his words.
"Like as in, a scholarship? For journalism?"
He nodded, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.
"Oh my god Clark!" You shrieked as you jumped on him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
Whatever moment you'd just shared was discarded, lying next to your heels abandoned once again on the freshly mowed grass. Right now you were back to being just the two best friends that you always had been.
He chuckled into your hair, catching you with ease as he squeezed you back.
"I can't believe this! Why didn't you tell me!" You exclaimed as he placed you down gently.
"I wanted to wait for the right moment."
"I'm so happy for you. You deserve this so much." It was true, for as long as you could remember Clark had dreamed of going to the University of Metropolis, he had a banner hanging up in his room for crying out loud.
"I can't believe you're going to be living in Metropolis."
"I know, going to need to start looking into insurance policies."
It wasn't lost on you in that moment what this meant. You'd applied for a bunch of colleges, but none were in Metropolis. In a few short months the two of you would be the furthest apart that you'd ever been. You couldn't imagine it, what your daily life would look like without Clark Kent in it.
You realised it then as you looked up at him. He wasnāt your shadow, he was your sun.
You forced a smile onto your face. "Well, sounds like youāre going to be needing to invest in a good foldout sofa."
three
It was a Wednesday and you had just gotten back from class when your phone rang. You glanced down to see your mumās face staring back at you.
You were running late for your shift at the liquor store. Usually in these circumstances you would just let it ring out, figuring if it was particularly urgent she would call you again. But some inexplicable force tugged at you, making you press accept.
āHi mum.ā
āHi honey.ā
You froze at her somber tone. Your mum was never somber, she was practically a walking ray of sunshine. The last time she'd been this serious was when she had to break the news that she hadn't had time to bake a pumkin pie for thanksgiving.
āIs everything ok?ā
You heard your mum let out a small sigh. āI just wanted to call to let you know thatā¦ well honey, Daisy passed away.ā
You slowly took a seat on the edge of your bed. "Oh."
āYou know she was nearly 20 which is an extraordinarily long life for a dairy cow and-ā
āWhen did she uh- when did she pass?ā
āA few days ago. It was very peaceful.ā She reassured you.
Your mind reeled.
āIām sorry I didnāt call you sooner I just know how busy you are with classes and work and I thought maybe Clark would have told you so-"
"No that's ok Clark didnāt tell me, we um-" You bit the inside of your cheek. "We haven't talked in a little bit."
"Oh, I see." You could hear it in your mum's voice, the way she was fighting to hold herself back from asking if you were ok and if something had happened between the two of you.
The truth was, nothing significant had happened. The two of you were almost on opposite sides of the country and both leading very busy lives. Clark had gotten an internship at the Daily Planet, a newspaper in Metropolis and you were working two jobs to support yourself through college.
Over the last couple of years your contact had dwindled, weekly phone calls turned into fortnightly and then just on special events and then none. You still sent each other the occasional text, for birthdays and holidays mainly, but for the most part you'd lost track of each other.
Given all of that, it shouldnāt have been a surprise that he hadnāt told you about Daisy, but it was. It was an ugly wake up call as to how much the pair of you had drifted.
"Well Martha mentioned they're just going to have a small little funeral tomorrow, Clark's flying over for it, so that will be a nice way to say goodbye."
"I'll be there." The words left your lips before you had time to think them through.
You knew it wasn't an invitation. But the string that connected you to Clark was finally tugging at you firmly after being loose for so long. You needed to see him, needed to re-enter his orbit.
"Honey are you sure-"
"I'm sure." You hurried over to your desk, putting your phone on speaker as you plonked into your desk chair.
"What about your classes and work and-"
"I'll sort it out." You opened your laptop to start looking at flights. "It's Clark, mum." You added, just a touch too softly for it to be casual.
You heard your mum emit a small sigh through the receiver. "I know darling."
That's how you ended up on the Kent's doorstep less than twenty four hours later, your duffle slung over one shoulder and sleep caking your eyeline.
The 'welcome to the farm' doormat was still spread on the wooden deck, although slightly faded now. The wind charm you and Clark had made in primary school clinked pleasantly in the afternoon breeze.
You felt doubts start to creep in as you stood there, your hand hovering over the doorbell. Was he going to want to see you? Was he going to think you were crazy for flying all the way over here? Maybe if you turned and ran right now you could get back home in time to go the college party your friends had begged you to go to, with Clark never knowing that you had been here.
The possibility of running away was squashed under the sound of footsteps crunching on the dry leaves that littered the driveway.
You heard him before you saw him.
āIāll get it from the truck Pa!ā
You turned just as he appeared from around the side of the house. He froze as his eyes landed on you. He was wearing a white shirt under an unbuttoned and faded flannel that was rolled up to his elbows. His hair was windswept, framing those painfully familiar blue eyes which were wide in shock.
All doubts flew out the window at the sight of him. The sound of your duffel thumping onto the porch made a few pigeons scatter. You took a few tentative steps forward, and before your brain could catch up to your legs, you were running.
He met you halfway, your body crashing into his, his outstretched arms pulling you straight into him. You could feel his taught muscles ripple underneath his shirt. Heād filled out dramatically since youād seen him last.
He nuzzled his face into the crown of your head. You were wearing a new perfume, a more refined scent. He inhaled deeply, he could smell traces of the same shampoo youād used in high school underneath.
āIām so sorry about Daisy.ā You murmured into his chest.
The realisation hit him square in the chest then. Youād flown all the way home just to be there for him. He squeezed you tighter, like he was trying to prove to himself that you were real.
You twisted up in his arms to look at him. His eyes were brimming with unshed tears.
āI canāt believe youāre here.ā
You smiled softly up at him. āYou better believe it Kent.ā
The rattle of the front flyscreen door creaking open made the two of you pull apart.
āWell well well, do my eyes deceive me or has our other city slicker finally come to their senses and remembered to pay us a visit?ā
Your grin widened at the sight of Martha and Jonathan standing at the doorway. Clark loosened his grip to allow you to hurry towards them, embracing them both tightly.
āCome in come in, thereās leftover blueberry pie in the fridge.ā Martha ushered you inside. She ran a hand over the back of your head under the guise of being endearing, but her eyes were sharp and assessing as always.
She frowned. āHave you been feeding yourself at college? You know I hear these horror stories of students living off cans of tuna and that is something I simply will not allow.ā
You turned back around to look at Clark, pulling a face that signalled āhelp meā. Clark let out a laugh as you got dragged inside.
The funeral had been short and intimate, only you and your family, the Kentās and a couple of other locals gathered outside under the large oak.
You and Clark had locked eyes a few times, slow tears rolling down both your cheeks as you remembered all of the afternoons youād shared running around with Daisy in the fields as Martha desperately tried to corral you inside for afternoon tea.
As the sky began to be brushed with golds and pinks, the others filtered home. You and Clark sat out on the back porch watching the cows lazily chew at the reeds.
Martha was cooking up a storm in the kitchen, the scent of thyme and rosemary filtering through the open windows.
Your head rested on his shoulder, a half drunk glass of wine beside you. Cicadas chirped around you. The two of you had caught up over lunch, and although there were endless things to say, you were both content sitting in the quiet of dusk, enjoying each otherās company. Now that you were together, it was like no time had passed, that deep crevice separating you two sealed up like a distant memory.
You felt so at ease that you were pretty sure if you closed your eyes, youād slip into a slumber.
āDo you miss home?ā Your voice eventually broke the peaceful silence.
āIn moments like this, yeah.ā
You blinked up at him lazily, a soft smile on your lips. āMe too.ā You reached for your wine.
āI should visit more often.ā You confessed after a few moments.
You felt him nod. āSo should I.ā
You sat up to look at him properly. āMaybe we make a pact.ā
āThis isnāt going to be like that time we made a pact to dye our hair blue and only one of us followed through is it?ā
You gave him a pointed but playful look. āNo, but thank you for reminding me of that. Iāll have to get mum to find the photos she took.ā
You laughed as he elbowed your ribs. āIām serious, a pact to visit home more, to keep each other accountable.ā
āOk.ā He nodded seriously. He stuck out his pinky.
āAnd a pact to not let us go this long without talking again.ā He added as you entwined your finger with his.
Your smile faltered, guilt tendrilling around your heart as you nodded.
āIām sorry.ā
āIām sorry too.ā
Neither of you looked away, your fingers still interlocked.
You tried not to think about all the memories youād missed out on making, all his friends you didnāt know, the fact you didnāt know if the Mighty Crabjoys were still his favourite band, or if he still had a glass of milk before bed every night.
āIāve missed you.ā You confessed.
You felt his pinky tighten around yours. His eyes were swimming with so much emotion that you couldnāt decipher between them all.
āIāve missed you too.ā
You had no idea how much. Clark thought about it then as you looked up at him. The fact that he could lean forward and kiss you, spill years of locked confessions to the altar of you.
The entitled ring of your phone beside you was like water on a flame.
āSorry.ā You apologised. Clark felt like a part of him had been ripped away as your finger untwined itself from his.
Clark didnāt miss the way your face faltered when you glanced down at your screen.
āEverything ok?ā He studied your face intently.
āUm yeah.ā You answered unconvincingly as you picked up your phone.
āItās Mark- my um- my boyfriend.ā You tacked on quickly when you saw the confusion flash across his features.
āI should probably answer.ā
Clark took a heartbeat too long to respond, his brain frazzled at the revelation.
āOh no problem.ā He stood up hastily. āIāll um- Iāll give you some privacy.ā He jerked his thumb awkwardly to the back door.
You shot him a grateful smile that looked half pained, before pressing the phone to your ear.
āHi babe.ā
Clark shut the door behind him before he could hear anything further.
āYou need help with anything Ma?ā He rubbed his sweaty palms on the back of his jeans.
āAll good honey.ā Martha waved him away dismissively. She peered out the window over the sink,
āWhoās missy on the phone to?ā
āHer boyfriend Mark.ā
Your father and Jonathan looked up over their newspapers to exchange glances.
āOh.ā Your mum didnāt try to hide the distain in her voice as she took a break from peeling potatoes to peer out the window beside Clark and Martha.
Martha tutted and shook her head.
āWhat?ā Clark asked her.
āWe do not like Mark in this household.ā
āWe donāt?"
Your mum shook her head.
Why?ā Clark tried and failed miserably at hiding his excitement.
āBecause heās a loser.ā Your mum stated matter-of-factly. āHeās in finance or something and never makes anytime for her but expects her to drop everything when it suits him. Theyāre constantly fighting.ā
Sure enough, you were now pacing back and forth on the back patio. Your voice was raised, your features twisted into a grimace as you gesticulated wildly with your free hand.
Clark knew he should give you your privacy, but he found himself unable to look away.
You hadnāt mentioned you had a boyfriend this entire time. He couldnāt ignore the flicker of hope that sparked as he wondered to himself, was that omission on purpose?
Martha and your mum leant back to exchange knowing smiles behind Clarkās back.
-
Your mum dropped you to the airport the next morning. You had been quiet on the drive, your nose stuck in your phone as you exchanged a flurry of angry texts with Mark.
He was upset that you had gone home "on a whim" when you'd agreed to go to the party with him. You thought you'd sorted it on the phone yesterday, but apparently not.
You sighed, chucking your phone into your lap in defeat as you pulled into the drop off zone.
āThanks so much mum. Iāll text you when I land.ā You twisted around to grab your duffle from the backseat.
She cleared her throat. āSweetheart." You froze mid arm reach, caught off guard by her intense expression.
"I know it's not really my business and that you and Clark have been friends forever but-"
"Mum-" You began in protest.
"Just let me say this one thing." She held up her hand sternly and suddenly you felt like you were eight years old again being scolded for playing up.
āI know that staying just friends is safe.ā She paused as she watched you. āBut that doesnāt mean that you should.ā
Your mumās words haunted you the entire flight home, then followed you on a loop into the taxi, up the stairs and into your apartment.
You sat on your bed cross legged staring at your phone. Clarkās contact stared back at you. You leant forward, finally about to work up the courage to press the call button when your phone vibrated and his photo filled the screen, making you jump slightly.
You hastily accepted, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach as you pressed it to your ear.
āHi.ā
You couldn't help but smile at the sound of his voice. āHi stranger.ā
āI was just calling to see how your flight was.ā
āFunny that, I was just about to call you.ā You answered, shuffling around on your bed to lay on your back, flopping your head down onto the pillow.
āOh?ā
āYeah.ā You stared up at the ceiling.
āI realised I went the whole visit without asking you how your powers were going. Quite rude of me.ā
Clark chuckled. āMy powers are getting stronger everyday, actually I- well this is going to say crazy but I went to Antarctica-ā He cut himself off.
You opened your mouth to ask a million and one questions but he beat you to it.
āActually.ā His tone was different this time, a bit more pensive, almost nervous. āWhy donāt you stay with me for the weekend and I can show you. I did buy that foldout couch for a reason, you know.ā
āYeah, Iād love to.ā You said it before you could think about what plans with Mark or your friends you might have, or even what shifts you had rostered. But you didnāt care, you'd choose him every time.
āIāll have to see if thereās any flights though.ā
āText me your address.ā You could hear his smirk over the phone.
Your brow furrowed in confusion at his statement, but you complied regardless.
āBe right back.ā You pulled your phone away from your ear at the sound of the tone indicating he had hung up.
You had just started typing another message to him when there was a soft tap on your balcony window.
You let out a laugh in disbelief as you came out into your living room.
Clark was standing on your balcony, his hands behind his back and a mischievous grin on his face. You slid the door open, shaking your head as he bowed dramatically with a sweep of his hand.
āYour flight is ready for departure maāam.ā
four
āI think maybe we flip the couch around again so itās against that wall.ā
āSoā¦ how we had it originally two hours ago?ā
His tone wasnāt pointed, it never was. It was a skill of his, the ability to sound unassuming and innocent. It was only when you really knew him that you could pick up the subtle traces of sarcasm.
āYes Clark exactly like we had it originally two hours ago.ā You smiled, mockingly patting his shoulder.
You would have felt guilty about using Clark as your free furniture removalist, except you knew that picking up a couch was the equivalent of picking up a feather to him and the fact that he had dragged you to a bottlecap museum and held you captive there for 3 hours last weekend.
āWeāre going to be late you know.ā
āNo weāre not, I just have to change into my dress.ā You called out as you hurried down your hallway, dodging the land minds that were your unpacked boxes, which were currently taking up about half the space of your shoebox apartment.
You had been in Metropolis for two weeks now. After a couple of years in an unhappy job and months of Clark insisting, youād finally bitten the bullet, handing in your resignation before packing up your life to move across the country the very next day.
With the rest of your friends dispersed around the country and the rest of the world, you only had Clark here. So naturally youād jumped at the suggestion of meeting his closest friends from work.
āBest you meet my day job friends before my other work colleagues.ā Heād insisted when youād asked him if the ājustice gangā would be invited.
āOk we can go.ā You announced as you made your way back into the living room.
You were wearing a new dress and heels, a little gift that youād bought yourself for moving to a new city.
Clark looked up from the couch, struck dumb as he blinked slowly, taking you in.
āIs it too much?ā You frowned, glancing down at your tight dress. āI thought the bar we were going to was meant to be quite nice.ā
āUh no.ā He shook his head feverishly as he rose to his full height, wiping his palms on the front of his pants.
āDefinitely not. You look- you look really beautiful.ā
You shot him a grin as you smoothed down the front of your dress.
āYou ready?ā
āYeah.ā He nodded. āOh wait.ā You watched as he fished out his glasses from his back pocket, sliding them up the bridge of his nose.
āNow Iām ready.ā
You still werenāt used to it, the alter ego of it all. You remembered the first time he'd walked out in the superman suit. The way his shoulders rounded out, his spine straightened and chest puffed. Even the way he talked, his voice deep and rich in confidence. It was like he was a different person.
You always knew he was destined for extraordinary things, but seeing your best friend transform into the superhero that carried the weight of the world on his shoulders was something you donāt think youād ever fully get used to.
You hadnāt expected to feel nervous, but as the two of you stood outside the bustling bar you felt a flutter behind your ribs.
Clark had a whole life here that you werenāt a part of. You couldnāt help but worry that you werenāt going to fit in, that your presence would be like an ill fitting puzzle piece, trying to clumsily jam its way into this space in his life.
Wordlessly his warm hand engulfed yours, squeezing it gently.
āTheyāre going to love you.ā
You smiled at him, squeezing his hand back. He always knew what to say, even if you didnāt know you needed him to say it.
You let Clark guide you inside, following him to the back of the bar to a corner booth.
They spotted you at the same time you did them. Your eyes grazed over them. A freckled face with a wide, welcoming grin. Jimmy. A platinum blonde with flawless makeup, Cat. Lastly, a dark haired woman, with piercing, analysing eyes that were looking you up and down. Lois.
āHey guys.ā Clark greeted as you reached the table. As he introduced you, their smiles were friendly, but you could tell they were sizing you up. They were being protective, and you were glad for it. Clark deserved people that looked out for him.
āSo, what was Clark like as a kid?ā Jimmy was the first to jump in as you slid into the booth.
āHow much time have you got?ā
āOoh any embarrassing stories?ā Cat asked eagerly, ignoring Clarkās groan of protest.
āIāll do you one better. Buy me a couple of drinks and Iāll show you photos. I believe thereās one out there somewhere of him dressed up as Doc Brown from Back to the Future?ā You turned to Clark, shooting him an overzealous wink.
āThis was a mistake.ā He groaned, burying his head in his hands.
Jimmy chuckled, a devilish grin on his lips as he took a sip of his beer. āOh yes, youāll fit right in.ā
As the night wore on and the drinks flowed, you found yourself getting more and more comfortable.
You loved watching Clark like this too, laughing and relaxed, completely in his element. Youād always known it, but tonight confirmed it, Metropolis had brought him to life.
āI get it now.ā Lois announced as you came back to the booth after going to get her and you another round.
āGet what?ā You asked her, noting the ghost of a smirk on her lips as you slid her drink across the sticky surface.
āWhy Clark doesnāt shut up about you.ā You couldnāt control the way your face flushed, which you were sure is what she intended.
āWell when you grow up in Smallville, thereās not that much to talk about other than the people you grew up with.ā Her eyes narrowed slightly at your deflection, meeting your gaze as she assessed you.
She brought her drink up to her lips. āso, Clark said you were dating someone right? A Mark or a Jack? A financier or something?ā Her voice had raised slightly, just enough that you felt Clarkās knee tense under the table.
A change in tactics.
You kept your face neutral, unreadable as you picked up your drink and took a casual sip.
āMark was my college boyfriend, I was with Jack until recently for a year. Both were in finance.ā
She nodded, like she didnāt know all of that already. Clark was right, she was formidable.
āWas?ā
āYeah we broke up a month or so before I moved here. Clearly didnāt learn my lesson the first time about dating men in finance.ā You remarked.
āSo, youāre single?ā
You did it before you could stop yourself. A glance at Clark out of the corner of your eye. His jaw was clenched, face taught, like he was trying not to look like he was listening. The two of you caught eyes briefly, before yours flickered back to Lois in embarrassment.
The interaction lasted less than a few seconds, but you knew sheād caught it by the way her eyes glimmered in amusement.
You cocked your head slightly, quirking a brow up as you smirked at her. āWhy? You interested?ā
She let out a genuine chuckle at that before raising her glass. āI like you.ā
You grinned. āFeelingās mutual.ā You clinked your glass against hers.
Clark couldnāt stop looking at you as the night went on. You still didnāt see the way the others radiated around you, clinging onto every word as you held court, telling stories and anecdotes. Even Lois was enraptured. You slotted in so naturally, like youād known them your whole life.
He couldnāt describe the feeling of seeing his two worlds blend so seamlessly together.
The two of you kept finding eachotherās eyes. Clark would usually get embarrassed at getting caught looking at you, but something was different tonight. He got the familiar flutter of nerves, but he didnāt have the urge to quickly look away. Instead the two of you held each otherās gazes for a few moments, like you were having an entirely seperate conversation to the one going on around you.
The two of you were finally alone for the first time when Cat and Lois went to the bathroom and Jimmy went to go order another drink.
āYou didnāt tell me you and Jack broke up.ā You nearly jumped when you felt Clarkās hot breath on the shell of your ear.
āDidnāt I?ā You said innocently, glancing up at him.
āNo.ā Clark stated. āI would have remembered that.ā
Had he been sitting this close the entire time? You swallowed, letting the alcohol steel your nerves.
āWhy didnāt you tell me?ā
You couldnāt tell him that the reason was that it would suddenly make the fact that both of you were single at the same time for the first time in a long time very real. And for some reason, that scared the shit out of you.
You shrugged nonchalantly. āMust have slipped my mind with the move coming up.ā
Clark looked like he was about to say something else, probe further, but he changed his mind last minute.
āWell Iām glad, he was an asshole.ā He muttered into his beer.
You snorted at his blunt words. āYeah he was.ā
You twisted your glass around on the liquor stained table as you muttered, āMaybe Iāll have more luck in Metropolis.ā
When you looked up at him again, something unreadable had shifted in his gaze, something that made your heart leap into your throat.
āMaybe you will.ā You swore you felt the ghost of his fingers brush your thigh.
āWhoās ready for shots!ā Jimmyās voice barrelled in between the two of you.
You laughed at Clarkās face at the sight of 10 tequila shots being slammed down in front of him. Lois and Cat arrived shortly after, eagerly grabbing a shot each.
āTo new friends and new memories.ā Jimmy raised his glass. You all echoed his words, clinking your drinks together before downing the liquor. You winced as the tequila burned your throat, desperately reaching for the relief of the lime wedge.
Clark watched in amusement as you grabbed the next one far too quickly. You shot him a playful glare when you spotted the judgment on his face.
You were finally living in the same city as your best friend, if that wasnāt a reason to let loose, you didnāt know what was.
Unfortunately, youād never been great a handling your liquor. A couple of hours later you were a giggling, slurring mess and feeling nothing short of euphoric.
You waved goodbye to your new friends, who were in a no better state, as Clark guided you off the dance floor of the club youād all ended up at.
āOoh we should fly home!ā You exclaimed excitedly once the pair of you spilled out onto the empty street.
āI donāt think your stomach could handle that.ā Clark chuckled. āBesides, itās not far.ā
You pouted your bottom lip, but were quick to forget his indiscretion as you stumbled towards home.
āI love your friends. And Metropolis. And life. God I love life! Life is so good.ā You babbled as you slung an arm around his waist.
āTheyāre your friends now too.ā He reminded you, fighting back laughter as he watched you. āAnd Iām very glad to hear that.ā
He guided you up to your apartment, leaving you to change into your pyjamas as he grabbed you a glass of water and some preemptive painkillers from the kitchen. Thankfully you were a compliant drunk today, and when he returned to your bedroom you were changed and tucked under the covers.
āCome lie with me.ā You patted the spot next to you as he placed the makeshift hangover kit on your bedside table.
āItās pretty lateā¦ā
āPlease.ā You begged, batting those irresistible eyes at him.
Clark withheld a sigh, how could he ever not indulge you?
āOk, but only if you drink some water.ā He bargained.
āDeal.ā
He withheld a laugh as you sat up and eagerly gulped down half the glass. He slid his shoes off before tentatively perching on the other side of the bed.
You frowned at the distance. āI donāt have cooties.ā
He did laugh breathlessly at that, but of course still complied, shuffling closer to the centre. Content, you slid back down horizontally, twisting so you were lying on your side facing him.
He was lying on his back, his thumbs twiddling on his lap as he looked up at the ceiling. You grinned at his awkwardness.
āCome here.ā He turned to look at you, blinking in surprise as you leant forward and eased his glasses off his face gently.
āWoah wait!ā You gasped. āYouāre Superman?ā
āYouāre an idiot.ā He remarked dryly yet was unable to fight the grin on his lips.
You giggled, placing his glasses on the pillow beside him. You fell into silence, your eyes scanning his face.
āI like you without your glasses.ā You whispered with surprising softness. His eyes flickered to meet yours again.
āYeah?ā
āYeah. You look more like my Clark.ā
His heart skipped a beat at that.
āAnd I can see your eyes better.ā You continued, alcohol loosening your tongue.
āI love your eyes. I could stare at them for hours.ā
āI love your eyes too.ā His voice was barely a whisper. He was trying not to let that all too familiar flicker of hope spark into a flame. You were drunk right now, he had to remind himself repeatedly.
āYouāre lucky Iām a great secret keeper.ā You changed the topic only as quickly as someone drink could. You twisted the pillow under your head around you as you studied him. āYour secret identity is under lock and key. Iām a vault.ā
āOh yeah?ā He smirked. āWhat other crazy secrets have you got hm?ā
Something flickered across your features then, like his innocuous question had triggered something inside you.
āI canāt tell you. It would ruin our friendship.ā
His stomach dropped, completely caught off guard by your unfiltered confession.
He swallowed nervously, glancing up at the ceiling again, finding himself unable to meet your gaze as the next question he was almost too scared to ask formed on his lips.
āWhy- why would it ruin our friendship?ā
A few heartbeats of silence passed, enough to make him think you were working up the courage to formulate your next words or that you might not have heard him.
He turned to look at you to repeat the question. He let out a shaky breath of laughter. You were fast asleep.
He learnt forward, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and out of your eyes. He lay there for a few moments, admiring your features. Your face was the picture of serenity, completely unaware of the emotional upheaval youād just caused.
āSweet dreams baby.ā
The next morning you were woken up by a thumping headache, your throat scratchy and sleep gluing your eyelids together.
It took a few minutes for you to realise the incessant thumping was not just in your head, but was also the sound of someone knocking on your front door.
āIām coming!ā You moaned, rubbing at your eyes as you dragged your heavy limbs out of bed.
āMorning sunshine.ā A way too chirpy Clark greeted you as you swung open the front door.
āOk, we need to dial down the positivity by like 50%.ā You winced, rubbing your temples as you tried to stay upright.
āDonāt you mean dial it up by 50%, I brought greasy breakfast bagels.ā
You blinked as Clark brought up a paper bag, waving it in front of you. The smell of greasy bacon hit you square in the stomach.
āI donāt even know if I can eat that, but thank you.ā You shuffled zombie-like into the kitchen, Clark trailing after you.
āYou should eat, itāll make you feel better.ā
You sighed as you flopped down onto one of the bar stools. You reluctantly pulled out a bagel, unwrapping it like it was a bomb about to explode.
āHow much of last night do you remember?ā He asked casually after a minute or so passed.
āNot much after we left the first bar.ā You confessed. āI remember you walking me home, but thatās it.ā
You glanced up at him after a few moments. There was an odd look on his face, something that resembled disappointment.
āWhy?ā You asked sharply. āDid I say something stupid?ā
āNo no.ā He said way too quickly for it to be anything but suspicious. āYou were very well behaved.ā
Your eyes narrowed as you tried to decipher his expression. You wracked your brain as you tried to think of what you might have said, but you were drawing a complete blank.
There was a small voice in the back of your head telling you this topic might be best left alone, like your subconscious knew something that you didnāt.
āOk, if youāre sure.ā
He nodded in response, although the odd expression on his features lingered.
āWell in that case Iāll only have mild hangxiety for the rest of the weekend then.ā Your nose wrinkled as you tentatively sniffed the bagel, your stomach lurched.
āYou still want to go furniture shopping?ā
He laughed at the look of pure horror that crossed your features.
āOrā¦. we could have a movie day and rot on the sofa? And before you ask, yes we can watch 10 Things I Hate About You.ā
Even after all these years it still scared you sometimes just how deeply he understood you.
five
It was a normal Friday. You had offered to cook dinner at yours so you and Clark could celebrate the end of the work week.
You were hovering over the stove, glass of wine in hand. Clark was sitting at the kitchen counter behind you asking you about your day. You tried to ignore how beautifully domestic this scene must have looked to an observer.
The news was playing on the television in the living room. It had become a habit for you, so you could keep up with whatever intergalactic villain Superman was battling, and more importantly so you knew if Clark was going to be late to whatever plans the two of you had.
You sensed him move in the chair behind you as he suddenly went quiet. You saw it when you glanced over at him, the physical shift that you had started getting accustomed to. The sharpening of his jaw, the laser focus, the puffing of his chest.
The tv was suddenly all you could hear as silence enveloped you both. You looked at it over his shoulder. A giant monster running rampant downtown, the usual.
Your gaze flickered to him. Neither of you needed to say anything, the slight inclination of your head towards your balcony was enough.
āIāll be back before it gets cold.ā
You blinked and he was gone, the only evidence of his presence was the half finished glass of red on the counter and the slight flutter of your balcony door curtains.
You tried to ignore the bundle of nerves that always pooled in your veins. He went and faced this sort of thing all the time, he was always back within a couple of hours.
Except this time, he wasnāt.
You were glued to the broadcast, your dinner long abandoned and burnt to a crisp on the stove.
This opponent had been stronger than normal, that was evident to you the second you saw the streak of red and blue take a dive into the concrete surface of downtown.
The justice gang had shown up not long after, but even with their forces combined they were on the back-foot.
A gasp caught in your throat at a shot of him lying motionless in the rubble, his cape in tatters, crimson dripping from his mouth.
Nausea curdled in the pit of your stomach. He wasnāt getting up. Clark always got up.
You were frozen - stuck between flight or fight mode. You were going to run to him you decided, find him amongst the chaos and somehow make him better.
But just as soon as that thought had formed in your head, shouts of victory seeped through the speakers.
The monster had been defeated and Metropolis was safe once more, the reporter emphatically declared. You watched as footage cut together, showing the justice gang waving at cheering crowds, the emergency services flooding in behind them to help those that had been injured.
No sign of Clark.
You tried to cling onto some hope. Sometimes when his energy had been depleted enough heād fly to his fortress to restore himself to full health. But he would always text you to let you know he was ok, it was a promise heād made you at the beginning when youād told him you didnāt know how much stress your heart could take in these situations.
You stared at your phone, willing for it to ping. You werenāt sure how long you sat there. Dread was seeping deeper into your bones, cementing you in place.
You knew he wasnāt entirely, but in your mind Clark was totally invincible. That thought was like a comforter, cushioning the stress you burdened when he donned his suit.
But as you sat there time wore on you finally let yourself think the unthinkable - what if he wasnāt coming back?
You could feel yourself spiralling. What would a world without the sun be like? The thing you drew your life force from, shared everything with. Well, not everything, a snide voice inside you piped up.
Were you going to spend the rest of your life asking yourself what could have been if you hadnāt been so afraid to tell him the truth? Now you might never have an answer, all because you were too afraid to ruin things.
You didnāt know what to do. You couldnāt call Jimmy or Lois or Cat, and you didnāt have the heart to call Martha or Jonathan, you couldnāt be the bearer of insurmountable grief just yet.
There was only one person you could call. Your shaking hand reached blindly for your phone. You could barely make out the screen, tears blotting your vision.
Your bottom lip trembled as you pressed it to your ear.
āHiya, youāve reached Clark. Sorry I couldnāt get to the phone, please leave me a message and Iāll get back to you as soon as possible. And remember, itās a great day to have a great day!ā
The shrill beep that followed mocked you. You didnāt have time to overthink, your body was so desperate for release that the words flowed out of you before you could stop.
āHi.ā You winced at the way your voice wavered. āI um- Iām just sitting here and I just wanted you to know that Iām- well Iām kind of angry at you because you said youād be back before dinner got cold and now- now itās all burnt and ruined because you had to go be an amazing hero and save people, which is really kind of selfish of you when you think about it.ā A delirious laugh strangled itself out of your mouth.
āAnd uh- I guess Iām also kind of angry at you because-ā You cut yourself off as tears spilled down your cheeks.
āBecause Iāve had to admit to myself that Iām a coward. And Iām a coward because Iāve been in love with you for as long as I can remember and Iāve never done anything about it, even though I think maybe you might even love me too. So please-ā Your voice cracked again, a soft whimper emerging from the back of your throat.
āPlease donāt make me live the rest of all time regretting that I never did anything about it and asking myself what if. I canāt do this without you. Please.ā
You threw your phone at the couch, shoving your head into your hands as your body racked with sobs.
You werenāt sure how long you sat like that, folded up in a ball. The tv was still on in the background. You could hear the city below you getting quieter as most of its inhabitants turned in for the evening.
If you had to guess, youād say it was around 3 am. That was when you felt it. The subtle tilt in energy that your body had become so good at sensing, the gravitational pull of the soft thud of something landing on your balcony.
You heard the balcony door slide open gently, like he was afraid to disturb the room. You rose from the couch, your legs weak underneath you.
It was raining, a soft mist clouding the city skyline behind him. He was still wearing his suit, his cape leaving a fine sprinkling of water on the wooden floor as he moved. You could tell he had healed, but even his fortress couldnāt wipe away the black smears under his eyes that revealed pure exhaustion.
The slight widening of his eyes gave away his surprise at seeing you on the couch.
You were trembling still, but you managed to move towards him. He met you halfway, his arms ready for you, like they always were. He lifted you up like you weighed nothing, your feet dangling in the air as you threw yourself into him.
His suit was still damp. You nuzzled your face into his neck. He smelt like a mixture of rain, smoke and metal with just a trace of the cologne youād bought him buried underneath.
This was real. He was here, safe.
You let out a strangled sound, something halfway between a whimper and a sigh of relief. His large hands fisted your pyjama top in response before his palms flattened against your back in comforting strokes.
You pulled away, still cradled in his arms. He exhaled a shaky breath as you brought a hand up to cradle his jaw, your eyes running over every inch of his face for signs of discomfort.
āIām ok.ā He reassured you, his warm breath fanning your face.
āThe creature had traces of kryptonite in its powers. It knocked me around more than normal.ā
His eyes shifted to the mess on the stove. āHave you been up this whole time?ā
āI couldnāt sleep. I didnāt know if you were-ā
You couldnāt even say the words out loud. His features softened even further. āIām sorry.ā
You shook your head fervently. āDonāt you dare apologise. Youāre safe, thatās all I care about.ā
A smile ghosted on his lips as he studied you. āHave you eaten?ā He placed you down gently.
āNo I couldnāt do anything other than-ā
The realisation hit you square in the chest then. That your deepest secret was sitting innocuously in his phone, just waiting for him to discover it in a voicemail.
You took a step back, your throat suddenly dry as all the air inside your lungs disappeared.
Clarkās brow furrowed at your sudden change in demeanour. āWhatās wrong?ā
āI- have you checked your phone?ā
āNo, I flew here as soon as I could. Why?ā
You were backed into a corner with no way out, like a spooked animal.
āI left you a voicemail.ā
āOk?ā
āYou shouldnāt- I donāt think you should listen to it.ā
He stiffened up at that. āWhy?ā
Your brain was working overtime, desperately trying to think of an excuse. You knew deep down that if you asked him to delete it without listening, he would. That was the kind of person Clark was, integral almost to a fault.
But your mumās words were holding you back. You had always played it safe with Clark, but should you play it safe this time?
You thought about the blind panic you had felt only moments ago. The dread that you might have to go your whole life without knowing what could have been. And now youād experienced that, you werenāt sure you could go back to pretending anymore.
You tried to still your shaking hands. Your safety net was hanging on by a thread, and you were about to unravel it.
āIā¦ I said some things that would ruin us. Our friendship.ā
He paused, digesting the gravity of your words.
āWhat things?ā His question was slow, tinged with hope and caution.
āAre you really going to make me say it?ā Your voice was barely above a whisper.
You knew that he knew it then. You could see it on his face. He took a step towards you, that invisible string pulling so tight it felt like it was about to snap.
āYes.ā His voice was throaty, his bottom lip quivering.
āI-ā Your cheeks dampened as fat tears slid down to drop onto your collarbones.
āI said that I was a coward because I have spent practically my whole life loving you and have never done anything about it.ā
Clark looked down at you like he couldnāt believe what he was hearing, like he was trying to convince himself this wasnāt a dream.
āI hate that it took you nearly dying for me to tell you.ā
Now that youād started, you couldnāt stop. It was addictive, the feeling of unburdening yourself of years of emotional baggage.
āBut all I could think about while I sat here was all the times I should have not worried about ruining the friendship and just kissed you anyway. And the fact I might have gone the rest of my life regretting that was something I couldnāt handle.ā
Clark was crying now too, his hands full of tremors as he brought them up to cradle your face. He touched your skin so gently it was like you were made of glass.
āSometimesā¦ sometimes I think I was sent to earth by my parents not just to protect humans, but also to love you.ā
He pressed his forehead to yours, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
āLoving you is engraved into my soul. Itās part of who I am, and it always will be.ā
In the soft yellows and blues of the moonlight and the lights of Metropolis shading your living room, you kissed him.
You could taste the salty brine of your tears mixing with his as your lips moved in sync. Your hands threaded into his damp hair, years of pent up feelings making the two of you almost feverish.
You finally pulled apart when you could no longer breath, your chests heaving in time with one another, your bodies trembling.
You stared at each other, like you were both trying to figure out why this had taken you both so long to do.
You could feel his smile against your mouth as he spoke, his nose bumping yours as he held you tight.
āSo, friendship ruined I guess?ā
You let out a breathless giggle against his lips as you nodded, āYeah, friendship very much ruined.ā
He grinned, stealing one more kiss and then another and then a third for good luck, before answering you.
āFinally.ā
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it backĀ hereĀ and considerĀ tipping me!Ā š¤
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusualāhe did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomedābut this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasnāt the usual āPerry wants three rewrites before lunchā kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. āClark, youāre going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.ā
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. āSmallville.ā
You blinked. āā¦Thatās a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.ā
He shot you a lookāhalf exasperated, half pleading. āThereās a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.ā
āOkay,ā you said slowly, sipping your coffee. āAnd this is a crisis becauseā¦?ā
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. āBecause theyāve beenā¦asking if Iām seeing anyone. For months.ā He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. āAnd I may haveā¦impliedā¦ā
āOh, Clark.ā You set your cup down with a grin. āYou didnāt.ā
āI did,ā he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. āI didnāt mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely andāI panicked. I didnāt want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy Iād found someone, and by the time I realized what Iād done it was too late.ā
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. āSo let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now youāre about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?ā
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. āExactly.ā
āThat is hilarious,ā you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. āItās not funny.ā
āItās so funny. Youāre basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.ā
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. āThatās why I wanted to ask you something.ā
Your eyebrows rose. āOh boy. This sounds serious.ā
āWould youā¦ā He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. āWould you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they donāt think Iām a complete failure at dating.ā
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But noāClark Kent didnāt joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
āOh my God,ā you breathed. āYou are in a Hallmark movie.ā
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. āSo you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.ā
He winced. āWhen you say it like thatāā
āClark, thatās not fake dating. Thatās method acting.ā But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didnāt know what to do with them. And suddenlyā¦ you werenāt laughing anymore. āWell,ā you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. āIāve always wanted to see Smallville.ā
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like youād just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. āYou will? Really?ā
āYeah,ā you said, shaking your head at him. āBut you owe me, Kent. Big time.ā
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. āDeal.ā
And just like that, youād agreed to be Clark Kentās fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clarkās apartment was exactly what youād expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. Heād insisted on making teaābecause apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
āSo,ā you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, āwe should probably set some ground rules.ā
āGround rules?ā he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
āObviously,ā you said. āFake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If weāre going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.ā You ticked off on your fingers. āWe need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conductāā
āRules of conduct?ā His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
āYes,ā you said firmly. āFor example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this āspur of the momentā stuff.ā
He choked a little on his tea. āKissing?ā
You raised an eyebrow. āClark, if your entire hometown thinks youāve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. Youāre not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.ā
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. āI justā¦ didnāt think about that.ā
āYou didnātāClark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?ā
āI panicked!ā he said, voice higher than usual. āI just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasnāt thinking that far ahead.ā
You laughed, shaking your head. āUnbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree itās necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.ā
Clark looked up at that, indignant. āI wouldnāt do that.ā
āOh, you wouldnāt?ā You leaned forward, smirking. āYouāve got thirty yearsā worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you wonāt let me suffer?ā
His ears turned pink. āIād never embarrass you on purpose.ā
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant itāyou could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
āFine,ā you conceded softly. āRule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number threeā¦ā You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. āWe need a believable backstory. How we met, how long weāve been together, that sort of thing.ā
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. āThatās easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.ā
You narrowed your eyes. āThatās boring. And vague. If people ask questions, youāll fold like a cheap suit.ā
He frowned. āI donāt fold.ā
āYou fold,ā you said flatly. āYouāre too nice to lie convincingly.ā
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. āI can lie!ā
āClark,ā you said sweetly, āwhat did you have for breakfast this morning?ā
āā¦Toast,ā he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. āUh-huh. And that little hesitation wasnāt suspicious at all.ā
āI did have toast,ā he muttered, flustered. āI just also hadā¦ three pancakes.ā
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. āExactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, youāll crack in seconds.ā
Clark sighed, conceding. āSo what do you suggest?ā
āWe build a story with details,ā you said, warming to the task. āSomething casual but sweet. Likeā¦ you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized weād been accidentally dating for weeks already.ā
His mouth softened into a smile. āThatās actuallyā¦ really nice.ā
āSee? Believable and romantic.ā
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. āOkay. That works. And, umā¦ how long have we been dating?ā
You tapped your chin. āLong enough that meeting your parents isnāt weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?ā
He nodded thoughtfully. āThat sounds right.ā
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad youād stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each otherāfake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. āWhat?ā you asked.
āNothing,ā he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you werenāt entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. āAlright, Kent. Weāve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.ā
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. āWhat could go wrong?ā
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. āOh, donāt say that.ā
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on drivingāsomething about āwanting you to see the view,ā though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasnāt hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his worldācornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Marthaās flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesqueālike the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kentās girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. āOkay. This is it.ā
You glanced at the farmhouse. āYour childhood home. No pressure at all.ā
āYou donāt have to be nervous,ā he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. āMa and Paā¦ theyāll love you.ā
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. āI meanātheyāll love meeting you. Because youāreā¦ you knowā¦ nice.ā
You bit back a smile. āSmooth, Kent.ā
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
āShowtime,ā you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. āWeāve got this,ā he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. āClark Jerome Kent, you didnāt tell me youād be here this early!ā
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. āHi, Ma.ā
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. āAnd this must be the mystery girl weāve been hearing about.ā
Oh God. Here it wasāthe test.
Clarkās hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. āMa, Paā¦ this is my girlfriend.ā His voice wavered only slightly. āWe, uhāwe work together at the Planet.ā
Marthaās face broke into the warmest smile youād ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. āWell, arenāt you just lovely. Iāve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, Iāve got pie cooling on the counter.ā
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. āBetter warn her about your Maās pie, son. Once youāve had it, youāll never eat another slice without comparing.ā You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smileāreassuring, like youād passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathanās. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clarkās ears went red at that, but he played along. āIt was good takeout,ā he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. āIt was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. Thatās when I knew he was trouble.ā
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. āSounds like our boy.ā
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. āSorry about all that. They, uhā¦ they can be a little enthusiastic.ā
āTheyāre wonderful,ā you said honestly. āHonestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out soā¦ā You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. āSo what?ā
You shook your head quickly. āSo polite. Thatās all.ā
He didnāt push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, ājust so you know, uhā¦ thereās a chance theyāll show you baby pictures tonight. Theyā¦ do that.ā
You grinned. āCanāt wait.ā
Clark groaned. āYouāre supposed to dread it.ā
āWhy? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.ā
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at youāreally lookedāthere was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasnāt regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredibleāsavory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadnāt even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of hisālike he wanted to guide you but wasnāt sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if heād been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. āSit, sit,ā Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. āClark, donāt let her hover. Sheās company, not a farmhand.ā
āI wasnātāMa,ā Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it wasā¦ nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. āSo,ā she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, āwhatās it like working with Clark?ā
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. āWell,ā you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, āheās punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But heās alsoā¦ dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.ā
Marthaās eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. āSheās exaggerating,ā he muttered.
āAm I?ā you teased. āYouāre the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.ā
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. āOh, I like you.ā
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. āMa, no.ā
āYes,ā she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. āIf youāre bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.ā
Jonathan smirked. āBrace yourself.ā
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. āOh my God,ā you breathed, grinning. āLook at those curls.ā
Clark covered his face with his hand. āPlease donāt.ā
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. āHere he is at five, trying to wear his fatherās work boots. Couldnāt lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this oneāoh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.ā
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. āA cape? Really?ā
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. āI was imaginative.ā
āYou were adorable,ā you corrected. āDonāt fight me on this, Kent.ā
Jonathanās eyes twinkled as he added, āThat pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.ā
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. āI like how she teases you,ā she said to Clark. āYou need someone who doesnāt let you get away with hiding.ā
Clark shifted uncomfortably. āMaā¦ā
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expressionāthe faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, āheās happy with you here. I can tell.ā
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. āOh, well, weāā You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. āHeās easy to be around.ā
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. āThat he is.ā
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a momentābarely a flickerāyou saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule youād written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt differentāpeaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He lookedā¦ comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy whoād grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
āCouldnāt sleep?ā he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. āToo quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.ā
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than youād ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. āSo. Pillowcase cape, huh?ā
Clarkās head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. āMy motherāā
āāis a treasure,ā you cut in, grinning wickedly. āAnd she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?ā
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. āPlease donāt.ā
āNo, really, it makes sense!ā You leaned against the railing, smirking. āThe cape, the heroics, the dramatic posesāit all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, Iām impressed. Youāve been workshopping the look since you were seven.ā
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. āIām never forgiving Ma for that.ā
āYou should thank her,ā you teased. āIf not for her laundry, the world wouldāve been deprived of Supermanās fashion choices.ā
āI canāt believe youāre making fun of me for this,ā he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
āOh, Iām never letting this go,ā you said firmly. āNext time you swoop in to save the day, Iām going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.ā
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasnāt embarrassed so much as he wasā¦ delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
āItās funny,ā you murmured after a moment. āYou always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But hereā¦ā You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. āā¦you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.ā
He turned toward you, his expression soft. āI like being just Clark. At least here, I donāt have to pretend as much.ā
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. āWell, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.ā
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. āYou two donāt stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.ā
Clarkās ears went pink again. āYes, Ma.ā
When she retreated, you smirked. āShe thinks weāre sneaking kisses out here.ā
Clark nearly choked. āWhat? Noāā
āRelax,ā you said, fighting a grin. āI didnāt say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.ā
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. āā¦I suppose thatās true.ā
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. āDonāt worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.ā
Clark groaned. āYouāre going to make this week unbearable, arenāt you?ā
āAbsolutely,ā you said cheerfully. āThatās what fake girlfriends are for.ā
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting closeātoo closeāon the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected thatāfarm boy habits die hardābut you hadnāt counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone whoād been teased mercilessly the night before. āSorry,ā he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. āDid I wake you?ā
You blinked blearily at him. āYou mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, youāre just the cherry on top.ā
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. āI thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If youāre up for it.ā
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. āYouāre really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?ā
Clarkās expression faltered. āWe donāt have to. I just thoughtāā
āIām kidding,ā you interrupted, fighting a grin. āGive me ten minutes. Iāll even make myself presentable for Smallville.ā
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. āYou donāt have toāā
āYes, I do,ā you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clarkās truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadnāt changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisieās, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. āClark Kent!ā an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. āWell, Iāll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.ā
Clark flushed but smiled politely. āGood morning, Mr. Jenkins.ā
āMorning,ā the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. āAnd whoās this?ā
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. āThis is my girlfriend.ā
It was the first time youād heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasnāt borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. āWell, aināt you full of surprises, Kent.ā
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. āYou realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?ā
Clarkās smile was small, almost apologetic. āYeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.ā
āFantastic,ā you muttered. āBy lunchtime, someoneās probably going to ask me when the wedding is.ā
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. āWell, if it isnāt Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?ā
āYes, maāam,ā he said politely.
āAnd whoās this?ā she asked, smiling at you.
āMy girlfriend,ā Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. āWell, sheās prettier than the last girl you brought in here.ā
Clark nearly choked. āThere wasnātāā
āSheās teasing,ā you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. āRelax, Kent.ā His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. āYou get flustered so easily.ā
āI donāt,ā he protested weakly.
āYou do,ā you said, amused. āIām starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. Youāre going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.ā
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. āIāll get better at it.ā
āI hope so,ā you teased. āBecause if not, Iām going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.ā His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. āKidding,ā you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like ānot funny,ā but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food cameāpancakes stacked high, eggs, baconāthe smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. āThis is dangerous,ā you said between bites. āIf I lived here, Iād weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.ā
āYouād get used to it,ā Clark said with a chuckle. āSmallvilleās good at simple comforts.ā
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced youāmy girlfriendāwith the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisieās, Clark offered to give you āthe tour,ā which seemed ridiculousāyouād seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didnāt protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so wellāquiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you werenāt paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. āClark? That you?ā
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clarkās face lit up with recognition. āPete,ā he said, shaking the manās hand. āItās been a while.ā
Pete glanced at you, curious. āAnd this must beā¦?ā
Clarkās hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. āMy girlfriend,ā he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. āWe came down for the wedding.ā
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. āWell, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Donāt let him fool you,ā he said to you, āhe was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.ā
You laughed, squeezing Clarkās hand just enough to make him squirm. āSome things never change.ā
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, āyou didnāt have to encourage him.ā
āOh, but itās fun watching you squirm,ā you teased. āBesides, youāre very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.ā
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, āwe should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.ā
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. āClark Kent, as I live and breathe! Havenāt seen you in years.ā Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. āAnd whoās this pretty thing?ā
Clarkās voice didnāt even waver. āMy girlfriend.ā
The woman beamed. āWell, arenāt you two a pair. Heās always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.ā
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clarkās pink ears, you nearly laughed. āDonāt worry,ā you said sweetly. āI plan to.ā
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. āYouāre enjoying this too much.ā
āYouāre not?ā you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to sayāsomething true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, youād been introduced as Clarkās girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. āWell. That was exhausting.ā
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. āThat was Smallville.ā
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he lookedā¦ happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. āClark Kent!ā someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. āThis is my girlfriend,ā Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man whoād been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stoneāand not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. āSo this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.ā
āOh, Iām very real,ā you said, smiling as Clark went red. āAnd Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.ā
āOf course he has,ā Lucy said warmly. āHe always was.ā
The groomābroad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sunāshook your hand firmly. āBrave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyoneās gonna talk.ā
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clarkās hand beneath the table as you all sat down. āLet them. I can handle it.ā Clarkās glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at firstāneighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. āSo,ā an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. āHow did you two meet?ā
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. āWe worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew weād been accidentally dating for weeks.ā The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if youād passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didnāt stop.
āWhat was your first date like?ā someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. āIt was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didnāt want the night to end.ā
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasnāt embellishing. He wasnāt grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. āDance with me?ā Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. āClark, people are watching.ā
āThatās the point,ā he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. āYouāre good at this,ā you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
āIām trying not to step on your toes,ā he admitted, smiling faintly.
āYouāre doing fine.ā
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held youāit didnāt feel fake. It didnāt feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didnāt let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadnāt quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. āYouāre enjoying this too much,ā you teased, though your voice wasnāt as steady as you wanted.
Clarkās smile was soft, almost shy. āMaybe I am.ā And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night skyāvast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clarkās hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. āYou did good,ā you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. āGood?ā
āConvincing,ā you clarified. āNot even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.ā
His mouth twitched. āPractice makes perfect.ā
āPractice, huh?ā you teased, tilting your head to study him. āWell, if you keep this up, youāre going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.ā
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. āDonāt say that.ā
āItās true,ā you pressed, amused. āYou really didnāt notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.ā
āSheās married,ā Clark protested.
āDoesnāt mean sheās blind.ā That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fieldsāthe relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldnāt resist, you said, āso, Kent. About that dance.ā
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. āā¦What about it?ā
āYou didnāt seem like a man faking it.ā
His jaw worked, but he didnāt answer right away. The truckās engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. āI wasnāt trying to fake anything.ā
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. āClarkā¦ā
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. āI just meantāit was nice. Thatās all.ā
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say moreāand saving you from having to admit you werenāt sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like youād been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. āYou donāt have to come out to chores tomorrow if you donāt want to. Most people donāt find feeding chickens relaxing.ā
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. āIāll think about it.ā
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldnāt be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. āGoodnight, Clark.ā
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, āgoodnight.ā You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldnāt quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings werenāt so bad after all. āMorning,ā he said. āI made pancakes.ā
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. āDo you ever not make pancakes?ā
āTheyāre easy,ā he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. āBesides, Ma says Iāve been hooked on them since I was five.ā
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were goodāfluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. āSee? Worth it.ā
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protestedāhalfheartedlyāuntil he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like heād done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. āYouāll like this part,ā he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. āThey lookā¦ aggressive,ā you muttered.
āTheyāre harmless,ā Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. āCome on.ā
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. āSee?ā Clark said reassuringly. āThey just want food. Here.ā He handed you a scoop of feed. āScatter it on the ground, not on yourself.ā
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold henāa plump white one with a sharp little beakāmade a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. āClark. Clark, itās coming at me.ā
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. āSheās fine. Just toss it further away from you.ā
āSheās not fine! Sheās charging!ā The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. āClark!ā you shouted, scrambling toward him. āDo something!ā
Finally looking up, Clark triedāand failedāto hide his grin. āSheās just curious.ā
āSheās a demon,ā you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. āThat thing is going to kill me.ā
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. āYouāre safe,ā he said, still chuckling. āI promise.ā
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. āYou think this is funny?ā
āA little,ā he admitted, eyes twinkling. āI didnāt know you were afraid of chickens.ā
āIām not afraid,ā you insisted, scowling. āI just haveā¦ a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.ā
Clarkās smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. āDonāt worry. Iāll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.ā
āGee, thanks, Kent. Youāre my hero.ā
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at thatāsomething flickering in his eyes, something you couldnāt quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
āCome on,ā he said, voice a little rougher than before. āThereās more to see than just chickens.ā Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. āYouāll like this better,ā he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. āCows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.ā
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didnāt look dangerous, but they also didnāt look like creatures you wanted charging at you. āFriendlier?ā you asked doubtfully. āTheyāre huge.ā
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. āJust follow my lead.ā
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presenceāuntil one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. āClark.ā
He glanced back at you. āWhat?ā
āItās coming this way.ā
āThatās okay,ā he said calmly. āTheyāre curious animals. Just stand still.ā
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. āClark, itās not walking. Itās charging.ā
āItās not charging,ā he said, though his brow furrowed now. āShe probably just wants to sniff you.ā
āSniff me? Clark, sheās the size of a car!ā
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked ināClark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backwardāinto youāand the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clarkās jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. āDid Superman just get taken out by a cow?ā
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. āDonāt start.ā
āOh, Iām starting,ā you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. āThe man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.ā
His ears went pink. āHer nameās Daisy.ā
That only made you laugh harder. āEven better.ā
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, āIām never going to live this down, am I?ā
āNot a chance,ā you said, still giggling. āIf the chickens didnāt take you out, at least the cows did.ā
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gazeāsomething warm, unguardedāthat made your laughter catch in your throat. āGlad I broke your fall, at least,ā he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. āDonāt flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.ā
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with himāliterallyādidnāt feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didnāt think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a motherās could. āWhat on earth happened to you two?ā
Clark winced. āThe cows.ā
āThe cows?ā
āThey, uhā¦ got curious,ā he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. āOne of them full-on tackled him.ā
Marthaās hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. āA cow tackled you?ā
āBumped into me,ā Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. āIt wasnātāā
āShe flattened him,ā you cut in, grinning. āAnd took me down too, by the way. So much for Supermanāsmall-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.ā
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. āYouāre never going to let that go, are you?ā
āNot in a million years,ā you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. āWell, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.ā
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, āsome of us more than others.ā Clark shot you a look but didnāt argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. āThought you might need this,ā he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more likeā¦ Clark.
āThanks,ā you said, taking it from him. āYouāve got grass in your hair, by the way.ā
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. āHere.ā Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. āGuess I lost the fight, huh?ā
āYou lost to a cow, Kent,ā you reminded him, grinning. āThereās no coming back from that.ā
āTechnically, you went down too,ā he pointed out.
āDetails,ā you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. āAnyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we canāt be trusted unsupervised.ā
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. āYeah. Good idea.ā
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about āshowing up respectable.ā
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he triedāand failedāto wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. āYouāre going to strangle yourself,ā you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like youād caught him in something compromising. āItāsā¦ fine. Iāve got it.ā
āYou donāt,ā you said, laughing softly. āCome here.ā
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologneāsomething subtle, woodsyādrifted around you as you worked. āStand still,ā you murmured, looping the tie neatly. āYou wear these every day and you still donāt know how to tie one?ā
āI usually donāt rush,ā he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. āGuess Iām nervous.ā
Your eyes flicked up to his. āAbout the wedding?ā
āAbout all of it,ā he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didnāt push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. āThere,ā you said softly. āNow you look like you could charm a whole town.ā
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. āThanks.ā
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. āWell, donāt you two look nice.ā
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. āYour son cleans up well.ā
Martha winked knowingly. āHe does.ā
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of babyās breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. āYou two ready?ā he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
āAs weāll ever be,ā Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clarkās hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into viewāwhite clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guestsāyou were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clarkās entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didnāt say anything. Justā¦ looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, āweāll be fine. As long as we stick together.ā
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. āTogether. Got it.ā
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if thisāthis closeness, this easeāwas really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walkedāneighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. āDonāt look now,ā you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, ābut weāre officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.ā
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. āTheyāll get over it.ā
āWill they?ā you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. āFeels like weāre about to be written into the town newsletter.ā
That earned you a faint, amused smile. āThereās no newsletter.ā
āOh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if itās just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.ā He huffed a quiet laugh but didnāt argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: Iām here. Youāre not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could makeāfilled with promises of āforeverā and āhomeā and ānothing fancy, just us.ā The brideās voice trembled as she said āI do,ā and the groom grinned like heād won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound likeāwhat promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. āThey look happy,ā he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. āYeah. They do.ā
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, ādonāt they make a picture?ā
Another voice replied, āMartha must be over the moon.ā
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. āIs it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?ā
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. āPretty much. Smallville doesnāt have secrets. Justā¦ stories waiting to spread.ā
āGreat,ā you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. āBy now, half the town has us married with three kids.ā
His lips curved into a smile, but he didnāt look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. āWould that be so bad?ā
You blinked. āWhat?ā
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirkājust something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. āI mean,ā he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, āIām not sayingā¦ I justāā He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. āForget it.ā
You tilted your head, studying him. āClark.ā
He sighed, shoulders slumping. āYou make this whole thing feelā¦ easier than I thought it would. Thatās all.ā
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. āWell, you picked the right fake girlfriend. Iām very convincing.ā
But Clark didnāt laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. āYeah,ā he said softly. āYou are.ā
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the cornerāit all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. āReception time,ā he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. āRight. Reception.ā
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt itāthe way people were watching, whispering. āHere we go again,ā you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clarkās lips quirked faintly. āThey mean well.ā
āSure,ā you said. āUntil one of them asks when weāre having kids.ā
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. āThis is her,ā Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like theyād been waiting for this exact moment. āThe girlfriend I told you about.ā
The women descended like hawks.
āOh, isnāt she lovely.ā
āClark, you clean up nice, donāt you?ā
āLook at the way heās holding her handāso sweet.ā
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the brideās uncle leaned across to ask, āso how long have you two been together?ā
āFour months,ā you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
āFour months?ā The man grinned. āWell, Iāll say thisāhe looks at you like itās been forty years.ā
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. āGo on,ā Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. āDonāt just sit there. Dance with her.ā
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. āWould you like to dance?ā
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touchāit didnāt feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didnāt let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the brideās voice rang out. āBouquet toss!ā
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. āThis is ridiculous,ā you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. āTradition.ā
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, ālooks like Clarkās next!ā
Your face burned. Clarkās ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. āGuess thatās our cue,ā he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. āDonāt get any ideas, Clark.ā
The cheers still hadnāt died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, ābetter start ring shopping, Clark!ā and ādonāt let her get away!ā
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. āI told you this would happen,ā he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
āOh, donāt blame me,ā you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. āYouāre the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.ā
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, ākiss her, Clark!ā
The chant caught like wildfire. āKiss her! Kiss her!ā
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretendāhandholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. āWhat do we do?ā you whispered, your throat dry.
āTheyāre not going to let it go,ā he murmured, voice taut with nerves. āIf we donātāā He didnāt finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. āSo weā¦?ā
His Adamās apple bobbed as he nodded. āOnly if youāre okay with it.ā Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowdās chant grew louder, impatient. Clarkās hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. āItās just for show,ā he whispered. āRight?ā
āRight,ā you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, carefulālike he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clarkāsolid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didnāt want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. āGuess that sold it.ā
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. āYeah. Totally believable.ā
But as you looked up at himāat the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldnāt quite look awayāyou both knew the truth.
It hadnāt felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didnāt speakādidnāt dareābecause every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. āLong day,ā he said finally, voice quiet.
āYeah,ā you agreed. āYour whole town knows my life story now.ā
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didnāt quite reach his eyes. āTheyāll forget in a week.ā
You snorted. āYou donāt actually believe that.ā
For the first time since youād left the reception, his gaze lingered on youāsteady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. āYou should get some rest. Tomorrowāll be busy too.ā
āRight.ā
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadnāt rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directionsāhis room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. āGoodnight, Clark.ā
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. āGoodnight.ā His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between youālouder than any words you couldāve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath youād been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched itābut it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybeā¦ thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kissāthe kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softenedāthen he quickly looked back at his plate. āMorning,ā Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. āSleep well?ā
āFine,ā you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathanās eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. āYou both look a little tired. Long night?ā
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. āReception ran late,ā he said smoothly.
Marthaās smile was quiet, knowing. She didnāt press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Marthaās occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different nowācharged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. āYouāll be heading back today?ā
Clark nodded. āYeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.ā
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. āWell, weāre glad you came. Both of you.ā
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. āDrive safe.ā
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, āCome back soon.ā Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, āso. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.ā
Clarkās hands tightened faintly on the wheel. āIt wasnāt an act to them.ā
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. āClarkā¦ā
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. āI just meanāthey believe it. Thatās what matters.ā
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasnāt uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something elseāfull, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didnāt mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between youā¦ it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when youād left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadnāt paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enoughāsorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didnāt talk about Smallville. You didnāt talk about the kiss. You didnāt talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at youānot exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldnāt ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. āDo I have ink on my face or something?ā
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. āWhat? No. Why?ā
āBecause you keep staring,ā you said lightly, arching a brow. āAt my face. My mouth, actually.ā
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. āIāI wasnātāā He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. āI was justāthinking. Aboutāabout the article.ā
You bit back a smile. āRight. The article on zoning ordinances thatās apparently written across my lips.ā
His expression was pricelessācaught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you werenāt thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didnāt shrug it off, and he didnāt remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clarkāearnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes youād catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like youād caught him red-handed. āProblem?ā youād ask innocently.
āNo,ā heād mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didnāt help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. āSo, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?ā
Your pen froze mid-sentence. āWhat?ā
Jimmyās grin widened, oblivious. āOh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybodyās talking about it.ā You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clarkās reactionāhis chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. āOh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, donāt wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.ā With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple thingsāsharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notesāseemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didnāt. He only offered a small, quiet smile. āSee you tomorrow.ā
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. āSee you tomorrow.ā As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didnāt know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
Youād been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled youānot loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He lookedā¦ disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like heād just come from something he didnāt want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyesāthose soft, steady eyesāwere brighter than usual, like he hadnāt been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
āClark?ā you asked, confused. āItās late. What are youā?ā
āIāIām sorry,ā he blurted, shifting on his feet. āI didnāt mean to wake you, if you wereāwere sleeping. I justāā
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. āI couldnātāgo home withoutāā
āClark,ā you said gently, stepping back to let him in. āYouāre rambling. Come inside.ā
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
āYou look like you wrestled a tornado,ā you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
āSomething like that,ā he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. āWhatās going on?ā
Clarkās jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. āIāve been trying to ignore it,ā he admitted, his voice low, rough. āBack at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was justāpretend. That it didnāt matter.ā
Your heart thudded. āClarkā¦ā
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way youād never seen before. āBut it does matter. More than I thought it could.ā
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. āWhat are you saying?ā
Clarkās hands flexed at his sides, restless. āI want to kiss you again.ā The words tumbled out, fast, like heād been holding them back for too long. āI know we said it was fakeāthat it was just for show. But I canāt stop thinking about it, and Iāā His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. āI donāt want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Justā¦ between us.ā
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
āClark,ā you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, āfor someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.ā
His laugh was shaky, breathless. āI know.ā
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. āThen stop talking.ā
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything youād both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
āThat,ā Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, āthatās what I wanted.ā
You smiled, your heart racing. āGood. Because I think I want it too.ā
Thinking about Smallville Clark Kent who is practically a golden retriever around you and gets nervous about sleeping with you for the first time because he doesn't want to hurt you or alert his parents by accident, so he finds himself covering your mouth the instant you make a sound, entirely by mistake.
And he apologizes immediately, but doesn't remove his hand because you're still whining into it. He can't tell exactly if that's a good or bad thing, at first, until your eyes roll back, making his heart skip a beat and he finally realizes it is in fact a good thing. Finally bottoming out, he'd remove his hand from your mouth, panting from anticipation even though he's barely done anything.
"Please be quiet," he practically begs, pressing his forehead against yours, literally shaking with anticipation but trying to be as gentle as possible for you. "Can you do that for me?" He asks. You nod poorly but the second he makes the slightest bit of movement you're whimpering and he's covering your mouth again and apologizing for it.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love those little sounds, I promise. I just don't want anyone else hearing them but me." And it soothes you, of course, because you feel bad for not being able to stay quiet. Not that he's doing much better, only suppressing his moans by turning them into quieter grunts that he muffles by pressing his lips against your neck or biting down on your shoulder. "I can barely keep my mouth shut because of you," he praises. "I swear next time, I'll let you scream." And there was definitely a next time.
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content: pure fluff, smallville!clark, you failing to stay mad at him
youāre trying so, so hard to stay mad at him.
like, genuinely ā youāre standing there with your arms crossed, pulling in your best annoyed breath, replaying in your head all the reasons you marched over to him in the first place. and clarkā¦ heās just sitting there on that stupid couch, jacket half-zipped, hair a mess from the wind, giving you that look.
that look.
head slightly tilted, lashes down then up, eyes soft like you just told him the saddest story on earth. lips parted like heās about to say something, butā¦ doesnāt. he just watches you. and you swear he knows exactly what heās doing.
ādonāt,ā you warn, pointing a finger at him.
he blinks once. twice. then tilts his head the tiniest bit more. those ridiculous puppy eyes widen, like you just kicked his puppy, and god, you can feel your resolve crumbling in real time.
āclark,ā you repeat, but your voice is already softer, traitorous.
āi didnāt even say anything,ā he says, all gentle and confused and impossibly sweet, like heās actually innocent in all this.
āyou donāt have to say anything,ā you sigh, dropping onto the seat beside him. āyou justā¦ look at me like that.ā
his brows go up. he scoots closer ā because of course he does ā thigh brushing yours like he knows you wonāt move away. ālike what?ā he murmurs, all shy and earnest at the same time.
and when you donāt answer, he leans in a little, trying to catch your eyes. āhey,ā he says softly, āi didnāt mean to upset you.ā
ugh. there it is. the soft voice. the warm concern. the sincerity that should be illegal.
you try ā you really try ā to hold onto the frustration, but then he nudges his shoulder against yours. a tiny gesture. sweet. apologetic. familiar.
your anger dissolves like sugar in tea.
āyouāre impossible,ā you whisper.
clarkās lips tug into a small, relieved smile. ābut youāre not mad anymore?ā
you roll your eyes, pretending to hold onto a sliver of annoyance. āno. because you have a face that should be a crime.ā
he laughs ā soft, happy ā and gently bumps his forehead against yours. āiāll try not to use it against you.ā
āliar,ā you say, but youāre already leaning into him, letting his warmth pull you in.
and he just looks at you again. that look. devastating. adoring. the one that ruins any chance you ever have of staying mad at him for longer than five seconds.
summary: after a hot, hazy dream where superman morphs into your best friend, nothing feels simple anymore. you spend your days dodging a heartbroken clark, until one night it all becomes too much- and every secret youāve both been holding finally comes spilling out.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: part two of that should be me, but can be read as a standalone. established friendship. yearning. slight comedy! smuttyish, not too much but enough. wholesome.
one | two
You woke up gasping.
The sheets were tangled around your legs, sweat slick against your skin, your chest heaving like youād been running for your life. For a moment, the world was a blur; the sound of your pulse in your ears, your breath catching on a name you didnāt even remember saying aloud.
All you could remember was him.
A weight above you, heavy and warm, not crushing but encompassing. Fingers threading through your hair, hands all over your waist, guiding you, giving you strength to keep going.
Iāve got you, baby.
A whisper against your throat, a voice that was low and rough and so familiar. Your sternum had been peppered in kisses, sucked gently to the point of turning purple, your chest littered with love and filth and everything in between.
Youāre doing so good for me. So full aā me.
You remembered the way it felt- the air thick with heat, his body braced over yours, his mouth so close that you could feel his breath when he said your name like it was something secret.
And then- the blur shifted. For a heartbeat, you clung onto Superman's shoulders. Broad, strong, shadowed in blue light, softly chiselled in the way youād always imagined them to be underneath all the blue.
You thought, dreamily, of course itās him. Who else could make your heart stutter like that? Who else could lift you, hold you, protect you? It wasn't unlike you to have these dreams, these thoughts that were direct results of ignoring your own arousal the night before.
But right before the dream shattered- right before your eyes flew open- Ā the image changed.
Not the cape. Not the symbol.
Glasses.
And suddenly, it wasnāt Superman anymore.
It was Clark.
You bolted upright, heart jackhammering against your ribs.
āNo,ā you whispered to the empty room, palms pressed to your face. āNo. Nope. Nope. No way.ā
Sweet, wholesome Clark Kent, who said things like golly and gosh and chum; pressed tight against you, fingers making your lower half their home.
You swung your legs off the bed, pacing. āOh my god.ā
The dream clung to you like static, refusing to let go. Every time you closed your eyes, you could feel it again- the warmth of his breath, the low rumble of his voice, the press of his hand against your cheek. Clarkās hand.
Calloused slightly, often stained with ink. Hands that grew up on a farm, formed by years of lifting hay bales and hammering fence posts. Hands that guided you through busy crowds, held your own on those nights you needed comfort.
Your best friendās hands; now tainted by the carnal vision of them wrapped around your thighs, holding you open as he pushed himself inside of you.
āOkay, itās fine,ā you muttered, half to yourself, half to the universe. āItās justā¦ a dream. Just a weird, emotionally repressed, stress-induced, totally random dream. No big deal.ā
Except it was a big deal.
Because now, every time you saw him at work, it was all you could think about.
Heād lean over your desk to check your notes, that subtle scent of clean soap and coffee clinging to him, and youād remember that same scent from your dream- except in your dream, heād been closer. And it didnāt linger on his clothes, no- it was on his skin, the same area youād been gasping and sighing against all night long.
Heād smile at you, all shy and boyish and kind like he usually did, and your heart would flip traitorously, whispering: thatās the smile.
It was mortifying.
So naturally, you did the only thing you could do.
You started avoiding him.
A skill you didnāt think possible, given that you worked ten feet apart and were often in each otherās pockets. You showed up late, ducked out early, pretended to be on phone calls.
At first, Clark stayed oblivious. Youād been stressed out at work for a while- the least he could do was give you some space, just a little bit- just enough to help you out without overwhelming you.
He still left your favourite coffee on your desk, the ice in a separate cup because he knew how much you hated the condensation ring it left on your favourite coaster. He brought you lunch every single day even if you couldnāt eat it with him, and he still hung back after the workday on the off chance youād allow him to walk you home.
Unfortunately, none of it worked. In fact, it did the complete opposite; it made your heart beat even faster and the ache between your legs insufferable.
Every time he spoke, every time he so much as looked at you; youād remember it, hear his voice in your ears, a threat to your composure. It wasnāt Supermanās voice anymore, not like it had been at the start.
It wasnāt until your heartbeat faltered when Clark's arm brushed yours in the hallway that he- just as he'd been suspecting- knew something was wrong.
āYou okay?ā he asked one afternoon, when you almost tripped over your own chair trying to escape to the break room.
āY-yeah! Iām alright,ā you smiled then, far too wide, far too toothy. You grabbed your bag and stalked away towards the kitchenette, trying for the love of everything good and beyond to calm your pulse.
Clark followed you, grabbing his mug and yours on the way.
āAre you sure?ā
Youāre doing so good for me.
āSo sure,ā you squeaked, leaning against the counter with forced ease. āAreā¦ are you okay?ā
So full aā me.
āNo. Not really,ā his voice stayed soft, wracking you with guilt. Concern furrowed his brows as he tilted his head. āYouāve barely looked me in the eye all week.ā
You laughed- a sharp, nervous sound that made him look even more suspicious. You clapped a hand over your mouth.
āSorry- Iām sorry, I didnāt mean it to sound like that, Iāveā¦ just been tired. Long week. Thatās all.ā
He didnāt press, but his eyes lingered on you, soft and searching.
āYou promise?ā
āI promise, Clark.ā
"You'd tell me if I did something wrong, right?"
"Yes, of course I would," you lied, thoughts spinning into, how could I possibly be normal around him now?
Because the truth was- it wasnāt just the dream.
It was everything after.
Youād started noticing things you hadnāt before. Silly little things, quirks of his that you deemed adorable and unexplainable because they never affected you and never put him in any danger- not really.
But now, they did. Because now, you were watching him closer than ever before; a way to get over him, sure, but also because your avoidance of him left a certain ache in your world that needed filling. Even if that fill meant thinking about him non-stop a million times a day.
Clark disappeared. A lot.
It wasnāt conspiracy, you just assumed he wasnāt very organised. Youād often wake up in his apartment to a stack of waffles on the counter, syrup on the side and a note about butter being in the fridge, as well as a written excuse about needing to pick something up before work.
When youād ask him about it later on, heād have no idea what you were talking about.
There were other times, too. āBrunchesā he forgot about, ālunchesā with Lois that she had no idea were even in the calendar. Oddities, inconsistencies in his excuses.
And it wasnāt even just that; sometimes, things worked out a little too well, to the point where it made no sense. Like the day you mentioned missing a tiny niche bakery in Paris- the one tucked between the flower shop and the bookstore- and how youād give anything for one of their pistachio macarons again.
You'd told Clark all about them, about how much you adored the city of love and couldn't wait to go back- partly because of the culture, mostly because of their bakeries.
The next morning, a box of twelve sat neatly on your desk.
Wrapped in that same lime-green ribbon youād once gushed over, with a neat little note in Clarkās handwriting:
Weāll go someday. You'll have the real thing again, in the real Paris. Promise.
When youād asked how on earth he managed to get them, he only smiled and muttered something about āknowing a guy.ā
You didnāt push. You just laughed, broke a macaron in half, and offered him the first piece- heart swelling with that familiar, dizzying warmth of being known and cared for by someone like Clark Kent.
It was always like that with him. Little miracles you could never quite explain. A thing you wanted, a thing you needed, Ā always seemed to appear, quietly, effortlessly, as if the universe bent a little whenever he was near.
Youād never thought much of it before.
But now, now that your senses were live like haywire and you found yourself obsessed with the very thought of him- every small impossibility began to feel like a clue youād somehow missed.
You started noticing things. The way Clarkās eyes would flick toward sirens before anyone else had even registered the sound. The way heād wince whenever somebody got hurt- even in a movie, even when it wasnāt real- like pain was something he could feel through other people.
The faint scorch marks youād once seen on his cuff, the tiny rip at the shoulder of his shirt that hadnāt been there the day before. The way he carried himself, too; steady, grounded, but with a kind of quiet vigilance, as though he was always half-listening for something just beyond your hearing.
And then, of course, the way he always disappeared right before a catastrophe. Yet red and blue would streak the sky, littering the clouds in a purple blur.
It wasnāt proof. Not exactly. You excused it in your mind; there was just no way. They had similarities, sure, but Clark was Clark and Superman apparently had a harem and was here to take over the entire world.
He was not your sweet, lovable, honest best friend that rarely ever called girls āhotā and would usually opt for they have a beauty about them instead, earning a couple laughs from Lois and Jimmy and even Perry the one time he walked past and heard it.
Absolutely not. No.
Not Clark.
Yet still, you couldnāt shake it. It was enough to make your stomach twist with something dangerously close to realisation, a feeling you shoved all the way down.
But once the thought crossed your mind, it was impossible for you to forget it.
A week later, you found yourself standing outside his apartment. You didnāt even know why you were there until he opened the door, surprise flickering across his face before softening into something warmer.
āHey,ā Clark said, voice gentle as ever. Immediately, he stepped to the side, silently inviting you to come in. āYou okay?ā
You stood frozen in the hallway, clutching your coat around you like armour.
āI, umā¦ no. Yes. I donāt know.ā
His brows knit. āDid something happen?ā
āKind of,ā you said, then laughed nervously. āThis is going to sound insane.ā
āDefinitely not. Iāve probably heard worse.ā He opened the door even wider. āCome in.ā
You did. His apartment was dim, the city outside painting him in whispers of gold and blue.
It felt strange being there after a couple weeks not having stepped foot inside- familiar, but charged, like every molecule of air remembered something you didnāt.
Your stuff was still littered around; a book you were taking forever to read, your cherry print mug, a pair of socks that werenāt initially yours- Clark had gotten you them one random Tuesday after youād mentioned the floorboards in his apartment being too cold.
He handed you a mug of something warm before sitting across from you. For a short while, neither of you said anything; you just chewed on your bottom lip, mind far, far away.
He watched you closely, patience unwavering. Eyed the way your teeth nibbled at your skin, an anxious habit youād been trying to break the whole time knowing him. You kept alternating the mug between both hands, distracted, unfocused.
His chest hurt just by looking at you. For once in your life, he thought, you looked lost.
You weren't the same girl he'd been steadying around the bullpen a few weeks ago, the one gushing about his alter-ego and making the tips of his ears go pink. Right now, right in front of him, you looked the complete opposite; reserved. Hesitant.
Scared.
āSo...ā Clark started, soft as ever. The way he looked at you threatened to break you even more.
ā...are you finally going to tell me why youāve been avoiding me?ā
It wasnāt an accusation, not in any way. Just pure, genuine curiosity tinged with a whole lot of hurt.
Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your shirt, nervous thumbs twiddling.
āIā¦ā you started, āI didnāt want to. Promise. You know I would never, not for no reason,ā
He felt like something had punched him right in the gut. So, there was a reason. His mind raced, listing all the possible things he could have done wrong.
Clark swallowed. āI know,ā he mumbled, āGo on,ā
You stared into the steam, trying to find words that wouldnāt make you sound completely unhinged.
āI had... a dream,ā you started, cringing a little at the words that sounded so un-wise coming from you.
Clark blinked. āA dream?ā
Your ramble came out then; slowly at first, then sporadically, all in one, āUh- yeah. Not like MLK did, I just realised how that sounded. I had an actual, physical, real life dream- not a hope for the world, not anything worthy of a speech, an actual-ā
Clark said your name softly then, amusement twitching at the end of his lips. āYouāre rambling,ā he said, words as unhurried as ever even though you were being anything but.
āSorry,ā you exhaled shakily, "I-I'm sorry, Clark- I don't know how to say it, but I don't know how to keep it to myself either," you felt like crying.
Clark could feel it, hear how your voice wavered.
āHey, hey,ā he coaxed, fingers brushing the hair out of your face. With a gentle press against your jaw, he smiled softly.
āHey, look. Youāre okay. Okay?ā
You nodded a lie.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me. Alright?"
"Alright."
āOkay, then. Now, let's start from the beginning,ā he set his own mug down, elbows on his knees now, leaning towards you and looking so damn good you wondered how youād be able to stammer through this conversation.
You took a deep breath in.
āYou dreamt about something?ā
āYes,ā you exhaled quickly, before you could say anything else that made no sense. āAbout Superman.ā
Something in his expression shifted- not panic, exactly, but wariness.
āOh.ā
āAnd you,ā you added even quicker.
Now that got his attention.
His world stopped. Briefly. Heād been so focused on the rhythm of your heartbeat, the way your blood rushed hastily through your veins- to notice the hammering of his own.
āā¦Me?ā
āYeah,ā you said, voice barely above a whisper. āI donāt- I donāt know how to say it,ā
He nodded softly, though his own head began spinning, āI wonāt rush you. Take your time.ā
āIt was a dream, about you, about us, having-ā you cleared your throat, face burning at the memory, āYou know. That. And, I thought it was Superman at first. It felt like him, or what my brain thought heād feel like. But right before I woke upā¦ā
Iāve got you, baby.
āIt was you.ā
His eyes widened behind his glasses, but he stayed quiet.
You took a shaky breath.
āAnd then I started noticing things," you interjected hastily, urging him not to think too deep about the implications of said dream.
"You... you disappear sometimes, Clark, and I havenāt asked you about it ever because I didnāt have any reason to. But you're always gone- right before all the stuff goes down and Superman comes out of nowhere, knowing exactly where to go and whatās going on. And the burns on your sleeve. The Paris macaroons. And your voice. God, your voice. Itās the same.ā
Clark had been speechless countless times in his life. How could he not, when the world he was living in always felt far too vast, far too different to the makings of his being?
But none of those times held a candle to what he was feeling right now.
He swallowed, throat tight. āYouāve been thinking about this a lot, huh?ā
āToo much,ā you admitted. āI know how it sounds. Crazy. I know youāre going to tell me Iām imagining it, or that Iām tired, or that thereās no way. Butā¦ I donāt know. I just needed to tell you. I just needed you to tell me, if Iām insane or not.ā
He shouldāve said it then; cut into your words with the easy thing, the safe thing. That you were imagining it, that you were tired, that it was all just coincidence. He could almost hear the lie forming in his throat, ready to protect you both from the truth that would undo everything.
But it stuck there, heavy and unmovable. Because youād dreamed about him. Clark Kent. The mild-mannered reporter that grew up on a farm and was barely fitting in at work, who wasnāt a symbol of anything other than Daily Planet headlines and mismatched socks.
Youād seen him- not the cape, not the the red and blue, but Clark. And what if that meant something? What if, buried somewhere in that dream, there was the smallest chance that you felt the same way he did? The thought burned through him like sunlight through glass.
The other part of him- the part built on secrets and restraint- screamed that telling you would ruin it all. Youād look at him differently. Youād see everything heād tried so hard to hide: the lies, the double life, the danger.
And yet, even knowing all that, when he looked at you now, eyes wide and trembling, he couldnāt bring himself to lie.
āYouāre not crazy.ā he said quietly.
That stopped you.
When you looked up, he wasnāt smiling, not like you hoped he would be. He wasnāt about to grin, that cheeky, wide, Kansas charm grin, and scoop you into his arms with a kiss on the forehead and some ill-timed joke about I canāt believe you thought I was an alien.
His face was open, soft- but there was something in his eyes youād never seen before. Something heavy and tender and impossibly sad.
āClark,ā you breathed.
He stayed silent, eyes falling to his hands.
āOh, my god,ā a hand flew up to your mouth, āOh. My-ā
āIām-ā
āItās true, isnāt it?ā
He exhaled slowly, almost painfully, setting his mug down. His voice was low, rough with a mixture of longing and regret.
āOh, my god, Clark.ā
He froze, his eyes flicking down to his hands, and then back to you.
There was a pause, a quiet stretch of time where you thought maybe he wouldnāt say anything at all.
Then, finally, he whispered, āIā¦ I didnāt know how to tell you.ā
His voice was low, almost afraid to be heard. āI didnāt... I was scared you wouldn't want me in your life if you knew the truth,"
Your heart squeezed. āClarkā¦ā
He ran a hand through his hair, nervous, frustrated with himself.
āI've been stupid, because Iāve fought it. Every day, Iāve fought it because I didnāt want to make things complicated. I didnāt want to risk what we have, what- what I mean to you, and what you mean to me.ā
You stepped a little closer, reaching for his hand, Supermanās hand, and he didnāt pull away.
Instead, he let you, though his thumb twitched against yours like he couldnāt quite relax.
āYouāve been so honest with me,ā he said, voice catching, āI owe you the same. I canāt hide it anymore.ā
Enough of the quiet yearning, of watching you across the bullpen with half-lidded eyes and a heart that hurt far too much than it didnāt. Enough of watching you walk around his apartment like he was yours, yet refusing to have anyĀ right to claim that title.
Enough.
His hand came up, cupping your face once more. His eyes locked onto yours. Steadier, this time. Knowing.
āI love you.ā
An inhale caught in your throat. Your legs did that thing again whenever he was too close- a slight wobble, steady enough to stand but a detriment to walking.
āIāve loved you-ā Clark moved a strand of hair out of your face, blue eyes warming your own, āSince I caught your coffee on the first day, and you gave me half your bagel. The first time I heard you humming to that darn song I couldnāt get out of my head for weeks in the office kitchen- I saved it, and itās still on my phone. I fell for you then. Since you asked me for a pen the third day because none of yours were writing rightā¦ā
You didnāt want to move, didnāt want to breathe. You felt like you were on a cloud, an alternate reality, in a dream; terrified that the faintest movement would shatter it all.
āā¦Iāve loved you. Quietly. So quietly, in every small thing, and nowā¦ now, I get to say it.ā
"Clark..."
Clarkās gaze dropped for just a moment, almost ashamed. āYou donāt have to say anything back,ā he stammered. āI understand if this is weird, if Iāve made it weird. I just- I canāt stop thinking about you. For god's sake, I wake up and youāre the first thing on my mind. And every day that Iāve been away from you this week- itās been hell. Not being near you, not seeing you, not waking up to you in my kitchen, in my shirt- itās- itās unbearable.ā
He swallowed hard, and his hands curled slightly, like he was holding back something bigger than words.
āAnd if you let me," his voice cracked, "if you wanted me the way I want you,ā he stepped closer, so close you could see every emotion flickering in his eyes.
āI would never leave your side again. I would never let you push me away, not like I did this week. Not for a day, not for an hour. I donāt care whatās happening out there, whatās happening in your head that you feel like I wouldnāt be able to take.
āI would stay. I would stay with you through it all.ā
The world narrowed to the sound of Clarkās voice, leaving you silent.
There was no bravado in his confession, no attempt to impress you- just raw, honest Clark, the man youād always known, revealing everything heād kept buried because he was terrified of losing you.
You reached up, hand resting at the base of his neck, fingertips grazing his curls. In turn, he leaned into your touch, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.
āPlease,ā he murmured, voice low and trembling, āif you feel even a fraction of what I doā¦ let me know. Let me love you. Let me have the honour of loving you.ā
You didnāt give him a chance to carry on. Everything inside you- every thought, every hesitation- faded into a single, undeniable impulse.
Your hand clutched the back of his neck, and before your brain could catch up, your lips slammed against his.
A collision of need and relief, of longing held too long, and something inside you roared to life.
You couldnāt think. You refused to think. You just acted, letting your body take the lead, letting it speak what your words never could.
He froze for the barest second, then melted into you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly close.
āGod,ā Clark whispered against your lips, and it sounded like both a prayer and a plea.
The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, a push-and-pull of passion and tenderness. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, and his lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency, every motion a confession.
āI love you,ā you breathed against him, between kisses, and his eyes fluttered open, searching yours, before finding your mouth again. āI love you, Clark.ā
A slow, wide smile stretched across his lips. It reached his eyes, blue pools twinkling like sunlight on a stream.
āI have always loved you.ā you repeated, voice rough with emotion, voice now part of the rhythm of your shared heartbeat.
Time dissolved around you. There was only the warmth of him, the taste of him, the ache of all the months youād spent lying to yourselves finally spilling into this one, infinite moment.
All the late nights, the frustration, the longing for one another trapped behind closed doors and the craze of the bullpen- it had all been worth it.
You knew that, Clark knew that, and now this was your reward.
You kissed him again, stronger now, urgent and unrelenting, your body pressed against his as if letting go of yourself meant holding onto him forever. His hands looped swiftly under your thighs, and you soon felt them rest against the cold marble counter instead.
He groaned low in his throat as he steadied himself between your legs, a shiver running through you both.
Neither of you had any idea how long you stayed in that bubble; of kisses and featherlight touches and mumbles of newly-exposed truths. But neither of you cared.
Not even when the kisses started slowing, replaced by light laughter and fond gazes.
You pulled back just enough to look at each other, foreheads pressed together, shadows mingling in the low light of his apartment.
āI donāt ever want to be without you,ā you whispered, voice soft.
āItās always been you, Clark."
Clarkās lips curved into that half-smile again, swollen from all the kissing and irresistibly pink.
You wanted him to never stop; to keep smiling like that, to keep making you feel like the most important girl in the world.
His big hands rested on your waist, pulling you closer to him, revelling in the ease your position on the kitchen counter allowed. You let him, body molding accordingly.
Still between kisses, he mumbled teasingly, āEven over Superman?ā though the glimmer in his eyes remained serious beneath the playfulness.
You shook your head, laughing softly. Your heart was still hammering, your lips tingling from the intensity.
"Even over Superman," you whispered lightly, mussing his dark curls with a touch that made him melt. Then, after a pause, "Heās not that cool, anyways.ā
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours. āWatch it.ā
A giggle left you, the high finally beginning to dissipate from your body. You were still very much suspended on Cloud 9- but now, you could breathe. Your words were finally working again.
āSoā¦" you started shyly, tracing a finger down his jawline, over his dimple, "...no alien girlfriends waiting in orbit, right?ā
Clark chuckled, pulling you close as he placed a kiss on your forehead.
āNope. Just you. Always just you.ā
You stayed like that for a long moment, hearts beating in quiet rhythm, the city humming faintly around you.
Metropolis stretched below, alive and endless. You didn't know what this meant now- not really. You had no idea what dangers lurked ahead, what storms Superman would have to face now that he had somebody to lose.
Things were bound to happen; problems were bound to arise. None of this would be easy- how could it be, loving someone who carried the sky on his shoulders?
Yet as the city murmured below and Clark's heartbeat steadied against yours, none of that seemed to matter.
For now, Metropolis could wait. The storms, the danger, the endless pull of tomorrow; they could all stand still for a while. Because in this fleeting, fragile calm, neither of you cared about what came next.
guys i OBSESSED over getting this right omfg pls tell me it was ok! love yas xxxx
summary: superman smiled at you this morning- and whose problem was that going to be? your sweet, polite, pg-13 rated best friend clark kent's, who is so in love with you he might throw up if you so much as mention how hot his alter ego is again.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: established friendship, clark yearning, lighthearted, you have no idea clark and the man u wanna mount is the same person!!! you absolutely do love him back but clark is far too angsty to see that.
one | two
Clark saw you burst into the bullpen like a whirlwind, cheeks pink from the November chill, hair a little mussed from the wind. You were holding a coffee cup like it was your only lifeline, and your smile was the kind of thing that made the grey morning seem irrelevant.
āClark,ā you said, voice breathless, eyes shining. āOh my god! Oh my god,ā
He looked up from his desk, alarmed, pen still poised above a half-finished article. āWoah- woah! Hey, slow down,ā
You knocked into his desk, hip hitting the wood in a way that usually, would elicit a much bigger reaction from you. Nevertheless, he winced, darting a hand out immediately to soothe it.
But something had happened- something crazy, something big, something beautiful, and all you could do was bite down a yelp and look at your bewildered best friend right in the eye.
āI cannot slow down,ā you told him, words bordering on a threat. "Do not make me slow down,"
āGolly. Must be serious.ā He said, a tiny little smirk playing on his lips.
āSuper serious,ā you said, slamming the coffee down on his desk and leaning in close. It was only then that he realised it had his name on it, his heart warming at the sight of it. āYou will not believe what just happened. Here, I got you a drink,ā
He smiled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took it from you with a thankful nod. āKnowing you, Iād better sit down for this.ā
āYouāre already sitting.ā
āThen Iām ahead of the curve.ā
You tried to glare, but you were too excited. āOkay, fine- listen. Superman was at the bridge this morning. The Metropolis Bridge. I saw him, Clark. I saw him.ā
He blinked once, twice, doing his best impression of confusion. He could still feel the breeze against his face, smell the petrol of the cars he had to hold up to refrain from falling into the water.
āSuperman? At the bridge? Was there an accident?ā
āThere was a car hanging off the edge!ā you said, waving your hands so wildly he had to rescue a stack of papers from flying off his desk. āSorry,ā
āGosh, youāre like a hurricane.ā He mumbled, moreso to himself, but you were too enamoured by your own story to notice.
āIt was terrifying, but he just- he caught it, Clark. One hand. Like he was just holding a bag of groceries or something. And then he looked at the people inside and said, āYouāre safe now,ā and I swear-ā you grabbed your own chest dramatically, āOh my god, Clark. I nearly died.ā
He laughed under his breath, low and warm. āYouā¦ nearly died watching Superman save someone from dying?ā
You ignored him, still glowing. āHis voice, Clark. Itās like- like someone grabbed hope by the neck and strangled it into sound and shoved it into one, thick, fleshy neck," he winced at your description of his body. "I donāt even know how else to describe it. Heās just..."
You sighed dreamily, ā- heās so good. He just wanted everyone to be safe and you could so tell,ā
Clarkās smile didnāt let up but inside, his chest ached.
You had no idea how many times heād said those same words to himself- make them feel safe. You had no idea that the person you were describing so reverently was the same one whoād offer you half of everything, the same person who'd rubbed the parts of your body that you insisted on clumsily slamming against everything.
Different voice, different clothes, different vibe altogether- but still, the very same man.
āHe looked at me, Clark,ā you said suddenly, like you couldnāt hold it in. āI swear he did. Just for a second, but I know he did.ā
Clark's eyebrows raised, gaze falling to the flush on your cheeks, at the way your fingers fiddled with his coffee cup lid, and he thought- how could he not have looked at you? He was Kryptonian, not blind. You had no idea how magnetic you were, how you could pull every molecule of him toward you without even trying.
He remembered it exactly as you said it; he had looked right at you on the bridge. So much for being discreet. But he couldnāt help it; there was trouble, he had to help, and out of nowhere came the steady sound of a heartbeat he spent years listening to and looking out for.
It wasnāt anything new- Clark listened out for your heart all the time. On the way to the office, on the way back, the times you werenāt okay but pretended like you were. It became second nature to him; like having two beats in the same body.
He shrugged, āMaybe you imagined it.ā
You gasped then, mock-offended. āUgh, drink your latte. I would never imagine something like that. He looked at me. I mean- come on, maybe he was checking to make sure I wasnāt hurt. Or maybe-ā you bit your lip, grinning ā-maybe heās in love with me.ā
Clark coughed into his coffee. He couldnāt have looked more obvious if he tried, but thankfully, he had the scalding hot drink pressed to his lips to cover that. āIn love? With you?ā
You nodded sagely. āYeah. Likeāāwho is that beautiful, slightly disheveled civilian over there?ā Love at first sight, that sort of thing.ā
He couldnāt stop the laugh that escaped him, soft and adoring. You always did that; you made him laugh at exactly the moment he needed it, even when your words twisted the knife a little deeper.
You dropped into the chair beside his desk and groaned, letting your head fall against the backrest. āI sound ridiculous, huh? I didnāt mean that in love thing, I don't really believe that. But he did look right at me.ā
Clark smiled, pretending to focus on his screen. āNot ridiculous.ā
āLiar.ā
āOkay. Maybe a little ridiculous.ā
āThank you,ā you said dramatically, āfor your honesty.ā
He glanced over, eyes soft. āYouāre allowed to be a little ridiculous about someone who saves lives.ā
You peeked up at him through your lashes. āYouāve met him, right? Superman?ā
Clark hesitated just long enough that you didnāt notice. āFor the interviews, yes.ā
āIs he mean? Or is he as kind as everyone says? Be honest, Kent.ā
āHeāsā¦ā he tilted his head to the side, āYeah. Heās nice, Iād say,ā
Your eyebrows shot up. āYouāre kidding. So, heās nice and hot?ā
He cleared his throat, shifting his glasses. āI, uh- sure. If thatās what you want to call it,ā truthfully, he was starting to feel a little weird about talking himself up to you- the one person who didnāt need in the slightest.
Sure, he knew that Superman had a certain... appeal, to the younger female population. He never really used his phone but he couldn't ever truly escape the gossip that floated around the office; people thought Superman was attractive. There was no shame in acknowledging that.
Still, it made him feel like caving in on himself; especially when he sat there in a spinny office chair, in a blazer a size and a half too big and odd socks that hadn't matched in weeks. What's the point, nobody's going to see them anyway, he'd think to himself. Then he'd hear Cat swooning over his other half's biceps and feel like even more of a fraud.
You leaned forward, gripping his sleeve. āWhat was he like? What did he say? Is it true- the harem thing?ā
Clarkās eyes widened in offense, though he could still feel the fondness spilling out of him like light through cracks.
āHarem?!ā his voice cracked, āYou said you didnāt believe in any of that stuff-ā
āI donāt, I donāt! Itās all superhuman controversies,ā you waved dismissively, āI still read them, though. Itās interesting! But carry on, please,ā
āHeāsā¦ humble,ā Clark said carefully, slightly struggling to shrug off your previous comment. āBrave. I think he carries a lot, but never complains about it.ā
You sighed then, folding your arms with a faraway look in your eyes. āRight. Heās basically perfect, then.ā
He looked down at his notes, smiling sadly. āI wouldnāt say perfect. Justā¦ heās trying, I guess.ā
As you watched the busybodies of the bullpen work in front of you, Clark couldnāt stop himself from watching you.
He could still remember the first time he met you- the day youād arrived at the Planet, arms full of folders, juggling a coffee, a pen, and a bagel all at once. Heād caught the coffee before it spilled, and youād laughed and said, āIf you hadnāt done that, I would have gone straight home.ā Youād smiled at him, and that was the moment everything shifted.
Phones still rang, papers still printed. But to Clark, the world felt calmer somehow. Like everything, no matter what it was- evil, narcissistic billionaires or crazy Kryptonian dogs and drunk, flyaway cousins, you name it- would be okay.
From then on, he found you everywhere; in the way the sunlight streaked through his windows and hit the gloss of the kitchen counter just right; the way the wind would blow, gentle and breezy, against his cheek whenever heād take off. The way the sound of your laugh would echo through the hallways, your heels clicking down the tiles, your warmth filling up every corner of his life.
Heād been there the day your first big story almost fell through and you sat at your desk at midnight, too tired to cry. Heād brought you coffee, left it quietly by your hand, and watched as you smiled when you saw it.
Heād walked you home after late nights, pretending it was for his peace of mind, though really it was so he could memorise the sound of your voice outside of the Planetās stress.
It was always fuller, calmer, yet a lot louder. Never brazen, but always confident.
You spent a lot of time together; sometimes at your place, often times in his high-rise penthouse. You liked it better there. It was so him; so sensible, so Clark. Youād fall asleep on his couch and wake up in his bed, cracking the bedroom door open slightly to find him peacefully dozing away in the living room.
Heād saved you, too- more times than youād ever know. Once, when a construction sign snapped loose in the wind, he caught it in midair and flew off before you could even turn around.
Another time- as Clark- when a taxi nearly clipped you at a crosswalk, heād been there in a flash; steadying you with a sheepish, āGuess I shouldāve been watching where I was going.ā Youād laughed and called him your āclumsy guardian angel.ā Heād smiled, because it wasnāt far from the truth.
Now you were here, telling him about your crush on the part of him you didnāt recognise. The half you werenāt allowed to see.
You stood up suddenly, pacing the floor. āI mean, itās not like I actually think I have a chance with Superman,ā you said, waving your hands. āHe probably hasā¦ space girlfriends. Or whatever.ā
Clark's amusement played on his lips, āSpace girlfriends?ā
āYeah, like- women who can fly and donāt trip over their own two fee-,ā you said, right before your boot got caught in the crack on the floor; a downright betrayal causing you to slip and crash forward.
He caught you before you could hit the ground, one arm around your waist, steady and sure.
You blinked up at him, laughing. āDamn. What is wrong with me?ā
āI can think of a few things.ā He said sheepishly, earning one of your infamous, soft yet quick arm slaps.
"Mean!"
"Sorry, sorry."
āI swear, Clark," you shook your head, straightening your posture, "you have insane reflexes. What are you, Spiderman?ā
His heart stuttered. Close.
You were joking, of course. You always joked. But he still smiled and said, āJust lucky, I guess.ā
You grinned. āWell, thank you, Lucky Kent. You saved me from both injury and humiliation.ā
He smiled softly. āAnytime.ā
You lingered there a second too long before stepping back, cheeks warm.
It was one thing gushing over a man you had a slight crush on, a world-famous superhero who would probably never find out- it was another to let your feelings for your best friend known, after so many months successfully keeping them hidden.
You'd decided mentally a while back, when Clark was at your apartment making breakfast for dinner, setting off the fire alarm in the process.
He could never be yours.
He was sweet, quiet, hesitant. He didn't need someone like you. Maybe you needed someone like him- but you thought, men like him never typically ended up with girls like you. They often got with the sensible types, the lovely ones, the girls that didn't need to try because everyone loved them anyway.
Fangirling over Superman was fun. Being in love with Clark Kent was pain.
The words came rushing out before you meant for them too, a protective barrier between you and the man before you.
āYouāre a really good friend, you know that?ā
The word friend landed somewhere in his chest like a soft, inevitable bruise. Clark blinked, tried to swallow back a choke.
"Yeah,ā he said quietly. āI know.ā
Later, when you finally left the office, still humming to yourself about Superman, Clark sat there for a long time, staring out the window. The city lights blurred in the glass, glowing gold and soft, and he could see the faint reflection of himself- Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter.
Somewhere out there, the world saw Superman as a symbol. But when he looked at you, he didnāt feel like a symbol.
He felt like a man who loved someone so deeply it ached.
Because the hurtful truth wasnāt that you were in love with Superman. No; Clark picked up on your tone, the joking way you wriggled your eyes and scolded him playfully for acting like youād never have a chance. An infatuation, sure. Maybe it was limerence, even. Those he could handle.
No, what hurt the most wasnāt that you loved the other side of him. This pain came from somewhere much deeper, a nagging feeling that ate away at the back of his mind.
He was yours. Yet youād never know, and heād never tell you, because heād rather keep it to himself forever if it meant heād still have you in his life.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching your shadow disappear into the night below.
For a heartbeat, he almost let himself imagine it; a world where you knew, where you didnāt run away screaming. Where disappointment didnāt flood your face and you confessed your feelings back, with a kiss on his lips and your fingers tangled in his hair.
Almost.
But the city was calling again, distant sirens rising like a requiem.
Clark closed his eyes, his dream collapsing to dust in the darkness.
Maybe one day, heād tell you.
Maybe one day, youād look at him and see.
summary: you know you shouldn't feel this way. and yet clark kent- steady, older, infuriatingly attuned to every inch of you- turns every "kid" and "good girl" into fire against your skin; leaving you dizzy, flustered, and desperately wanting more.
clark kent x slightly younger ! reader
themes: age gap obviously, you're yearning this time! clark being a gentleman, domestic bits, heavyyy 'i want to / but i can't' vibes. enjoy!
Truthfully, you hated yourself for allowing this to be your Friday night.
It wasn't like you. You liked home, the comfort of it all, the lit candles and the perfectly brewed tea and the radio on low in the background. But you figured, you had to be this at least once, or you'd live forever curious. Or however that saying goes.
Sitting in a dingy bar with the rest of your co-workers, head ducked, nursing something far stronger than you'd asked for. Thankfully, Jimmy said he'd catch the train home with you when you were ready, so you didn't have to worry too much about the amount of alcohol in your system.
Except you'd been ready for the past thirty minutes, and there was no sign of the man anywhere.
For a brief second, you wondered whether he'd up and left, forgetting about you completely. But then you remembered Eve's flirty hand on his arm, dragging him somewhere hidden yet also very easy to get to, and immediately you knew he was close by.
Your shoulders slumped. At least someone's getting laid tonight.
If you were being completely honest, no part of you even wanted to be here tonight. It was a celebration of all sorts- someone's birthday meshed with six months of hard-hitting news- and when Lois dropped a packet of Advil on your desk the night before, claiming 'you're gonna need this for Saturday, because you are coming', well, you couldn't really say no.
That- and for some annoying, unbearable reason- a part of you was hoping that Clark would be here, too.
Not that it would change anything. No, you were sure of that; Clark Kent was completely off the table. Not even a contender in your dating scene; the bone dry, barren waste land that it was.
It was no secret to everybody but him; you liked him. Deeply. Achingly. He was your type; tall, dark, handsome- a cliche in many ways yet you adored him because he carried it well regardless. And you would have asked him out months ago, too (that had never been something you'd delayed in the past) if it wasn't for the fact that he simply did not see you that way.
You could feel it, like a constant blur in the air around you. The way he smiled softly at you whenever you spoke, urging you to keep going, like a teacher did with a difficult student. How you'd overheard him telling Perry that you were a good girl, always eager to learn, a genuine asset to the team when your boss grilled him on your work ethic. The way he spoke about you like you were twice the slight age gap between you both and then some.
How his smiles were always short and clipped, always quick, far too fleeting to find anything other than pure friendliness.
All patience, all praise- zero passion.
Youād tried once- really tried. After weeks of him bringing you coffee, staying late with you, insisting on driving you home, youād finally started to let yourself relax around him. One particularly exhausting night, a careless step on a fallen sheet of paper sent you slipping- and Clark was the one who caught you. Who pulled you in too close, breathing the same fragile inch of air you were.
Youād closed your eyes. Heād swallowed hard.
And then- without warning- he jerked back like your touch had shocked him.
āLetās get you homeā¦ā he muttered, already retreating. He didnāt meet your eyes for weeks after that; truthfully, neither of you were quite the same.
Heād always held himself back around you, but after that night it was different- sharper, almost deliberate. Even his voice changed, softer and steadier, like the real one was reserved for adults and he wasnāt quite sure you qualified.
At first, you thought you were overreacting. But then one day, you'd thanked him for helping you with an article- all batted eyelashes and a lip glossed smile and he looked at you, square in the face and said, 'No problem, kiddo. I'm here if you need me.'
Ugh.
Thinking about it now made you want to grab both eyeballs out and pull, hard.
It wasn't like you were looking for anything serious. You didn't even mind if he didn't flirt back- though that would be nice. You just wanted him to be normal with you, like he was with everybody else.
He'd crack jokes with Jimmy, both of their laughs in sync. He'd ask Lois for help with his articles, completely captivated by her amendments. He'd even listen to Cat's quips about Steve's dire fashion statements- all polo shirts and light washed jeans that should have been left in the 2000s.
Chasing, wanting, satisfied with their approval.
But with you? None of that. He'd see you coming and pull your chair out for you, sure, but the silence that hung above you both felt like complete torture after the conversations you heard on the way. He felt like a babysitter to you more than anything, one that was promised a bonus if he kept you happy and contempt.
Ever the gentleman. He grew up on a farm, that much you knew; only that Kansas charm seemed to stretch to everybody but you.
No amount of hiked up skirts, burgundy heels and vanilla perfume made Clark Kent look your way. You thought he had, once- when it was just you two in the bullpen on a Friday night, working on the same project.
A mix of tired delirium and hope had you believing that Clark's low lidded stare had anything to do with the way you'd bent meticulously over his desk throughout the night. Turns out, he was just really tired, and you were getting hot and heavy over his exhaustion.
"Don't stress, hon," Cat had cooed, the one time you opened up to her about how things were going at work. "You're just new, is all. You're a little baby, and he's a gentle giant,"
"Cat, I'm twenty-four," you'd frowned. Her smile didn't let up, as soft and comforting as ever.
"And Clark's, what? Thirty-something?"
"Thirty-three." you mumbled.
"Give him a break, sweets. He probably just goes into Dad-mode whenever you're around."
You wanted to throw up. As well as gouge your eyes out. Because although that made perfect sense, you hated it, hated that you'd not only been friendzoned- but family-zoned.
By Clark Kent! The only decent man in this city, built like a Greek God, written by a woman and adored by anyone and everyone- had family-zoned you of all people. All because of a few years between you where he'd unfairly been alive first.
"I don't think he likes me very much." you'd frowned the one time during lunch, fork stabbed upright in your salad as Lois picked at her own.
Her eyebrows had been raised for most of the conversation- as if she knew something you didn't- but also like she disapproved of the very discussion you were having; one that proved every Bechdel-test theory she despised right.
"Don't overthink it. He's literally just Clark."
You groaned, head heavy in your hands now as your previous differing conversations with both women crossed your mind. You hadn't noticed that your drink was gone until you felt something nudge towards you.
"Hey," Jimmy frowned, lips pursed tight as he watched you. "You okay?"
"I'm grieving."
"Oh. Cool," he shrugged lightly, and it was then that you caught the fain lipstick mark on his polo shirt collar. "Want some company?"
"Sure."
You liked Jimmy for that reason alone. If the office was really playing into the whole family dynamic, then he'd definitely be the big brother you never had; unhinged, insane, gave you snacks you didn't really like so he could eat them instead, yet still be able to feel like he did something good that day.
He nudged a second cocktail your way- something darker in colour and far more dangerous than the first- and you took it without a second thought.
"What is it?"
"Uh... I don't really know. It came straight from the bar though, so I know it's safe."
You drank it anyway, your mind so pre-occupied with your frustration to cringe at the taste.
The rest of the night unfurled like that. You, saying you didn't want to drink anymore but ultimately finishing whatever round you'd been dragged into.
It wasn't until your fifth beverage in that you sensed it - the sudden shift in the room. Like a light had turned on, and everybody could suddenly see in picturesque HD.
"Kent! Hey, Clark, over here!"
Jimmy grinned as you felt your pulse quicken.
He was late. So late, you'd given up on the idea of him showing up at all.
Yet here he was, dressed deliciously in a white t-shirt that clung to every ridge and muscle and bicep; navy flannel slung over his shoulder. It was worn in that farm-boy, days out in sun-soaked fields sort of way; delicious, tempting, and genuine.
You gulped. Your teeth crunched down on an ice cube as you stared- practically drooled- at the man before you.
"Sorry I'm late," Clark said sheepishly, "Something, uh... came up."
"Well, you're here now, buddy! Can I get you something to drink? It was my round, just."
"Uhm..." with a quick glance at the bar, Clark shrugged, "Just a water's fine,"
"Water? Dude-"
Clark dangled a pair of keys between his forefinger and thumb then, apologetic, "Sorry. Designated driver."
"Ugh, you're always the designated driver. You're no fun," Jimmy started shaking his head, about to head off when he paused- gaze darting towards you.
You willed him not to say anything, wanting nothing more than to disappear between the dingy cracks of the seats.
Unfortunately, Jimmy seemed to have a talent for embarrassing you in front of Clark without even trying. Once, he asked- far too loudly- if you were ādoing alrightā at the exact moment Clark leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, completely absorbed in his article; oblivious to your clenched jaw and crossed legs.
Everyone within a five-mile radius heard him. Clark included.
It took a lot of snacks you actually liked to get Jimmy out of that one.
"Do me a favour, watch her. She's like... four Disaronno doubles deep."
"Five." you slurred, holding up six fingers.
Clark stared at you in amusement, though there was something else in his eyes that you couldn't quite read. For a split second, you swore he stole a glance at your legs- flesh, bare, exposed by the too-short skirt you wore that had definitely been created with only standing occasions in mind.
But again, it was probably just wishful thinking.
As Jimmy walked away, you could feel it; that same, heavy atmosphere again- identical to the one that inhabited the air around your desks at the Planet. Immediately, Clark straightened. His eyes softened.
And you groaned.
"Are you okay? Can I get you a water?" he asked, politely, hovering next to you even though there was plenty of space to sit down.
You shook your head. "No, thank you, Clark."
He nodded. You traced shapes on the condensation of your empty glass, willing him to leave you alone, willing Cat to come and save the both of you with gossip about people you didn't even know.
Usually, you'd tune her out, try not to absorb any unwarranted information; but you promised yourself that, in this instance, you'd even take notes if you had to.
But she never came. And Clark didn't move. His eyes flickered constantly between the crowd and you, the glass in your hand, the way your fingers danced against the droplets.
These moments were the worst. He was always so careful, so calculated, so aware of everyone around him. It felt like being under a microscope; if a microscope was beautiful, six foot five and had the bluest eyes known to man.
After what felt like forever, you decided you'd had enough. You pushed yourself upright, body slinking somewhat-gracefully out of the booth.
Clark barely had enough time to register what you were doing before you knocked into him; knees wobbling, heart racing, the drink travelling up and down your body now that it had sensed some movement.
Swiftly, he steadied you, large hand wrapped around your elbow, another steady on your waist.
"Woah- hey, now. You alright?"
"Whoops," you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks, filling the spot in your chest. "Sorry. I didn't- I didn't realise how..."
"Drunk you are?" he finished for you, smile polite yet very obviously finding this very funny.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"I am not drunk,"
"Okay, sweetheart," he chuckled, and your stomach flipped at the nickname- a threatening move on your part- but Clark didn't seem to notice. "Whatever you say. Where are you headed?"
You assumed he meant where in the bar; to the toilets, over to Lois and Cat, to join Jimmy at the packed front. But you'd had enough, and the intoxication was starting to hit, and in your mind there was no time for a mirage of goodbyes.
You just had to get out. Fast. Clark was starting to look far too good and his voice was far too deep for you to justify torturing yourself in his presence any longer.
"Home."
He blinked. A beat passed where you expected him to convince you to stay, briefly, but would ultimately shrug and watch you amble towards the door by yourself.
But before you could open your mouth to contest, he was already leaning over the booth, hand on your lower back.
When he pulled back, your coat was slung over his arm, your tiny little clutch engulfed in his hand.
"Let's go, then."
"No-"
He said your name then- in that stern yet soft, commanding yet hesitant way of his. The same voice he used to remind you not to be so hard on yourself at work, the same one you dreamt about in more ways than one.
"Let me take you home. I wouldn't feel right leaving you out there alone like this."
It was torture. Agonising, debilitating torture.
Yet as Clark led you out of the bar, a respectful hand hovering where you wished he'd just touch, you didn't stop him.
When he opened the car door for you and you slotted in, head falling back against the head rest, willing yourself not to close your eyes- you didn't fight it.
You just watched as he slid into the driver's side, brow furrowed at the temperature of the vehicle.
"Are you cold?" he asked, worry taking him over.
You shook your head truthfully, the alcohol now creating a haze where a permanent giddy feeling stayed snug in your chest- waiting for the perfect opportunity to come out.
Uh oh. That usually meant that you'd probably have a very difficult time remembering anything past this point tomorrow.
You welcomed the thought with bubbly, open arms. And a giggle. Always a giggle.
Regardless, Clark turned the heating on; full blast, his sensible pick-up a box of hot air as it barrelled down Metropolis' empty streets. You often wondered how he got it all the way here from Smallville- it didn't exactly have much life left in it for even a full hour's trip.
"You didn't-" hiccup. "You didn't have to do this you know, Clark. I woulda been fine on my own,"
"Mm," he hummed, watching the road, unconvinced. "I'm not too sure about that. You had what, six drinks? Doubles?"
"Five." you held up four.
"Five," he smirked slightly, "Glad to see you can still count while drunk,"
"I am not drunk! I told you- I only had five!"
He tried to stifle the laugh threatening to escape, the amusement tugging even more at the corners of his lips. You realised, this was probably the most normal Clark's ever been around you.
"Still too much for you, kid. You gotta pace yourself next time."
And there it was.
He turned the corner. Your heart broke at his words.
Kid.
That god-awful, disgusting, annoying, god-awful (did you mention it was awful?) word that meant you would never, ever, in this world or any other- be anything more to Clark Kent than an intern.
A silly little girl who had no chance- with both him and the world beyond.
"I'm not a kid." you muttered, so faint he barely heard you. The bubbly high faded faster than it came.
It was stupid. It wasn't a big deal. If you were sober, you'd probably be able to brush it off.
But right now, in the heat of the moment, you couldn't stop yourself.
While sober, your crush ran deep, but it was always controllable. Fixed with a pint of ice cream and a steady twenty minute window of full, uninterrupted yearning, a moment to recharge.
But now, with liquor in your veins, sat in the darkness of his pick-up and the very reason for your spiral sitting so comfortably next to you- you just couldn't stop it.
āYouāre not even a whole ten years older than me, you know.ā You muttered, the alcohol threatening to slur your words even more than it already had.
Buildings blurred into sidewalks as Clark sped past them, quick yet controlled. You watched the way his hand gripped the top of the wheel, the wrist of his other resting gently on the gear stick.
Lord help me.
He smiled, āI know.ā
āSo why do you call me a kid so much?ā your eyes narrowed in accusation, though you knew he couldnāt see it.
He gave a small shrug, āNever thought about it. Just seemedā¦ fitting,ā
āSo you do think Iām a child,ā
āWhat? Gosh, no-ā
āAnd you do hate me.ā
āHate you? What on earth-ā
āJust admit it,ā the theatrics came out of you then; a heavy, heaving sigh spilling out of your lips as you fell back into the seat. The entire car smelled like bubblegum, the familiar pink and blue freshener swinging haphazardly from the rearview mirror. āYou hate me, Clark Kent.ā
He paused for a second, all traces of amusement now wiped off his face. You felt a flip in your stomach at the very sight of him so serious.
āI really canāt tell if youāre joking, or not.ā He said, exasperation clinging onto every word.
It was your turn to shrug, āI say what I see.ā
āOh, yeah?ā he turned another corner, knuckles white against the wheel. āAnd what do you see?ā
It was getting warm now, you realised. The heating had been blasting on full power and your body had adjusted more than twenty minutes ago.
āYou donāt speak to me,ā you said, a faux nonchalance hanging off your tongue. In reality, your heart was thudding so hard, you were afraid he could hear it. āNot anymore, at least. And you donāt look at me.ā
āI look at you,ā he said defensively.
You cocked your head to the side, eyes burning calm holes into the side of his head.
āNot the way I want you to.ā
That got him. Your eyes settled on the way his jaw clenched, the slight shift in his seating.
āWhat do you mean?ā
In all honesty, not even you had any idea what you meant by that.
In hindsight, you probably shouldn't have left with Clark. Up until this point, you'd done a terrific job at admiring him from afar, a distance safe enough to wonder from.
You didnāt need to be doing any of this, to be saying half of it. You could have lived the rest of your life with this ridiculous, unrequited crush, and he would have been none the wiser.
But the four-five-six cocktails in your stomach were finally mixing, an intoxicating feeling blooming throughout your entire body. You were pretty sure it had taken over every inch of your bloodstream, so much so that they'd began to pull on your tendons; as well as your voice box.
You felt lighter. Easier. Like you just had to get the words out- any words, no matter how incriminating.
āYou know what I mean,ā
āIā¦ I really donāt,ā his eyebrows furrowed and he braved a glance your way. āAre you feeling oka-ā
āGod, Clark. How many times do I have to pull my skirt up and bend over your desk for you to get it?ā you almost-snapped, patience wearing thin, non-existent now that the liquid courage had hit.
Clark made a noise so strange you briefly wondered if he was about to sneeze, crash the car, and combust all at the same time.
"W-Wha-"
"Oh, Clark," you groaned into you hand, "Please, I am begging you, to get there faster."
āYou didnātā¦ actually say that,ā he said, voice thin with denial, though he very much had heard you.
You slumped even deeper into the seat, annoyed and buzzing and far too hot from the heat. āSee? This is the problem. Youāre always pretending I didnāt say things.ā
āIām not pretending,ā he insisted. āIām- uh, processing. I'm trying my best, believe me,"
āMm.ā You watched him carefully. āYour best involves acting like I don't exist most of the time.ā
He blinked at the windshield like it had personally insulted him. āI donāt ignore you.ā
āYes you do,ā you countered. āYou ignore me at work. And you ignore me at meetings. And you ignore me when Iām right in front of your face.ā
āThatās not-ā His jaw worked for a second before he tried again. āI donāt ignore you.ā
āThen what do you call it?ā
He let out a sigh, the kind an overworked teacher gives a student who has somehow turned in an essay written entirely in glitter pen. Which, in all honesty, was a very you thing to do. āIām not ignoring you," he repeated, "I'm just... trying to handle things the right way.ā
You narrowed your eyes. āYou definitely donāt do half the things you do for me for anyone else. But then youāre not as relaxed with me as you are with everybody else, either. So, what is it?ā
His grip tightened again, knuckles pale. āI do plenty of things for everyone-ā
āNo, Clark,ā you cut in. āYou really donāt.ā
You werenāt yelling. You were just irritated, in that sharpened way alcohol gave you. The part of your brain that usually let things slide decided tonight wasnāt the night.
You continued, ticking things off as you spoke. āYou pull out my chair. You help me with every article I panic over. You drive me home the second you think I shouldnāt be walking alone, even if youāve barely been at the bar long enough for your coat to get warm. And donāt get me started on the āgood girl, asset to the teamā comment.ā
His face went scarlet so fast it was almost impressive. āThat- you werenāt supposed to- I mean, it wasnāt-ā
āAnd Jimmy told me you bought him a cab home last month,ā you added. āYou didnāt drive him.ā
āThat was a different situation-ā
āHe sprained his ankle!ā
Clark let his forehead rest very briefly against the steering wheel, muttering something that sounded like a gentle plea for strength.
When he sat upright again, he said, āOkay, fine. Youāre upset with me. I can tell.ā
āWell,ā you gasped dryly, ācongratulations. You finally noticed something about me.ā
His shoulders fell a little. Not in an offended way- more like someone whoād just realised theyād dropped the ball on something important. āI notice a lot of things about you.ā
The car fell briefly quiet.
You werenāt sure what expression you made, but something in it made him backpedal instantly. āNot in a weird way,ā he added. āJust in aā¦ a careful way.ā
You looked at him for a long moment, taking in how he was- tense, earnest, fumbling in that Clark Kent way that made everything he did both irritating and unfairly endearing.
āSee?ā you said at last. āThis is exactly what I mean.ā
āWhat?ā
āYouāre careful with me,ā you said. āSince that night- God. I don't know what it is, but you've been acting like Iām made of literal glass-ā
āYouāre not made of glass.ā
āThen stop acting like it!ā
He opened his mouth, closed it again, then tried, āI just- look, okay, thereās lines-ā
āWhose lines?ā you challenged.
He hesitated. āMine. And I donāt want to cross them. It wouldnāt be right,ā
You let out a breath, surprised by how tired your voice sounded when you asked, āWhy are you so afraid of me?ā
His eyes widened- like heād never, in his entire life, considered the possibility that someone might see it that way. Him, Superman, known for facing the universe's biggest threats and everything in between- scared of you, your burgundy heels, your tequila fuelled, leopard print-purse wielding body.
āIām not afraid of you,ā he said, too fast.
You raised a brow. āClark. Youāre terrified.ā
He ran a hand over his face, glasses shifting slightly.
āItās- no, itās not that. Iām not scared of you. I justā¦ there are things I shouldnāt do. Things someone like me canāt risk. And I...I donāt want to make things weird for you.ā
āYou already do,ā you pointed out. He winced at that.
You stared out the window as he pulled up to your building, the street outside washed in that soft, late-night glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.
When he put the car in park, the silence settled differently- heavier, but also expectant.
Clark turned off the engine and shifted toward you just slightly, enough that his knee bumped the console.
āI don't mean to ignore you,ā he said quietly.
You let him speak, eyes scanning the faint glow coming from the window of your apartment. You always liked to leave the hallway light on; it made coming home feel a lot less lonely.
He leaned his forearms onto the wheel again. āYouāre not someone I can ignore.ā
The honesty slipped out before he could stop it, and you felt something in your chest pull- tight and confusing. Yet, you didnāt answer. Not right away.
Instead, you turned to him fully, and he swallowed when he saw the steadiness in your eyes. You mightāve been tipsy, yes, but your thoughts had never been sharper.
They always were when you were around him.
āYou act like you donāt notice me,ā you started, āBut you notice everything.ā
He didnāt deny it. Of course he didnāt.
If anything, Clark looked absolutely stunned by the truth of it. In that moment, you wondered whether he'd ever believed differently; whether those nights spent together meant a lot more to him than you thought.
You studied him more openly now- how his jaw clenched, how his Adamās apple bobbed, how the curl of hair at his forehead always tried to escape when he got flustered.
And he was definitely flustered. Maybe more than youād ever seen him.
āSo what are you trying to do here, Clark? Be noble? Be the older mentor who keeps me in line?ā
He straightened a little, uneasy. āIām trying to look out for you.ā
āWho decided that?ā you asked. āBecause it wasnāt me.ā
Clark rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the windshield. āIt just feels like the right thing to do. I can't... gosh, I'm not supposed to-ā
"Supposed to what?" you interrupted, but his worlds were already tumbling out before he could stop them.
ā-I'm not supposed to want you."
The car went quiet.
He didnāt look at you at first, as if avoiding your face would undo what heād just said altogether.
Your heart thrummed hard, so hard that you could feel it travelling down to the pads of your fingertips. Suddenly, breathing became difficult; your chest unable to fall into a steady rhythm next to him.
You glanced up at your apartment window. At the people walking past, fists shoved in coats, heads ducked down like Clark's currently was. Anything but the interior of the car; anything but him.
When he finally turned his head, there was no denial in his expression, no attempt to smooth it over.
Just the uncomfortable, undeniable weight of what heād just admitted.
Clark's lips parted, just slightly, as if he was about to say something of actual substance that would derail the conversation, make it better. But he didn't.
He didnāt have to.
Because suddenly the air felt far too thick, and the space between you felt far too small, and the car felt like the kind of place where something could happen if either one of you breathed wrong.
You blinked at him, swallowing back a a sickly, stunned feeling.
You'd imagined this very thing before; telling him, hundreds of times. You'd imagined it happening in hushed whispers in the Archives, at his apartment, maybe even driving home after a long, gruelling day at work. But you never imagined it like this.
You weren't sober. Nowhere near. And he was tired, exhausted, probably annoyed that you'd started something that wasn't quite so easy to finish. You were angry and snappy and frustrated, when all you wanted to be was soft and kind and understanding when the time came that your not-so-secret crush finally came to light.
Suddenly, thoughts weren't coming to you as easily. Words even more so. You just leant forward, ever so slightly, enough to smell his cologne and hear the irregular pattern of his breathing.
Not much. Just enough. Enough to fill the too-big gap between you both.
Clark froze- not in alarm, but in that bracing way a man does when the thing heās spent months trying not to want suddenly turns and looks him in the eye.
His gaze flicked to your mouth.
Just once. Half a second, if that, before his wide eyes found yours again and you saw a slight plead in them. But it was enough.
He leaned in, too- slowly, like someone trying very hard not to scare a wild animal. His lashes lowered slightly, breath growing shallow, the smallest shift of his weight bringing him closer, close enough that you felt the warmth of him, close enough that you knew-
He would let you.
He would absolutely let you.
After months of restraint, no control on your part and a ball that had definitely always been unmoving in his court- you finally had the perfect opportunity to get what you wanted.
Which was exactly why- to your own bewildered disbelief- you didn't take it.
You werenāt going to. Not tonight.
You stopped just shy of him- just shy of that groundbreaking, earth-shattering kiss youād imagined since you first felt his hand brush against yours- and tilted your head, watching the realisation flicker across his features.
Then you let the faintest, saddest hint of smile curl at the edge of your lips.
āGoodnight, Clark.ā
His eyes widened, and you felt a dull, painful spark of unearned triumph settle oddly in your chest.
You pulled back before he could fully recover, fingers already reaching for the door handle. Your balance wobbled just a little stepping out of the car, but you didn't care. You just had to get out; had to leave. You got what you wanted. And it didn't feel like enough.
You didnāt look back at him as you shut the door lightly behind you, though you could feel his gaze anchored to you like gravity itself had shifted.
You walked toward your building with a slght confidence that had nothing to do with the drinks and everything to do with knowing- finally, undeniably- that Clark Kent wanted you.
Behind you, in the quiet car, he sat stunned.
Heart pounding. Breath uneven. Watching as you waltzed into your apartment building without so much as a glance back.
And even though he shouldnāt have leaned in, even though he absolutely knew better, even though tomorrow was going to be complicated- he still hoped youād remember it all in the morning.
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ā¢ The kind of partner who walks you home under lamplight and kisses your knuckles like a scene from a black-and-white movie.
ā¢ Has an old-school sense of romanceāflowers on your desk, handwritten notes tucked into your coat pocket, opening doors not out of habit, but devotion.
ā¢ He listens to you like nothing else matters. Like youāre the most important voice in any room.
ā¢ When youāre sick, he makes soup from scratch and reads to you in bedāeven if itās your guilty-pleasure novel or a comic book.
ā¢ Tells you about Brooklyn like itās a fairy tale. And when he takes you there, he shows you the corners that meant everything to him once.
ā¢ You catch him sketching you sometimesāquick pencil lines on the edge of mission files or napkins, soft lines capturing your smile, your eyes, your laugh.
ā¢ Heās your biggest fan. Brags about you to Sam and Bucky. āDid you see what she did back there? Thatās my girl.ā
ā¢ When he kisses you, itās with his whole soul. Like heās trying to memorize the feeling in case the world falls apart again.
ā¢ In quiet moments, heāll pull you onto his lap, wrap his arms around you, and justā¦ breathe. Like being near you helps him feel human again.
ā¢ If you ever ask why he loves you, heāll say: āBecause you remind me what I was fighting for. What I still want to protect.ā
Nine Times she thought she was, and the once she actually was #1
Pairing: Rosie Rosenthal & Ida Brady, intimacy journey.
Warnings: very few, still, typical warnings apply, 18+, discussions of a past rape and fear of intimacy
Requested? āļø
Circa: October 1945
Mother held up a very frilly, decidedly see-through garment with a bashful grin, bridal boutique exclusivity and the comparative privacy of the dressing room making her as cheeky as a Catholic housewife ever dared. That was Robertās effect on everyone, it seemed, he was so solidly wonderful, so obviously perfect, his mere attention so great a compliment that becoming his wife? āeveryone rightfully gave Ida no peace over how fortunate she was. Her mother more than anyone, after watching the blood sport that was their courtship, egging on one declined proposal after another until at last they were here, a week out and assembling a hasty trousseau for an even hastier wedding to be followed by a lengthy overseas assignment.
Together. Nuremberg.
āYouād like Germany in the fall.ā heād told her.
It made oneās head spin, as did the very notion of donning that toilet paper excuse for nightwear. Maureen had not needed to be told, one grunt from Ida over the phone when a trousseau was mentioned was enough: āIāll send you a portmanteau or twoā, Maureen had concluded easily, without even needing to be told why. Sheād also sent along perfume, rich and woodsy with just enough vanilla that Ida felt almost a bride in it. Ida worried such deep consideration was perhaps the product of the Clevensā own marital struggles and adjustments to peace, but that was not her concern.
āMother.ā Ida begged now with a laugh, mildly unused to such familiarity with her parent, or with such liberal inclinations.
āYouāll be married Ida!ā her mother responded, pleadingly happy, āIf thatās not the time for it, when?ā
When indeed? That hung like a thundercloud over this whole marriage and yet Rosie had set his face to the storm and welcomed it. āSo long as youāre doing the ruiningā he had blithely responded to her dire predictions for marital misery in his promising young life. Companions, he had declared them
-companions didnāt wear things like that.
āI- I donāt think it would suit me.ā she fibbed, thumbing at a sensible set of mulberry colored silk shorts instead.
āMy dear, think of him a little.ā Mother meant well, words that would make Ida bristle were said so kindly and with such good intent she could only wince while deflecting them.
Ida gave her a curt nod before slipping behind the curtain and shimmying into a slip, very much like the ones she already owned with a pretty little trim of lace around the decollege. Dove gray and striking with her complexion. She already owned and wore such a piece often, the idea of wearing it next to him sent her stomach plummeting, suddenly she saw herself as he might, boyish limbs and the slight swell of breasts leading to a trim waist and only moderate hips; she was flat and tall āit still felt too clingy.
Motherās voice startled her on the other side of the drape, āHereās that other size you wanted.ā she offered and Ida drew back the partition. Mother stood as if aghast in admiration.
āMy beautiful girl.ā her voice grew thick with emotion and Ida too felt a lump in her throat at the thought of how many years had been robbed from them, first by the seperation and then by the war, they might have had many such outings and none of them so burdened. āYouāll be irresistible in that.ā she said it with such pride and Ida tried so hard to cling to that as her world grew cold and her fingers and lips with it, creeping doubt and pernicious terror raising itself at last at the sheer loneliness of not even her own mother having any idea what horror such a compliment evoked. āIda, Eye Eye, whatās wrong? My sweets whatās wrong? What did I say? Sit, sit! -there, Ida, darling.ā
Ida did not realize she was crying until she was sat on the pretty velvet bench beside the mirror, sobbing like a girl in her mothers arms. āI donāt want to be irresistible.ā she tried to explain through her sobs, āI donāt want to tempt him at all.ā
Confused as she was, mother did not argue the rightness or wrongness of temptation and desire within marriage. She just held her daughter like she had wanted to when her father died, when her plane had been downed, when they sent her away to Florida so someone else could feed her and she came back more pilot than woman. āAlright, then you donāt need to.ā Mother said instead and it brought Ida such relief a new flood of tears were unleashed, years of pent up grief and disgust flowing out of her. āBe yourself. Youāre precious Ida, never meant other than that.ā
-see how ugly you have now become? the Kommandant had asked her before shearing her hair.
Crumpled against her mother, red faced and quite unimpressive, she wished she were even uglier for once. Poor Robert. She had warned him.
Gaining some composure back, Ida pulled herself away and squared her shoulders, allowing motherās arm to stay loped around them. She did not deserve to be rebuffed after such kindness. āMother,ā Ida found her voice sounded gravelly and distant even to herself but needs must, āin the war, after I was downed-ā she chose her words carefully, eyes fixated on the most unoffensive thing in the mirror, motherās sensible brown shoes, she had long debated whether to ever even tell her,, ā-I think you know, or have heard or, but, there were thingsā¦done to meā¦that I cannotā¦easily forget. Robert knows, thereās no, no um, defrauding? no defrauding happening, I have told him, he knows. But I, I donāt want -I donāt want to be irresistible.ā
Ida had watched the face of her brother process what had been inflicted on her, Johnny had watched her body swell with lurid proof of it, he had wrapped the bloody product of it in the only white garment left in the camp and buried it with last rites and a muttered Ave. A shroud of innocence for a life conceived in anything but.
Ida had no appetite left to watch a motherās face when she learned her daughter had been violated.
Mother was now the one who cried, and Ida numbly felt the burgeoning impulse to hold her in return. Awkwardly but with growing surety, she lifted her arm and tucked motherās smaller frame to her chest, holding her shuddering shoulders, āMy brave child.ā mother managed in grief, āIām sorry, Iām sorry, Iād do anything to take it away-ā it was a natural sentiment and Ida had grown to feel herself quite unnatural for not regretting the course of duty that had placed her in such jeopardy. āRobert is -he is a good man,ā mother could not grieve for herself a full minute without returning reassurances, āI wouldnāt let a lesser man have you. But now I knowā no one else will do. He will be good to you and if he is not, your fatherās house is always yours.ā
Ida had never doubted it but to hear it vocalized, to hear it with a recently unburdened heart, the last of her terror calmed to only simmering nervousness, and with the purchase of the demure mulberry shorts, it set her lightly on her last week of singlehood.
That night, the night of her wedding, Ida brushed her teeth alongside Rosie and splashed her face alongside her husband like she had with dozens of men hundreds of times in the shower rooms. Nothing remotely off there. Nothing until she closed the door on him, he to don his pajamas in the suite and she to don them in the bathroom, then the anxiety struck lethal and sharp.
āDonāt fail me now.ā she muttered to her nerves as she tried her utmost to efficiently step into the sensible mulberry satin shorts after pulling off the sensible and smart wedding suit sheād been wearing.
She stalled at the door, trying to prepare herself for anything on the other side of it. Robert greeting her with excitement despite all their talks to the contrary of trying anything tonight, or any other night in the near future. Robert hitting the whiskey and passing out pleasantly only to forget his promises in the middle of the night. Or somehow worst of all -Robert lying in bed stiff as a board while waiting for her to shuffle under the sheets already and lay beside him. What then? shut the lights out like two senile dotards? That could hardly be borne, despite how dreamy he made it sound to have celebate sleepovers and chaste companionship. Sheād rather take matters into her own hands tonight and pull him bodily inside than endure such stiltedness.
When she opened the door and spied him, nothing could quite prepare her. But then again, surprise was hardly the predominant sentiment. It was gratitude at being right. For deep down in all her doubting she had anticipated him taking her by such pleasant surprise she would never guess it -but never to be confounded.
Prim and homely in his flannel cover and blue pajamas, hair still immaculately lacquered except for where her voracious kisses had done them harm, sat Rosie on the suite carpet, cross legged before a meticulously stacked tower of wedding presents. Beside him was an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries.
āYou absolute dreamboat.ā she accused in a gush, hand over her gaping mouth.
Robertās eyes flicked up, blue and warm all at once, and those smile lines carved their way deeper into his cheeks. āCome on,ā he held up a neatly wrapped present, āI canāt guess this one by shape and itās driving me nuts. Letās get it open so I can sleep.ā
When they had gone to sleep, Ida had imbibed so much champagne and indulged in enough kisses she was foolish and pliant. She wiggled her eyebrows when he rolled beside her, close enough to heat the cradle of her thighs; Robert had only laughed warningly and rolled off. When she woke to sunlight streaming into unfastened drapes, warmth near her but not pressing against her, and Rosieās dark mustache aglow with amber flecks, she was rewarded for her good faith. The curls had come to harm in his sleep and she pushed them off his forehead to wake him.
āMorning.ā she whispered.
His smile was dazzling, somehow even more so with his puffy eyes and his loose, drousy lips catching against her palm, āMorning, Mrs Rosenthal.ā his voice tickled her, āWeāve got a boat to catch.ā
š Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writerās lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is ātoo dumbā. Your thoughts mean the world to me.
MOTA taglist, I only have one so ignore if this is not the universe you signed up for:
I love to see the incremental healing here! This is genuine true love, if Iāve ever seen it.
Idaās motherās reaction was so sweet and heart wrenching! āYouāre precious, never meant to be anything other than thatā omg so sweet.
And opening the gifts together?! Adorable.
I also liked the subtle detail of the sleeping shorts instead of something like a nightgown or slip. Maybe Iām reading into it too much but it made sense for where she is and what sheās ready for, ya know?
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