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smuttish-simpish · 22 days ago

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you can see it with the lights out

clark kent x fem reader 5.5k

"one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / you're my best friend ... he is in love" or, clark is home, no matter the city or season

— bffs to lovers surprise surprise, casual intimacy and yearning, dedicated to my 400 follower milestone ily all <333

— was struck by this as oomf irl said you are in love has “look up” in the lyrics like,,, ok tswift i didnt understand ur game

i. meant just for you

KANSAS, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD.

You are in love with your best friend, and Clark Kent is not in love with you.

He makes it so hard to believe, though.

Jonathan and Martha’s house is cold, even in July. Outside, it must be sweltering with the wet blanket of heartland humidity. The heat wave will pass like it always does, if you’re willing to wait for it.

Summer is different here. More familiar. The salt-sun tang of the San Francisco Bay is long gone—not that you were able to experience it often, being a stellar example of STAR Labs’ workaholic culture. In Smallville, all you can do is be helpless to the smell of hay and dry grass and the promise of a summer storm.

You let it in; full tilt, no hesitation. You’ve missed it.

Cicadas sing just out the windows, humming above the gentle thrum of the AC and the game you randomly turned on. Looks like Pa Kent is keeping up with the Meteor’s season, so he has something to talk about to Clark when they call. He’s a man of actions, and the look he gave when he discovered you stretched out on the L-couch this morning with a blanket slung over you was more than enough for words.

“Good morning, Mr. Kent,” you had stifled a yawn, blinking away the sleep about to take your eyelids. He didn’t even need to ask. “I let myself in, if you don’t mind.”

He never minds. More often than not, you always find your way to the familiar walls of the Kent living room, whether it be through the spare key Clark gave you years ago or the porch window Ma Kent sometimes leaves open.

In high school, when Clark finally wandered down for breakfast, you used to hide under a pile of throw pillows and scare the lights out of him. You suspected that he eventually caught on—every reaction would get bigger until one day, he actually hit the ceiling, much to his mom’s amusement.

“Wild girl,” she’d say, pinching your cheek with a soft smile. “Flickering ‘round like a firefly.”

You hear the screen door first, and then the creak of heavy hardwood on old hinges. Clark stumbles into the living room, kicking off his muddy boots, though his white shirt is dirtier.

“What’cha watching?” he asks, peeling the shirt off. It sticks to his back, sweat-soaked, and leaves his dark curls in a shiny mess. They flop over his forehead.

A stammer of shame runs through your heart as you watch his back flexing when he yanks his socks off and leaves them on the doormat. Stop staring.

“Baseball,” you say, tugging the blanket up to your bottom eyelashes. Smells like Clark and you, somehow. Your heart aches. “Meteors at Goliaths. Bottom of the sixth, two bases stolen and no outs. We’re trailing.”

He wrinkles his nose, faintly displeased as he starts toward the kitchen. The fan’s running too high to hear his footsteps—he’s always been weirdly light on his feet—but the rush of the sink is loud enough.

“It’s the June swoon,” Clark reminds you. The water shuts off, and he leans against the doorway with a hand towel slung over his broad shoulder.

Warmth lights in your stomach. It’s gotten awfully hot in the house despite the AC running high. The unit outside is probably burning.

You will your heart to calm down. “It’s July, Clark. The first, but still July.”

“Still,” he says, padding over. You’re counting on a miracle at this point, blinking as the swell of his chest comes closer. “They don’t usually do so well this time of year.”

Then he lowers himself on top of you, slow and steady in the way you’d slip into hot bathwater after a hard day.

First are his hands, broad and heavy as they sink into the cushion beside your head. He braces onto his forearms, veins barely straining under tan skin. His knees settle on either side of yours.

You freeze, owlish with your hands still holding the blanket to your face. Clark blinks once, and then drops the whole of his weight on your front, fingers diving beneath the blanket to cup your waist and nose finding home behind your jaw. You shriek, worming under his bulk.

There’s the smothering, heavy heat of Kansas summer that you know. Clark only laughs into your neck when your knee meets his shin. Your heart does a somersault at the impression of his mouth splitting into that wide, familiar grin you would know by touch.

His stomach presses against yours, and the world feels whole again.

You guess the miracle you’ve been counting on has been spent on not dying when he practically crushes you.

“Stinks,” you croak out, mouth curving uncontrollably as you paw at Clark’s shoulders. Lie—even under the layer of sweat quickly drying on his skin, you can still smell the sweet scent of hay and air-dried linen. “Move, I wanna see Velling at bat.”

He pushes himself back up with an offended gasp—brows furrowed, mouth wide open, cheeks simmering with the slightest sunkissed blush. You miss him being close, even though he’s still half-laying on you.

This is what lovesick feels like. Looking up at your best friend, remembering that he isn’t and will never be yours, and still wishing he could be.

“I can’t believe you, supporting the Goliaths?”

“What? He’s a good player!”

“And so is Beaufort!” he complains, dropping his forehead onto your sternum. You hope he can’t hear your heart.

“He struck out—like, every single inning,” you sputter, fisting the blanket’s soft fibers. Great. He’s just rubbed all his sweat over it.

“June swoon,” his voice is muffled as he explains again, like it’s so simple.

Crack! The crowd cheers through the TV’s tinny speakers. Three-run homer, and Velling runs the bases with his gloved fingers in the air.

“It’s July.” You free your right hand from the blanket and flick the crown of his head. Finally, he rolls away, dramatically collapsing onto the carpet. You lean onto your forearm, peering down teasingly. “Plus, Beaufort isn’t as tall, buff, or cute as Velling.”

“God, you’re mean, firefly,” Clark puffs, swatting you away. He staggers to his full height, brushing the imaginary lint off his jeans, rolling his thick neck with a sigh.

Like he’s trying to show off, or whatever. He twists his mouth at you, miffed.

You know better. It’s not like he’s jealous or something, no matter how much he acts like he is. Clark’s nature is just like that—he’s probably sorer about the fact that you aren’t cheering on the Meteors than the fact that you find some Gotham Goliaths guy attractive.

(But it’s true—tall, buff, cute. Like Clark, in the way they both look kind and funny and have the same sweet smile that turns their eyes into crescents.)

He balls his hands and puts them on his hips. “I’m gonna shower now.”

You give him a long, hard look, not quite sure what he’s trying to do. “Okay?”

Blame your imagination, but Clark looks a little disappointed that you’re meeting him in the middle without saying something stupid like, ‘without me’ or ‘don’t drown.’

He pivots around like he’s trying to show every painstaking angle of his body, conditioned by years of summer labor. Calling over his shoulder, “And then you’ll turn the game to a movie when I get back.”

“Great,” you drawl, forcing your eyes to the corner of the room, where you know for a fact is where Clark used to sit in time-out. “I’m putting on The Notebook.”

He disappears behind the open doorframe that leads to the hallway, but not before complaining, “You know that movie makes me sad!”

—

He comes back in that soft pair of sleep pants you know so well and a thin, white tee going threadbare at the collar. It’s practically translucent in the parts where the droplets still in his hair drip onto the fabric and make it cling to his skin.

Clark has filled out all his clothes rather nicely. Used to be so small when you were kids and then boom—he struck freshman year and started gaining. But that was high school, and you’re adults now.

You didn’t know that his office job at the Planet involved bulking up, though. Maybe it’s because he’s always chasing around that Superman.

The shirt is practically vacuum sealed to his pectorals. The faintest suggestion of his abs peer through the fabric too, and the sleeves strain against his arms.

“You’re blocking me,” you huff. Clark stands expectantly at the foot of the sofa, where the L sticks out. Behind him is the list of streaming services the Kents have but don’t really know how to use.

(You should make better use of your time here to teach them…)

“Are you moving over?” He nudges your foot with his knee.

You comply, scooting around him until he’s comfortably sitting behind you, chest pressed to your back. Like it always is with the two of you.

Clark’s arms wrap around you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. You can feel his soft breaths puff against the shell of your ear as you click around with the remote.

“That one,” he says, tilting his chin up even though you can’t see what the hell he’s trying to ‘point’ at. “Drive Me Crazy.”

The cheesy cover stares back at you, taunting. It just so happens that his favorite romcom is about childhood friends.

Of course. Clark is a creature of comfort. That’s why he’s choosing a movie you know front to back while you sit between his legs on the L-shaped couch in his parents’ home. As friends do, obviously.

That sends a stab into your heart.

“We’ve seen this a million times,” you complain. It doesn’t do much, because Clark flexes his arms just so and you waste no time giving in to his demands.

You get to the opening credits before you’re sick of watching. Clark is on your wavelength as always, because the second people start talking, he’s resting his chin on your shoulder and making everything sound like white noise.

“Where’s Ma and Pa?” he whispers. Even at home, he keeps his goody two-shoes theater manners. It’s kind of endearing.

“Went into town,” you mumble, stealing a glance from your peripheral. A flash of brilliant blue framed by dark lashes fills your vision before your eyes dart back to the screen. “Didn’t hear them?”

“I did, but I was in the barn,” he sighs. Your spine presses tighter to his front at the action. “And before you say anything—yes, I finished my chores.”

You laugh softly at the reminder.

It must have been when you were both ten. The precipice of spring meant pleasant breezes and a gentle prickle of heat at the sun’s peak, but it also meant cleaning time.

Ma Kent was running the farm like the—well, Clark said, ‘the shucking Navy.’

You had raced down the road to his place, having woken up early to finish your chores. Clark met you midway, already bounding off the porch and tackling you onto the ground.

And then Ma Kent hollered from the barn—far out back and still clearer than the sky, a superpower in itself: Clark Joseph Kent, there’ll be no play if you don’t finish!

She’s mellowed out over the years, though. All of you have.

"Are you sure?” You tilt your head up, just to tease. Clark peers down at you, soft black eyelashes fanned out and fluttering. You’re half jealous and half hypnotized by how his clear blue irises flex like he’s trying to keep his pupil dilation to a low.

He still has freckles, you note. More noticeable than they had been when you last saw him. They’re darker, splashed further across this face.

He exhales through his nose, the breath buried in your hair, “Very sure.”

You want him to keep talking. Something about the sound of your best friend’s voice is so lovely on the ears. It makes you want to bottle it up like a firefly, watch the light of it flicker in the dark. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s lulled you to sleep.

“Your mom says that you realized the love of your life in Metropolis,” you whisper it like it’s a secret. You can’t help it—you're somewhat of a masochist when it comes to heartbreak. Even if it’s from Clark.

Clark goes still. “I thought I did,” he says, quiet and deep. You can barely hear him over the movie. “I’m not so sure she loves me back.”

“That’s stupid,” you retort, shifting to curl up with your ear pressed just below his collarbone. The arm of the couch bites into your spine, softened by the wrap of his arm around your waist. “Who couldn’t love you?”

He looks at you then. Something simmers in the deep blue of his eyes, forlornness wading through the tar of his pupil.

He’s so close that if he just pitched his head down by a hair, your noses would be meeting. Your breath shivers. Feels like he’s looking right through you and splitting your ribs wide open.

You would let him crawl in.

You would keep him warm.

“I don’t know, firefly,” he says, finally. “Did you meet anyone in San Francisco?”

Trying to keep your voice level, you flatten your cheek against his chest. “Maybe. Not really. Times are trying when you’re living out of a metahuman lab and drinking from an Erlenmeyer flask.”

“Smart girl.” Clark's face doesn’t change much, but it does nothing to hide the fondness etched into his face. He leaves a sweet, earnest kiss to the crown of your head, warm hand cupping your cheek. “Smartest girl in the world.”

You huff, amused. “Factually incorrect. There’re smarter people at LuthorCorp.”

“Well, you’re my smart girl,” he mumbles, lips still smothered to your hair. His mouth curves into a small smile, the unfurling of summer all in one motion. “My best friend.”

Just friends.

ii. he says, "look up"

Autumn, San Francisco. You’re on paid leave after a containment mishap at the labs.

Somehow, some way, Clark comes back to you. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.

He’d shown up out of the blue on a Monday morning, curly hair in a mess and clothes all rumpled. Like he’d flown through a whirlwind, or something.

You didn’t even know he was coming until he texted you—he rarely does that, preferring to call and hear your voice—that he was in a taxi to your apartment. There wasn’t even a hint of jet lag in his voice.

And you love him anyways.

(“Wait, how’d you know about the lab?”

“Um…” Clark had trailed off, tapping his chin. There were a pair of frames stuck in his shirt pocket, as if he just left work and flew straight across the country. Which is impossible. “Lois told me. She’s writing a piece.”

Clark Kent is not in love with you.)

“I need to tell you something.”

Now, you’re both spread-eagle on the floor of your apartment. The ceiling fan spins in languid circles, like how birds lazily circle over the fields. Late-day sun filters in through his curtains, hazy and nostalgic.

Sometimes your fingers twitch and end up brushing ever so slightly. Livewire still sparks beneath your skin.

The comics you brought as a reminder of home are scattered around the floor, some with their pages still open and fluttering with every chut-chut rotation of the fan. You’ve spent the last hour beating the boredom with them, flipping through stories and giggling at the old tropes from your childhood until you got sick and started laying in the silence.

Comfortable silence. Nothing gets awkward, not with Clark beside you.

Just listening to his soft breaths is enough.

It helps to feel like a kid again. Like you aren’t grown, and you can’t see him as more than a friend.

Clark Kent will stay in your life forever. You know this now, you’ve known this your entire life. But you still want to know him in ways no one else does.

You turn your head to him, ignoring the way your neck protests from the lack of support on a hardwood floor. “What?”

He blinks, swallows. The dimple in his cheek dips as he considers his words. You notice that the scruff on his jaw, which he forgot about yesterday, is gone. Clean-shaven and erased like it was never there.

Shame. You didn’t really mind it.

“I’m Superman.”

There’s no fanfare to it. There’s only the single sentence, spoken at normal volume, earnest and truthful.

Peeling your torso off the floor, you frown down at him. “Seriously?”

“Firefly.” Clark’s pitch deepens into that voice you only know from a TV screen. One you’d press your fingers to the glass for, wondering why the man in the sky looked so damn familiar. Why he’d fill you with some sense of hope and comfort and the idea of everything being okay.

His face shifts. Everything shifts. He draws his brows lower. He thins his mouth, just slightly so that the hollows of his cheeks are emphasized.

You get a faint memory of snapping at one of your coworkers for raving about Superman’s face. How the structure was just so handsome. How that dimpled, thousand watts smile you couldn’t put your finger on was considered hot to the masses.

Your fist balls against the hardwood at the image of that coworker squealing over the news feed.

And then he’s back to his boyish self. Back to being the best friend you know better than yourself as if he didn’t drop his biggest secret into your lap. A metahuman researcher’s lap.

Is he not afraid that you’ll cut him open? Is he so trusting and earnest and good to believe the best in you?

“I can prove it if you want me to.”

Your throat runs dry. All you can do is nod.

—

Clark holds both your hands in his just as the sunlight begins to ebb away.

You’re on the roof of your building, away from prying eyes. The air is cold in the way only San Francisco sunsets can be, sapping away the odd heat that lingered in the afternoon. It’s concrete and mortar here.

You miss Smallville.

Miss the corn stalks as they rustle around you, panicles heavy and ripe. The silks, dried and brown and blowing in the soft breeze that sighs over the fields.

Miss how the air smells of the anticipation for harvest. How the wind is ever so sweet. How the husks on two ears sound when they rub together—shh, shh, the slight musical quality that makes you fall in love with country autumns all over again.

But with Clark holding your hands, you realize that the poets are right when they say home is a person.

His palms are so, so warm. Rougher than you would expect them to be, since he supposedly spends more time at a desk than doing farm labor.

You turn then over so the backs are facing the sky and run your thumb over his knuckles. He has pale, barely noticeable scars there.

Superman fought an alien last week, you remember. Or was it a kaiju?

Before your eyes, the little white blotches sink back into his skin. You can’t quite believe it.

“Thinking about it, it makes sense now,” you say, training your eyes on his unmarked knuckles. You link your right fingers together, then your lefts; you burn where he touches. “That’s how you ended up on the barn roof when we were ten.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Clark admits, circling his thumb on the backs of your hands. “I…didn’t want it to ruin us.”

Oh, Clark. Sometimes he’s just too selfless for his own good. Your lungs open for a breath, and you let go, surging forward to wrap your arms around him.

He’s so solid. He’s warm, and he’s real, and he is and will always be your best friend.

Some things never change.

“Wait,” you say into his chest—there’s a weird, alien thrum running through it, “so you can fly? For real?”

You glance up, and Clark’s eyes are sliding to the side, avoidant. “Yeah…”

“Take me out” —spike in that uncanny rhythm— “on a flight.”

He sighs, ribs swelling in your arms. You hold on tighter and grin at him. “Ma was right. You’re wild.”

iii. spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words

Metropolis is cold in the wintertime.

This year, Clark decided to invite everyone—that being you and his parents—to his humble Midtown apartment for the holidays. It’s a little cramped, with Ma and Pa Kent in his bedroom and he on the couch.

Your suitcase is parked in the corner by the door, right next to the shoe rack. Clark’s loafers, which take up the top row, have all lost their glossy shine and are scuffed at the toe box. One of them fell off and turned over, revealing worn soles that looked like the barnacled hull of a ship.

You had been weirdly endeared by that. He really does care for his things until they’re on the brink of falling apart.

The sill of his floor to ceiling windows are piled with inch-thick snow. The glass has been cracked open just enough so that Clark can come home without hovering outside for someone to let him in.

Standing close to the window with a blanket wrapped around your shoulder, your breath fogs slightly and condenses on the glass.

The city lights dance below you, glimmering and warm through the nighttime marine haze settling between the buildings. A few car horns go off here and there, merging with the old holiday jingles crooning from a neighbor’s radio, or a large LED display.

Won’t be the same dear, if you’re not here with me…

Endearingly, Clark still believes in Santa. There’s a pantry full of cookie ingredients and supplies, and he’s lined the seams of his walls with blinking lights.

They’re off right now, but you know his first order of business when he flies in through that window will be to turn them on.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ma Kent says from her perch on the couch; she’s knitting something. Clark’s pillow and blankets are folded and stacked in the corner, and she leans against the pile. The TV flickers from the opposite wall. “Come sit.”

“I’m alright Mrs. Kent,” you smile, soft. “The couch’s small, and” —jutting your chin at her husband, slumped against the cushions and closing his eyes— “I don’t wanna wake him up.”

Pa Kent has been complaining of back issues lately. They flared up after the flight from Wichita Airport, so he’s assigned to bed (or couch) rest for the next few days. By Clark’s orders, of course.

“You’re too sweet,” she croons, weathered face crinkling with her grin. “I keep telling our boy, he should have a girl like you.”

Your throat gutters at her words. Ma Kent is still smiling when she turns back to her knitting project, humming softly to the song filtering in through the open window.

Cheeks growing hot, you cough to soften the dryness in your mouth. “That—I don’t—”

“Don’t be silly,” Pa Kent rasps, popping an eye open. You’re half-startled by the suddenness of it. “He really loves you.”

The Kents look at each other, sidelong. Martha nods, Jonathan shrugs. It’s this little secret language that’s reminiscent of you and Clark, too.

You just hadn’t realized until now that you probably copied it from his parents.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” Ma Kent says, still eyeing her husband with a knowing look. “Hm.”

Knock on the glass. Speak of Superman, and he shall arrive.

Just in time, too. Another minute spent being the subject of the Kents’ speculations, and you would have jumped out yourself. You grin at Clark on the other side of the window as he waves, superimposed with the city’s lights reflecting off the glass.

He’s a whirlwind. Swept by the evening air, his hair is falling out of place, slowly melting back into the curls he usually has; miraculously, there isn’t a single flake of snow on him. The grin he returns is brighter than the sun, face blooming with wild joy as you pry the glass the rest of the way open.

Flash of red. A wave of ozone, wind, and corn silk fills your senses as Clark barrels into you with a loud, windchime laugh. You swear you roll over twice before landing on his chest, still caught in an embrace.

He can barely speak straight with that wide, boyish grin dawning on his face. “Why—oh my god, when? I told you to text me when you landed!”

Your heart somersaults. Does a flip, too, maybe.

You hope he’s not listening too closely.

“Sorry,” you say, hiding your face in his chest. Just like you remember, solid and radiating heat like a furnace. You could burn and you wouldn’t mind. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider him surprised,” his mom calls from the couch. Embarrassment flickers through you, sparking against your ribs. Right—you aren’t alone.

“Hi, Ma,” Clark pipes up, gently nudging your shoulder with his hand. You slide off him to sit cross-legged on the floor. He pushes himself up and that stupid, kind of cute grin is still plastered on his face. “Hi, Pa.”

The urge to kiss him becomes so strong that you curl your hand into a fist, pressing your knuckles against the carpet. Clark turns his attention back to you, eyes blown wide and smile beginning to settle into something softer, fonder. Like when a honeymoon phase fades, and a comfortable, content feeling takes its place.

“I missed you.”

—

“It says here—”

Irritation flares in your stomach. “Man, it’s already melted—”

“Shh!” Clark sticks his index finger up, laying it perpendicular to his mouth. He nods in the direction of the hallway, where his parents are. “They’re sleeping, remember?”

Making cookie batter at midnight in a pitch-black apartment might be the worst idea in the world. For one, you’re keeping it dark so his parents can recover from jet lag, but you can hardly see with Clark’s huge frame blocking the lantern set on the island.

It’s only the muted, fluorescent flicker from the string of multicolored lights lining the ceiling and the warm glow of the microwave that make the mess you’re in navigable.

You don’t mind it much, though. Clark is softer in the dim light, every facet of his face splashed with a different color, like a mosaic.

He wears an old Metropolis Uni sweater, dark blue and gold and riddled with holes in the collar and cuffs. His glasses are set beside the lantern—not that he needs them—and now you can see the face you know so well.

He pinches his mouth, trying to stifle a giggle.

“Fine,” you whisper. The ceramic bowl sitting in the center of the microwave is drenched in yellowed light, steam pouring out of the lip. You stick your finger in and jump back when you touch the bowl. "Ow, ow.”

He comes up behind you, right arm reaching forward to lean against the counter. His smile comes off smoothly, dimples sinking into his cheeks like the most natural thing in the world as he murmurs next to your ear, “Allow me.”

“Knock yourself out, Prince Charming.”

Another thing about trying to make cookies while his parents are asleep: you’re practically having the cookies made for you.

Clark is a stand mixer and oven packed into one tall, well-built man. Superpowers are cool for saving the world, sure, but they also make life a whole lot easier.

He reaches in and hooks his fingers around the bowl, unfazed by the butter popping inside. It’s a miracle that it didn’t explode in the microwave. Liquid gold streams into the mixing bowl on the counter, joining the nondescript lump of flour, sugar, eggs, and other things you’ve lost track of.

“Are you sure this is the right order to combine the ingredients?” he hisses, gathering the larger bowl into the crook of his left elbow. “I don’t remember how Ma did it.”

“Well, we can’t wake her up to ask,” you whisper back, sliding a drawer open and picking through the contents for a whisk. “Besides, it’s our first time doing it. It’s not like Santa’s gonna leave a lump of coal in your stocking for trying.”

Your best friend frowns, ever endearing. “I guess. But what if he does?”

You tiptoe over and tap the whisk against his shoulder. Clark blinks at you, blue eyes clear and bright in the dark. “Then I have a better gift.”

You don’t know why you said that. It just seemed like the best thing to say, you suppose.

“I would really like to know what could beat the gift I have in mind,” Clark says, plucking the whisk out of your hand.

He starts mixing, arm flexing beneath his old sweater as he mashes everything together. He’s quieter than a stand mixer, and faster too—you might start calling him when you have a whim to bake something.

The tines of the whisk sigh softly when they brush against the sides of the bowl. Clark isn’t even breaking a sweat, but his inky curls are bouncing around wildly.

Now, heat flares in your stomach, taking over the irritation you felt earlier.

“Really,” you laugh quietly, crossing your arms before him, “and what did you want?”

He shrugs, brows scrunched in thought. Stopping his mixing, he dips his index finger into the dough and tastes it before offering it to you. “It’s not bad.”

“That’s gross, Clark,” you say. Shrugging, he scoops a dollop with his pinky instead and smears it along the corner of your mouth. The batter is warm with friction, and when you scrape it off your cheek and onto your tongue, it melts perfectly.

He must notice the way your face changes, because he’s suppressing a grin ready to burst.

You roll your eyes, sticking your own finger into the mix and smearing the dough on his cheek. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re about to.”

Clark scoffs out a laugh, setting the bowl onto the counter. He gestures to his face, “How are we going to clean this up?”

Shuffling forward, you reach for his collar and pull him closer to you. His exhale shivers as he waits for you to make your move, long eyelashes fluttering as he looks at you expectantly.

Daring, even. Clark is painfully pretty as his eyes dart around your face, searching for a sign of something.

“What?” you whisper, an uncontrollable grin beginning to take root. “I’m just inspecting my work of art.”

“I have an idea,” he mumbles, eyes flicking downward. Slowly, not to startle, he raises a hand to cup your face. “But you have to trust me.”

“’Course,” you choke out, throat running dry. “You’re my best friend.”

The cute pouch of fat lining the bottom of his eyes emerges as he stifles his smile. You fear your heart is about to burst. Forget the cookies, forget the gifts, forget the dough still smeared on his cheek.

Clark pitches his head forward and presses his lips to your cheek.

This is different that all the times you’ve kissed each other’s cheeks. He’s more held-back now, thumb grazing the apple of your cheek as he presses his mouth harder against your skin.

You kind of want to cry. Here is your best friend, the one who’d you trust with the entire world, cradling you so sweetly even though you both know you’d let him do whatever he wanted to you.

“The dough’s a little sweet,” he says, voice low, plush lips still pressed to your burning cheek. A shiver runs through you. "How's that for a gift?"

You throw all caution into the wind, nose nudging his as you twist your head slightly and meet his lips.

The kiss is slow, soft. It’s not with fireworks like it is in the movies. This is familiar, more than you expected it to be.

This is Smallville summer in Metropolis winter. Clark’s mouth fits over yours like second nature, like two pieces of pottery meant to be reunited. This is slipping into bed after a hard day and finding warm arms already waiting; it’s tumbling down a hill and having a caring hand sooth over a bruised knee.

The last twenty-seven-odd years of trying to put into words what you feel for your best friend have flipped a new page.

Clark Kent is home, and you are in love.

— notes!! hallo.... writing this was a total fever dream like what happened LMAO. clark kent my sweetheart best friend, im so soft for him..... pls lmk if u enjoyed my very long ramble on friends to lovers slow burn yearning!!

once again a huge huge thank u with kisses to 400 followers, many more dc fics to come for all u dearly beloved people <33

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