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sentrytuna · 8 days ago

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٠ ࣪⭑ you are in love

‎pairing: clark kent x reader (3.0K words)

summary: clark kent had always been a good friend to you at the daily planet—but as the two of you fall head over heels for each other, you can’t help but notice the striking similarities between him and superman

warnings & content: mutual pining, clark is a sweetheart and a goofball, female reader, reader is too perceptive for her own good, journalist!reader, clark is a little bit of a loser

Clark Kent was something out of a dream.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and way too polite, like someone had ripped a leading man from a black-and-white movie and dropped him into the bullpen of the Daily Planet. He brought you coffee on Mondays, held the elevator even when you were running across the lobby like a lunatic, and laughed at your jokes like they were actually funny.

Maybe he actually did find them funny.

So, it wasn't very hard to believe that you fell for him hard. Head over heels hard.

Cat and Lois cheered you on every time you spoke to Clark. You thought they'd tease relentlessly, but they were actually incredibly supportive. Lois thought you two were a perfect pair, and Cat.. well, Cat just loved to be a part of gossip. Especially romantic gossip. But she'd never dare tell a soul you liked Clark; that's what was so great about her.

And Clark? Clark was.. clueless. Or maybe not, you couldn’t tell. He blushed when you complimented his ties. He once held eye contact for a solid ten seconds before walking into a filing cabinet. But then he’d disappear halfway through lunch for “an errand,” only to show up later with windblown hair and an excuse so flimsy even Jimmy side-eyed him.

There was something about him—something too gentle, too careful. Like he was constantly trying to shrink himself down to fit the room. Like he wasn’t just Clark Kent, but something more.

Sometimes you had to double take and remind yourself this was your coworker, your friend. But then again.. he did remember your coffee order down to the extra shot of espresso. He always made room for you on the elevator, even when it was packed. And he looked at you like you were the first good thing that had ever happened to him.

So maybe it wasn't a shocker that you fell for him. Maybe it was just fate.

Clark and you had become fast friends from the first day you'd landed the job at the Daily Planet. His desk was right across from yours, making it easy to just turn to each other and chat. Clark lit up a room with his bright, dorky smile and his boyish charm.

There was something so special about Clark. You knew it even before you fell hard for him. Clark had such a gentle, kind heart. The kind that's not just worn on a sleeve, but rather worn everywhere. If there was ever some argument about justice or truth, he was the first to defend it. The first to defend the innocent, the helpless.

It was infuriating, sometimes. How someone could be so good and soft and sincere without it being some kind of act. And it made the nagging suspicion in the back of your mind that much worse.

Because there was something else. Something you couldn’t quite explain.

Like how Clark seemed to vanish the second anything chaotic happened. How his clothes always had that faint singed smell, like he’d walked too close to a lightning strike. How sometimes, just sometimes, you’d catch him staring at the television in the breakroom right as some new reporter spoke about Superman. It was the way he listened so intensely that caught your attention.

You weren’t trying to snoop. Truly, you weren’t. You just noticed things. Small things. Quiet things. Things other people overlooked because Clark Kent was so.. unassuming.

But you noticed. And you were starting to connect the dots.

“Do you think Superman is just some regular Joe?” You asked, spinning in your chair as you avoided your computer screen. Sports column. Oh, how you hated when Perry gave you the damned sports column.

Clark's head whipped over to you, his face an expression you couldn't quite read. “Sorry?”

“Like.. do you think he just has some boring old day job like us?” You continued, the pen in your hand clicking over and over. “I mean, what does Superman do when he isn't.. super.”

Clark chuckled nervously, you noted. “I… guess I never thought about it.”

You clicked your pen, once, twice. “I mean, he’s always around when big stuff happens. But in between? He’s gotta eat, right? Pay rent?”

“I suppose so,” he said slowly, voice just the tiniest bit too tight. “I don’t think Superman has to worry about rent.”

“No rent,” you repeated. “Right. Because he’s what? Crashing at a super secret lair no one knows about?”

Clark cleared his throat. “Uh. Maybe.”

You finally looked at him, raising a brow. He was doing that thing again—adjusting his glasses like they were a nervous tic, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, not quite meeting your eyes. You leaned your elbow on your desk, resting your chin in your hand. “What do you think Superman eats for breakfast?”

“I don’t know,” Clark muttered, clearly flustered. “Toast?”

“Toast,” you echoed, trying not to smile. “The Man of Steel eats toast.”

Clark shrugged. “Everyone eats toast. I eat toast. I love toast.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “You’re sweating.”

He blinked. “It’s.. hot in here.”

It wasn’t. You both knew it. But he was already ducking his head, pretending to refocus on his screen, the tips of his ears turning suspiciously red.

Huh. Very interesting.

You didn’t let the topic drop, no, not yet. You could see the way Clark’s fingers hovered stiffly over his keyboard, typing nothing.

“Okay, toast,” you said, twirling your pen between your fingers. “But what about coffee? You think Superman takes it black? Or is he secretly the type to order something ridiculous with oat milk and whipped cream?”

Clark glanced at you from the corner of his eye, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but was scared of what might come out. “Probably black,” he said. “He’s efficient.”

You snorted. “That’s boring.”

“Maybe he likes boring.”

“Maybe he pretends to.”

That earned you a real smile—crooked, boyish, so bright it made your stomach do a little flip. And just like that, the teasing slipped out before you could stop it.

“You know,” you said, resting your chin in your palm again, “you smile just like him.”

Clark froze. Like actually froze. He looked like a baby deer in headlights.

For a second you thought maybe he’d short-circuited. His eyes widened behind his glasses, his mouth half-open like he was trying to think of a word that didn’t exist yet.

“I—what?” he stammered.

You bit your lip, half enjoying this, half swooning at how adorably flustered he was. “Superman,” you clarified, tapping your pen against your notepad. “You kinda smile like him.”

“I don’t—” he shook his head, letting out a breathy laugh, “I mean, that’s—he’s—I’m—that’s not—”

“You okay over there?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I just—no one’s ever said that before.”

“Why not? You’ve got that same thing. Like…” You waved vaguely toward his face. “Hopeful. Heroic. Like you’re trying to save a kitten stuck in a tree with your eyes.”

He made a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cough. “You’re—uh. Very observant.”

“Occupational hazard,” you said sweetly.

He looked like he was trying to melt into his chair. You were pretty sure if he was Superman, he’d have flown straight through the ceiling to escape this conversation. You smiled to yourself, eyes flicking back to your half-written sports column.

Interesting, indeed.

There were more times that Clark seemed to get oddly strange about Superman. Like when you said he was tall enough to be Superman and he spit out his coffee. Or when you said his hair was curly like Superman and he tried to say his hair was just wavy.

You really weren’t trying to torture him. Not intentionally. It was just.. so easy. And kind of adorable. It was also a good way to test your suspicion.

Like this morning, when you caught him watching the news broadcast from a rooftop rescue the night before. Superman had carried an entire bus off a collapsing bridge—again—and you’d found Clark standing by the breakroom TV, arms crossed, brows furrowed in concern like he was the one who’d pulled it off and was now second-guessing the landing.

You leaned against the doorway, sipping your coffee. “Think he ever gets tired of saving the world?”

Clark jumped, like you’d caught him stealing. “Who?”

You grinned. “Superman.”

“Oh. Uh. Probably not. I mean.. it’s kind of his thing, right?”

“Maybe.” You tilted your head. “Or maybe he’s just really tired and doesn’t let anyone know.”

Clark looked at you then. Really looked. It was like he was scanning for something beneath the surface of your words. You didn’t flinch. You were starting to enjoy this little dance a little too much.

You took another sip and added, “If he ever wanted to take a day off, I’m sure the world would survive. One day without Superman wouldn’t kill us.”

Clark swallowed thickly, turning back to the TV. “I don’t know about that.”

You stepped beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, and leaned in just enough to make his breath catch. “I think it would. Kill you, I mean. You’d go crazy not being able to help.”

He turned to you again, blinking rapidly. “Why would I—?”

“If you were Superman, I mean,” You replied instantly. “It would kill you to not go a day without helping. Seems like you and our Kryptonian have that in common.”

You and Clark always liked to have pasta night. It wasn’t a date. At least, not officially. It was just something you did after those long, soul-draining Daily Planet days, when the world felt too loud and the newsroom felt too full of egos and deadlines and bad coffee. Pasta night was the safe zone. Laughter over stovetop steam. Old movies on the TV. Clark humming as he chopped garlic with annoyingly perfect knife skills.

Tonight, after a tragically long day trailing Cat Grant around while she whispered office secrets like she was auditioning for Gossip Girl, you were practically crawling to Clark's apartment.

It was locked, unfortunately. But it was so late, so you weren't sure why he wasn't home. Thankfully, Clark kept a spare key under the mat, a terrible hiding spot in a city like Metropolis, but very on-brand for someone who still believed in the good in people. You grabbed it, unlocked the door, and slid it right back where it belonged.

“Clark?” you called softly, just in case.

Confirmed: not home. Lights off. No rustle of movement from the bedroom. No familiar clatter in the kitchen. It was quiet in the way that felt wrong. Clark’s apartment was never silent. It always hummed with soft music, the occasional kettle on the stove, the warm shuffle of him padding around barefoot.

You checked your phone. 7:03 p.m. Weird.

You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you and locking it with a quiet click. His apartment was tidy, as usual, but lived-in. Cozy. A blanket still draped over the arm of the couch from the last time you'd watched movies together. A pair of glasses on the coffee table. His laptop still open on the dining table, half a document glowing on the screen.

You dropped your bag by the door and took off your shoes. Something just felt so off about this.

You wandered to the window, peeking out at the skyline. The familiar neon glow of Metropolis buzzed in the distance. Traffic rolled steady. People moved like ants below. But the longer you sat in the quiet, the more the nothing started to feel like something.

And the more you were sure, without a doubt, that Clark Kent was hiding something.

After about fifteen minutes, the front door opened. You turned your head around, ready to question your friend about why he was out so late like a worried mother. Then, you saw it. That unmistakable S symbol on his chest. Not just on his chest, but on his suit. Superman's suit.

That was Superman.

Or.. no. It was Clark. Same height. Same shoulders. Same eyes. But the glasses were gone. The tie was gone. The soft sweater and rolled sleeves were gone. And in their place: the suit.

For a second, he didn’t see you. He had one hand on the doorknob, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, jaw tight. He looked like he’d just flown through hell and back. His suit was scuffed, a tear at the shoulder, a faint smear of soot across his cheek.

Once he turned around, his eyes widened when he saw you. His whole body stilled, like his mind was catching up to what his heart already knew; he’d been caught.

“Are you hurt?”

You didn't expect those to be the first words from your mouth. Maybe a scold, anger because how could he keep such a secret from you? But for some reason, your worry and care for him made the words tumble from your lips before you could even think about saying anything else.

Clark shook his head, “No, no. I-I'm okay. What.. are you doing here? How'd you even get in?”

“Don't worry about that,” you shrugged his question off. “You look tired.”

“Fights are still tiring,” Clark replied, giving you a soft, crooked smile. He sounded breathless. Whether from the fight or the fact that you were standing there, in his apartment, seeing him.. you couldn’t tell.

You nodded to the couch. “Sit down, Clark.” He hesitated, then obeyed, lowering himself with a quiet exhale. You sat beside him, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin, but not quite touching.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched between you, soft and charged and full of everything you hadn’t asked yet.

Finally, you broke it. “Were you going to keep it from me forever?”

Clark stared down at his hands. “I didn’t know how to tell you. Every time I tried, it felt like I’d be asking you to see me differently. And I didn’t want to lose the way you look at me now.”

“I see you the same,” you instantly assured. “The way I look at it? You aren't Superman. Superman is Clark.” He perked up at your words, just a fraction, but you caught it. “That heart of yours is a Clark Kent heart that Superman represents.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally said, “Sometimes I feel like Superman is who I have to be. But Clark…” He looked down again, voice gentler. “Clark’s the real me. The part I hoped someone might love, even if the rest of the world only ever sees the cape.”

Your breath caught. And before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out to rest on top of his. The word fell from your lips again, like some sort of mind control or truth serum:

“I already do, Clark.”

His gaze snapped to yours.

“I already love that part of you.”

For a beat, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, tentatively, he laced his fingers through yours. You could feel the shift in the air between you. Something unspoken settling into place. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward, but sacred.

Clark looked at you like you were unreal. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” he murmured. “But I was scared. Not of what you’d think of Superman.. but of what you’d think of me.”

“Clark,” you whispered, “I’ve been falling for you since the first time you offered me coffee and spilled half of it on your own shirt.” Your words made him chuckle airly, a sound that always made you smile in return.

His free hand came up, hesitant at first, fingertips brushing your cheek, then settling softly at your jaw like he was still asking permission. When you didn't back away, he leaned in slowly like a moment stretched thin with meaning, like he wanted to savor every second before it broke.

And then, his lips met yours.

He kissed you like you were fragile and eternal all at once—like he didn’t want to overwhelm you, but he needed you to know. Needed you to feel everything he hadn’t been able to say.

You kissed him back, and he melted into it—like the tension he carried every day, in every fight, in every lie, finally had somewhere to go.

When you pulled away, just barely, your foreheads rested together.

You whispered, breath warm against his lips, “Hi.”

Clark smiled, eyes still closed. “Hi.” After a moment, he spoke again. "Gosh, I've dreamed about doing that for months now.”

“Live up to your expectations?”

“Beat them significantly.”

You grinned, cheeks warm, still close enough to feel his breath fan across your lips. “Significantly, huh?”

He nodded solemnly. “Astronomically.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s a pretty high bar. I hope I don’t disappoint you on the second kiss.”

Clark blinked, momentarily stunned, then gave the goofiest, most love-struck smile you’d ever seen. “There’s going to be a second kiss?”

“I mean.. I hope there's going to be a second kiss,” you answered. “Right now, preferably.”

With a small laugh, Clark leaned in. The kiss was passionate, but more natural, casual than the first one. The kind of kiss you could imagine sharing after a long day of work or in passing.

And when you finally broke apart, barely a breath between you, you couldn’t stop smiling.

“I should probably change out of the super suit,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Kind of ruins the whole normal guy vibe I’ve been going for.”

You gave him a once-over. “Mm. I don’t know. It’s growing on me. Seeing it this close is kind of amazing.”

He flushed instantly. “Don’t say things like that. I might have a heart attack.”

You leaned in one last time and whispered, lips brushing his, “That’d be kind of impressive, considering your heart’s, you know.. bulletproof.”

He laughed, bright and helpless, and you swore you felt it in your chest. And in that quiet, wrapped in warmth and half-lit shadows and truth finally spoken, it felt like the world could pause. Just for a little while.

Because this wasn’t about Superman. This was about him. It had always been about him.

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