spideysquake

[spideysquake]

just my type

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is. tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut) word count: 10k note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!

masterlist

The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again. 

Not him, obviously. That would be complicated. 

Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.

You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened. 

At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.

And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be. 

You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.

Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”

Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing. 

The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly. 

Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second. 

It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.

And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”

Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”

Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling. 

Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.

When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place. 

Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.

Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.

You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?” 

You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.

Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.

You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.

You hadn’t planned to live with him this long. 

A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?

When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.

By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.

And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment. 

You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place. 

He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days. 

You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.” 

Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that. 

From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself. 

Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept. 

You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.

No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.

Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were. 

You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark. 

Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.

You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.

So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.

There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.” 

Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.

Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”

“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.

He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”

You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”

Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”

“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.

“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced,  and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word. 

But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.

As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date. 

Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.

You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through. 

Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections. 

None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.

You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.

And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.

At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face. 

All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest. 

And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off. 

As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in. 

How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed? 

It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.

Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered. 

Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.

The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead. 

You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair. 

You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.

“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”

You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”

Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”

“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”

You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”

Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.

You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”

Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”

You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased. 

Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”

The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.

Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.

By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore. 

“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”

He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”

You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.

A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.

“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”

And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.

Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead. 

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.

“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.

“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”

Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”

He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”

Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark. 

You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”

“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”

Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.

“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”

Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”

“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”

He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”

Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.

Then disaster struck. 

Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”

You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.

Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.

By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”

You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”

Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”

You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”

Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.

You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.

Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.

The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.

“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.

You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.

You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”

He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.

By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.

The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”

You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”

Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.

You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”

He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries. 

The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow. 

He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.

“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”

Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.

Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.

“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”

Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together. 

You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.

You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.

But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.

You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him. 

Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.

With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while. 

“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.

You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.

It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating. 

Not that it was anything special. 

You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.

You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry. 

Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.

Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.

So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement. 

It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates. 

You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.

“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”

You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”

Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.

“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”

He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”

Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”

You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.

Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.

Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”

You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”

Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”

Your stomach did that impossible flip. 

Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.

Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.

The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass. 

Meanwhile, you were freezing.

You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.

After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.

But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.

Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.

You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow. 

It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.

“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.

You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”

Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts. 

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.

“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.

Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”

You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”

Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”

When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark. 

You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”

You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.

Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened. 

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk. 

Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.

Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.

Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”

You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.

“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”

You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.

Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared. 

“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.

Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.

“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.

Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.

“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.

He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”

There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.

“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.

“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”

You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”

Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”

“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”

“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”

You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. 

Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”

You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”

Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh. 

“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”

The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”

The way he said it made your heart squeeze.

You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.

Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.

Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.

Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.

You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing. 

In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.

It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.

Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”

Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”

“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”

“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”

“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”

Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.

“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”

“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”

“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”

Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”

“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning. 

Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”

“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”

“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”

Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”

You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream. 

“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”

“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”

Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.

Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.

The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.

“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.

He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”

That was all it took. 

In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.

It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.

Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.

When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.

When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.

When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real. 

Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.

You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.

Your throat went dry. “I—”

But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Gosh, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”

The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself. 

“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”

His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.

“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.

You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”

Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.

“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”

Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”

That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.

You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.

Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?

Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”

The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”

“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to the person I love, not just my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”

Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”

Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”

He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.

“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”

And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.

You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”

Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.

“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.

“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”

You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.

When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.

You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”

You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”

Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing more than that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”

You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort. 

You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation. 

It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.

And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”

Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.

Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.

Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly. 

Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”

Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.

[spideysquake]

Oh but good news, she ended up getting the abortion anyway by convincing the doctors and using her power as a rich white woman. She literally tried to call DeSantis to...get him to back her up, I guess? It totally wasn't an abortion though, it was a "medically-assisted miscarriage".

Feels like a good time to repost this essay by Joyce Arthur:

[spideysquake]

[spideysquake]

“I’ll just rest my eyes” is the biggest lie you’re going straight to snorkmimimi land

[spideysquake]

asking for praise for a thing you made feels so humiliating like oooh look at me I’m a little animal and I did a trick and made a thing can I have pets and treats about it. and then somebody tells you it’s good and you understand why golden retrievers are the way they are

[spideysquake]

Clark's Super-Secret | Clark Kent x Reader

Pairings: corenswet!clark kent/superman x fem!scientist reader

Content: 3.6k words | fluff, slight angst, suggestive, established relationship. bf!clark, clark and reader are whipped for each other. mentions of ethics, morals, torture (nothing too bad I swear), reader is a metahuman researcher, identity reveals. I don't think there's anything else I should add here

Summary: In which Clark Kent has to face the truth if he wants to get a good night's sleep...

A/N: I'M BACK!! And with more Clark Kent content. I'm kinda proud of how this came out, so I'd appreciate any feedback!

No, that’s not right.

The sheets bunch up again under Clark’s weight as he shifts for the umpteenth time. A sigh escapes him — low and frustrated — as he turns over onto his side and pulls his pillow in close, clutching it like it’s something solid, something familiar.

Something like you.

Gosh, this is ridiculous.

He stares at the ceiling. The faint hum of the city leaks in through his window, but it’s not enough to distract him from the ache in his chest. Not pain exactly — more like a quiet pull. A missing piece that normally fits right into place somewhere between his heartbeat and yours.

Maybe Lois and Jimmy were right. Maybe he really is horrifically, embarrassingly whipped.

Six months. That’s how long it’s been since you asked him out — six months since that day in your lab when the two of you stopped pretending interviews were the only reason he kept coming back.

Clark still doesn’t know how it happened. He’d been interviewing you for over a year — ever since Perry assigned him the metahuman features project. You were brilliant. Known in scientific circles as the rising voice in metahuman genetics, respected in the Planet's newsroom as the one Clark Kent always comes back flushed from.

He didn’t blame them for teasing him. He was flushed. Every single time. Mostly from nerves — you made him clumsy in a way not even Kryptonite could.

There was the time he dropped his recorder under your desk. The time he knocked over your coffee and his own. The time he stuttered through a question so badly you thought he required medical assistance.

So when you stared down at your stained lab coat after that second coffee disaster and said, with surprising calm,

“You know, Mr. Kent, I think you owe me a well-deserved coffee…”

…he panicked.

He blinked at you, wide-eyed, unsure if you were joking. Or furious. Or both.

“I— I really am sorry, I didn’t mean— I was reaching for the quote you gave on—”

You smiled. Not the professional kind. A real one. Soft at the edges.

“Have you tried Mo’s Café? They make the best lattes.”

He blinked again.

“N-no, I don’t think I have.”

You tilted your head like you were indulging him, which, in hindsight, you absolutely were.

“Great. It’s a date then. Oh, and that last bit was off the record.”

If anyone had seen the look on his face afterward, he’d have been fired for compromising journalistic integrity.

Now, months later, he’s curled around his pillow in bed like it’s the only way his body remembers how to fall asleep.

You’ve only been gone three days. It’s a conference, not the end of the world. You’ll be back in a week.

Still.

He turns again. The clock blinks back at him: 4:47 AM.

A groan escapes him, low and pathetic. The pillow doesn’t answer.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Dude, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but— you look like hell.”

Clark barely lifts his eyes from his screen. “Good morning to you too, Jimmy.”

“It’s noon,” Jimmy says, sliding into the chair beside him. “You’ve yawned seven times in the last ten minutes. Did you even sleep last night?”

Clark shrugs. “A little.”

“A little badly,” Jimmy mutters. Then, quieter: “Is it Superman stuff?”

Clark’s instinct is to deflect. To joke. But Jimmy’s voice is gentle, and Clark’s too tired to play dumb. He just exhales, slow and quiet, eyes still locked on the half-finished draft on his screen.

“…No,” he says finally. “Not Superman stuff.”

Jimmy leans back, skeptical. “Then what?”

Clark fidgets with the edge of his sleeve. The words catch in his throat. He knows the minute he says it, Jimmy will never let it go.

He hesitates. Looks up at the newsroom around him, then back at Jimmy, who’s now watching him with a mix of curiosity and a very familiar smirk.

“You’re just gonna make fun of me,” Clark mutters.

“Probably,” Jimmy agrees. “But you’re still gonna tell me.”

Clark sighs. Long-suffering. Then rests his elbows on his knees, gaze drifting to the floor.

“I miss her,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“I miss her,” he repeats, a little louder, his head falling back against the chair. “She’s only been gone a few days, but I haven’t been able to sleep.”

Jimmy frowns. “You guys text every morning, don’t you?”

“It’s not that,” Clark admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s…we usually fall asleep together. Either she comes over or I go to her place. I guess I just got used to it. Having her next to me.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “You mean…you two sleep together?”

Clark lifts his head to glare, already regretting this. “Not like that. Just—literally. Sleeping. Together.”

Jimmy grins, smug. “Sure, Kent. I believe you.”

“Don’t make me regret opening up,” Clark mutters, though there’s no bite in it.

Jimmy leans back with a thoughtful hum, tapping a pen against his bottom lip.

“…Why don’t you just fly to her, then? You could be there and back before Perry finishes yelling at Steve.”

Clark goes still for a second. Then slowly exhales through his nose.

“Because she doesn’t know.”

Jimmy stops mid-tap. “Wait. What?”

“She doesn’t know,” Clark repeats. “About me. Superman. She doesn’t know.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Keep your voice down!” Clark hisses.

Jimmy glances around, then lowers his voice. “You haven’t told her?!”

“I want to,” Clark says. “I plan to. I just…” He rubs his jaw. “I don’t want it to change how she looks at me.”

Jimmy blinks at him. “Clark, you’re dating a metahuman researcher who literally advocates for cape rights on national panels.”

“I know.”

“She called you 'the best man she’s ever met' during her panel last month.”

“I know.”

Jimmy points dramatically. “And yet—no cape reveal.”

Clark slumps. “I’m getting there.”

He says it with a quiet conviction, not entirely to Jimmy. You made him feel seen, even before the two of you were anything. There’s a stillness about you — calm, discerning — like you don’t just hear what people say, you listen for what they mean. And somehow, even with all the walls he’s built over the years, you saw him anyway.

Which is exactly why the truth matters.

“I’ll tell her soon,” Clark says softly.

Jimmy watches him for a second, then tilts his head. “Soon like… when?”

Clark straightens in his chair, closes his laptop, and stands.

“Soon like tonight..”

“You mean tonight tonight?”

“Yeah. It’s time.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and claps Jimmy on the back.

“Time for lunch break, Jimmy. Thanks for the advice.”

“Avice- that wasn’t exactly advice…You might wanna plan it out a little, Clark—CLARK—” Jimmy calls after him, exasperated, but Clark’s already gone.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Clark wasn’t exaggerating when he told Jimmy he was going to tell you the truth tonight.

Had he planned it through? Sort of. It was less a plan and more an idea with ambition.

Was it a good plan? Well, that was still up for debate. But it was happening—tonight.

Now or never.

With a breath that contained all the usual ingredients—oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide—but tonight felt like it was made mostly of nerves, Clark’s finger hovered over the call button on his phone. A small tremble danced at his knuckle, barely visible to the human eye, but undeniable to the man himself.

Meanwhile, across the city and miles of altitude lower, you were blissfully unaware of your boyfriend’s inner crisis as you flopped backward onto the sprawling comfort of your king-sized hotel bed.

One perk of traveling for work: the company actually splurged this time. Finally, one of the higher-ups decided to match your talent with a thread count over 600. The day had been long and excruciating, filled with back-to-back meetings that blurred together into a bureaucratic blur, each more soul-draining than the last.

And for what?

Every presentation felt like an uphill battle against willful ignorance. It was like these people forgot the word “metahuman” still had “human” in it. If one more boardroom goblin suggested unethical experimentation as a valid “data-collection strategy,” you might’ve thrown your chair—or worse, thrown them.

With a groan, you kicked off your heels and sank deeper into the mattress, limbs sprawling like someone doing a trust fall into luxury. The ceiling fan above offered a lazy hum, the room itself cloaked in golden lamplight and exhaustion. You stretched, sighed, and closed your eyes for a moment.

Clark would like this bed.

It’s big enough for him for once. You could already picture him lying next to you, long limbs taking up more room than he ever admitted, always careful not to squish you but still somehow sprawling like a golden retriever with muscles.

A smile crept onto your face before you could stop it.

You missed him. More than you wanted to admit.

Clark Kent was a dreamboat with zero awareness of his allure—an unfair combination. Smart, sweet, and gentle in a way that felt like a lost art. He never seemed to tire of your ramblings about metahuman ethics, even when he wasn’t interviewing you. He listened. Not just with his ears, but with his whole soul. It made you feel seen. And after a day like this one, you found yourself aching for that comfort.

You missed him, badly.

Bzzzzz… bzzzzz…

The sudden vibration of your phone against the duvet startled you, dragging you from your thoughts. You fumbled into your pocket, squinting against the glare of the screen.

Clark 💙 👓

Your heart did that thing it always did when you saw his name: skipped a beat and did twirls. 

Perfect timing.

“What a coincidence, Clark,” you said as you answered, already grinning, “I was just thinking about you.”

Clark flushed immediately, heat blooming beneath his cheekbones. Thank God you couldn’t see him. But then again… you probably sensed it. You always did.

“Oh—you were?” he stammered, clearly flustered despite the months you’d been dating. You’d think he’d be used to it by now.

“Mhm. All good things, promise. No need to sound so nervous, baby.”

Your voice was like warm syrup—smooth, teasing, and just thick enough to make his brain short-circuit.

The pet name did not help.

You two didn’t use them often, but when you did, it always scrambled his head. He could feel his pulse in his ears.

“I, uh... I missed you,” he said, voice deep, rich, “and I wanted to hear your voice. See how your meetings went.”

Your heart swelled. There he was. The gentlest man you knew, checking on you even when you hadn’t asked. Thoughtful to his very bones.

“I missed you too,” you admitted, stretching your legs out beneath the covers. “Today was awful, Clark. I swear, if I had to explain one more time that my work is focused on metahuman research, not torture porn for the government’s science budget—”

Clark blinked.

You continued, words spilling out rapid-fire, fueled by frustration. “These people—these idiots—were floating ideas like involuntary experimentation, as if these folks are lab rats, not real people. Real humans. Who trust us because we treat them like human beings. And if these morons start violating that trust, everything we’ve built with the metahuman community goes down the drain.”

You exhaled, the rant leaving you winded. “Ugh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump that all on you.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Clark said softly. “It means a lot—to them. To me. That someone like you cares so deeply.”

His voice dropped just enough to send a flutter to your stomach.

“You don’t have to flatter me,” you teased, easing back into playfulness. “I know you didn’t call to talk about scientific ethics. Be honest—you were this close to asking what I’m wearing right now.”

Clark coughed so hard he nearly dropped the phone.

You grinned.

Caught off guard, his brain spiraled—wondering what were you wearing? Pajamas, maybe? That lacy set you once called “deceptively soft”? Or… still in your pencil skirt from work? Oh god. He shook his head, cheeks burning.

Focus.

Now’s not the time to be fantasizing about pencil skirts.

“I wasn’t going to ask that,” he said valiantly. “I... I needed to talk to you. About something important.”

Something in his voice changed. Your brows furrowed.

“Clark, you can tell me anything.”

You were sitting upright now, legs crossed beneath the hotel blanket, senses alert.

“I’ve been scared,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Scared to tell you the truth. Because I didn’t want it to change how you see me.”

A silence followed. Just long enough for your brain to kick into high gear.

A secret? What kind? What could Clark Kent possibly be hiding? Was he married? No. Not Clark, he wasn’t that kind of man.. Was he a spy? That would explain the muscly arms…

“I can’t say it out loud,” he continued, “so I’ll just… show you.”

“Show me? Clark, I’m not even in Metropolis right now, and you’re starting to freak me out—”

“Just… walk out to the balcony.”

“Clark—”

“Please.”

You hesitated, then sighed, setting the phone down as you shuffled out of bed. No way in hell were you putting your heels back on, so you slid into the hotel slippers instead. Grabbing a throw blanket off the lounge chair, you wrapped it around yourself like a robe, scooped your phone off the mattress, and stepped into the chilly night.

Cool air kissed your cheeks. You squinted into the dimly lit balcony, expecting—well, you weren’t sure what you were expecting. Something dramatic?

There were plants. A bench. A tiny café table. Nothing unusual.

“Clark,” you muttered into the phone, “there’s nothing out here. And it’s weirdly cold for August.”

“Look up.”

Your eyes lifted.

And your world turned upside down.

There he is. 

The man in the sky.

 Clad in blue and red, cape whispering in the wind, hovering just beyond the reach of your balcony like he belongs to the night itself. And yet—

 He's real.

Your arms fall limp at your sides. The blanket slips from your shoulders in tandem with your phone, both hitting the ground without a second thought. You're too busy staring. Frozen in place, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief.

Superman touches down with impossible grace, boots meeting the balcony floor with barely a sound. He stands there for a beat, just looking at you. Then—slowly, deliberately—he leans down, retrieves the fallen blanket, and drapes it back around your shoulders with an absurd kind of tenderness.

“You’re gonna catch a cold,” he says.

His voice is low and warm, wrapped in velvet with just enough gravel to make your stomach twist. There’s comfort in it, sure—but authority too. Like gravity itself would obey him, if he asked nicely.

You don't move. You barely breathe.

Your gaze drifts to something in his hand. A phone.

 Clark’s phone.

Your heart stutters.

 “Why do you have Clark’s phone?” you ask, voice sharp with confusion as you narrow in on the device like it's some alien relic.

Superman smiles—soft, amused—and lets out a quiet chuckle.

A sound you know. Intimately.

Your head snaps up. That laugh.

You love that laugh.

And the smile that comes with it. Dimples carved into sun-warmed skin. Ocean eyes softened at the edges. Familiar. Devastatingly familiar.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. The truth hits you like a meteor. “I’m such an idiot.”

He shakes his head immediately. One step closer.

“No. You’re not. You’re not,” he insists, voice thick with sincerity. “You’re brilliant. And I’m the idiot for not telling you sooner.”

There's shame in his expression now—tucked into the corners of his eyes, etched along the furrow of his brow. It’s kind of Clark’s face, but it’s Superman’s posture. Regal, composed… vulnerable.

“I’ve been dating Superman,” you breathe, the words escaping like steam. You turn away from him and sink onto the bench behind you, blanket pulled tight around your frame as your mind reels. “I’ve been dating Superman…”

Clark flinches. It sounds like a line from a tabloid, and maybe that’s what unsettles him—the idea that you now see him as something glossy and unattainable. Not the man who shows up at your door with takeout and a shy smile. Not the man who hogs the covers and kisses you like he’s making a wish.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. Just stands there, hands at his sides, terrified of saying the wrong thing.

You glance up at him again, frowning. “You look… different. Not completely. But almost. It’s weird.”

He nods, hesitant. “The glasses help. They’re specially designed—hypno lenses. Subtle, but effective.”

“Seriously?” Your brow lifts. “They’re just glasses.”

“Technically, they’re Kryptonian technology. But yeah. Just glasses.” He smiles sheepishly, like he knows how absurd it sounds.

You open your mouth, then close it. File that under Questions For Later.

Instead, your voice softens. “Why didn’t you tell me, Clark? I wouldn’t have said anything. Not to anyone.”

He moves closer, slow and cautious, like you might spook if he moves too fast. Then he sits beside you on the bench—close, but not too close.

“I feel human around you,” he says, and something in your chest tugs painfully. “You met me as Clark. You treated me like Clark. And I liked it—too much, probably. I didn’t want that to change. I was selfish. I know that. I just… I was scared you’d look at me differently.”

He gestures to himself, to the suit. “Maybe you only wanted Clark. Not… this.”

You go quiet. The kind of quiet that fills the whole world.

Two minutes pass. Maybe three. And with every second, he folds in on himself a little more, like he’s already bracing for the loss.

“If this is the part where you walk away,” he says finally, voice rough, “I understand. I just want you to know that the past six months have been—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Because you launch yourself at him with zero ceremony, arms thrown around his neck, blanket falling away as you bury your face into his chest. His arms come around you instantly, almost instinctively, like the idea of not holding you would physically hurt.

“You’re as human as anybody else,” you mumble into his chest. He hears it anyway.

His eyes fall shut. The tight coil of dread loosens in his chest, replaced by something deep and overwhelming. Relief. Gratitude. Love.

“You’re not mad?” he asks, softly, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You lean back just enough to look at him—still wrapped around him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe. He looks different without the glasses, yes. But still him. Still Clark.

“I wish you’d told me sooner,” you say gently, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. “And I do have questions. So many questions. But no, I’m not mad at you, baby.”

His eyes go glassy. Just a little. You pretend not to notice.

“Just… surprised,” you add with a teasing smile.

He melts. Practically puddles into you, resting his head against your shoulder with a quiet, disbelieving laugh. You comb your fingers through his hair, soft and unrushed, and you feel the way his entire frame unwinds beneath your touch.

The two of you stay like that for a long moment—wrapped in each other, suspended in a silence that feels like safety.

Eventually, you tap his shoulder, gentle but firm. He lifts his head, just barely.

“C’mon,” you murmur, standing and reaching for his hand.

“Let’s go to bed, Clark.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The next morning at the Daily Planet…

Lois and Jimmy were quietly debating whether Clark Kent had finally cracked.

He strolled into the bullpen like he was walking on a cloud no one else could see, exuding the kind of radiant, post-romantic glow usually reserved for movie montages and heavily-filtered engagement posts. His hair was charmingly tousled, his shirt bore a few stubborn creases, and his expression? Pure sunshine in human form.

He looked, in a word, wrecked.

In the best possible way.

Jimmy peered at him over his monitor with the precision of a wildlife photographer spotting a rare, giddy species. “Okay, lover boy,” he said, already smirking. “I’m guessing the big talk went well?”

Clark—whose grin was doing unspeakable things to gravity—nodded. “Mmhmm.”

Jimmy squinted. “You look like a man who finally got eight hours of sleep and a kiss on the forehead.”

Clark paused for dramatic effect.

Then let the grin shift—slowly—into a smirk that could only be described as criminal.

“Didn’t sleep at all, actually.”

Jimmy promptly lost it.

“Wait. Hold on. Oh my GOD—”

He grabbed the nearest rolled-up newspaper and smacked Clark square in the arm with it. “That’s my boy!”

Clark laughed, half-heartedly swatting Jimmy away. “Jimmy—ow!”

“Lois! Are you hearing this?!” Jimmy shouted across the bullpen, clearly reveling in the office gossip rights he’d just earned.

Lois, unfazed and mid-sip of her coffee that was more sugar than caffeine, didn’t even look up. “Good for him,” she said dryly. “Glad someone around here’s getting laid. Still think she’d be better off with me, though.”

Clark just chuckled under his breath and let himself sink into his desk chair, the goofy grin never once leaving his face.

He was already counting down the hours until he could see you again.

Curl up beside you again.

Fall asleep beside you again.

Even if—based on last night’s precedent—sleep might not be part of the plan.

[spideysquake]

fountain in italy

[spideysquake]

how it feels knowing that loneliness is still time spent with the world

[spideysquake]

isolation the most goated coping mechanism i love talking to no one and losing my mind alone

[spideysquake]

I think when you correctly identify a trauma that is the base of a woe of yours it should just disappear. It should be like "aaahh. you got me" and vanish and leave 100 dollars behind

[spideysquake]

I’m not trying to turn your kids trans; that’s stupid. I’m trying to turn them into socialists.

[spideysquake]

[spideysquake]

arguing against ai is always like. im not sure how to explain to you. that you need to think for yourself with your own thoughts. . maybe this would be easier to understand if idk, you were practiced in thinking for yourself

[spideysquake]

I miss tv in the 2010s every day. You could put anything on air and get a 22 episode order and a five season run. Once Upon a Time was on and it basically spit in your face and told you that Olaf the snowman was Emma's second great uncle twice removed and you just accepted it. Golden age of the silver screen

[spideysquake]

There's never a polite time, place, or way to say "ohh my fucking god you people never stop complaining about anything do you", but I think there should be.

[spideysquake]

hey so i went to Cares About You So So Much Island and built a little house and lived there forever and ever until all the stars burned out and the universe went dark (and still i remained)

[spideysquake]

me, going from actively suicidal back to passively suicidal again: well, glad that’s over