#fic: planets

[assim-eu-sou]

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all! Have a Planetsverse ficlet starring Diemila with a side of Luty and Violetta.

[hegodamask]

babe wake up, full canon accurate and up-to-date map of the star wars galaxy just dropped

[k0mmari]

While browsing through the jiuyuan tag on ao3 I came upon my lastest obsession that has me by the throat, i can even begin to explain it please PLEASE everyone go read Dance in the Dusk RIGHT NOW!!!!! I never knew i needed Wu Yanzi SY but i did. I needed it so bad. And you need it too!!! Go read (check the tags first doe)!!!!!!

Dance in the Dusk by @sareyen

[tossawary]

I just know in my heart of hearts that in "Star Trek" at one point, there was some moral panic somewhere on Vulcan (among the uppity sorts) because Human culture was "infecting" the local youth with their overly emotional, destructive, unproductive, frivolous, and uneducational ways.

And what was actually happening was that a bunch of Vulcan kids got really into 23rd-century "Minecraft" or something.

Small Vulcan child @ another Vulcan child: (in a tone that sounds flat to Humans but angry as hell to Vulcans) "You have compromised the optimization of my fortress. I am having an emotional urge to blow up your house... in Minecraft."

[frownyalfred]

if there was ever some sort of forced identity reveal for Clark, having his powers go haywire and make his eyes start burning red suddenly out of nowhere is 100% the way to go.

He’s just talking to Lois in the bullpen one day, surrounded by coworkers, and suddenly just goes weird still. Lois sees the beginning of red in each of his pupils and ducks out of the way just in time for the lasers to tear into the wall behind her.

When she turns around, Clark is ashen, desperately clenching his own eyes shut. His eyelids burn bright red, every single vein in his face lit up like the worst kind of Christmas tree. And without a word, he flies away, snapping through the bullpen and out a nearby window before he can hurt anyone else.

[octraiin]

── .✦ Just a Scratch - [Clark Kent]

FT: Clark Kent x reader

SUMMARY: Your boyfriend shows up at your window late at night injured. Based off that one scene from tasm, iykyk

CW: Maybe very very slight movie spoilers, and injured Clark.

Late at night, you were up working on a headline for The Daily Planet about Superman's most recent battle, while your boyfriend was out fighting a new one. Some nights, you left your window open since he liked to visit you while patrolling around Metropolis and he knew he couldn’t use the front door of your apartment.

The soft clack of your keyboard echoed in the quiet room, the glow of your laptop screen casting a light across your face. You typed away, with one hand holding your favourite mug of strong coffee, trying to fight through the fatigue.

Then you heard it. A gentle knock on your window.

Without even turning around, you called out, “Clark, you know you don’t have to knock. It’s open for you.”

The window creaked as it slid open, a rush of cold night air sweeping into the room. It lightly blew the papers on your desk and raised goosebumps along your skin. Still, you didn’t turn. You were too deep in your work.

“This headline is due tomorrow morning. I can't sleep until i finish it,” you muttered, bringing the mug to your lips again.

“I believe in you,” you heard Clark say, his voice quieter than usual, low and tired.

Then, suddenly you hear a heavy thud from behind you.

You spun in your chair, alarm shooting through you. “Oh my god, Clark.”

You were on your feet almost instantaneously.

There he was, your superhuman boyfriend, slumped to the floor just below the window. His suit was torn all over his body, exposing his arm and parts of his chest and stomach, streaks of dirt and blood marking the red and blue. A wound ran along his side, and a deep bruise was growing across his cheekbone. His breathing, shallow and uneven.

Clark tried to sit up with a wince, his jaw clenching. “What? It’s just a scratch. Don’t worry,” he said, forcing a small, crooked smile.

You gently pushed against his shoulder, easing him back down. “Stop trying to move,” you said firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

You rushed out of the room and turned the corner into the bathroom. Your hands shook as you pulled open the cabinet under the sink, grabbing the first aid kit with one hand and a clean towel with the other. You ran the towel under warm water, wringing it out quickly before heading back.

You dropped to your knees beside him again, towel in one hand, bandages in the other. He looked at you, still trying to smile through the pain.

“You should see the other guy,” he tries to joke, a crooked smile pulling at his lips just before he sucks in a sharp breath. He groans low as you press the damp towel to the open wound along his side.

You glance up at him, frowning. “What happened?”

You try to be as gentle as you can, as you wipe away the blood spreading across his stomach where the fabric of his suit is torn and clinging to the skin beneath. The muscle beneath your hand twitches.

“Basically,” he breathes out, eyes fluttering halfway shut, “I was out doing... you know... my normal important stuff...” He tries to wave his hand vaguely, then immediately regrets it, letting it fall back to the floor with a thump.

“And then... that hammer of Boravia thing... just came outta nowhere.” He winces again, shoulders curling forward slightly. “Golly, that hurts, Y/N.”

He flinches again just as you dab carefully around the edge of the wound. “Sorry,” you murmur, and give him a little nod to keep going.

Clark leans his head back against the floor, exhaling like it takes effort. “It was beating me up in the air... kept slamming into me like a wrecking ball... and then it just punched me straight down into the concrete.”

“Gosh,” he mutters, as he remembers the impact. "I almost wish I could have bounced instead of just going straight through the sidewalk."

His voice is a little slurred, but still full of that soft humour he always tries to hang on to, even when he’s bleeding out in your bedroom.

“You’re lucky you made it here,” you say, gently peeling away more of the ruined suit so you can get a better look. “You really shouldn’t fly when you’re this hurt.”

Clark just gives you a helpless look, his shoulders slumped slightly where he’s still resting on the floor. Carefully, you lay a bandage on his wound, placing it flat across the front, trying not to press too hard.

“Do you think you could sit up so I could get this around you?” you ask, your voice gentle but steady, holding up a much larger bandage to wrap around him.

Clark nods, his jaw tightening as he slowly starts to sit up. His arms shake and his exposed bicep tense with the effort, as he braces one hand behind him to help him leans his back against the wall beneath the open window. A low groan escapes him as he moves, eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

You scoot in closer, careful not to bump him, and begin wrapping the bandage around his torso. Your fingers move with care, reaching around his back again and again, each pull snug but not too tight, until the fabric is secure.

When you're finished, your eyes drift up to his face. The light from the desk lamp catches on the angle of his jaw, exposing the purple bruise blooming over his cheekbone, and the streaks of dirt scattered across his features.

“Oh, Clark…” you breathe, the words slipping out.

You reach up, hand gentle as you begin wiping the dirt from his face. Your palm cups his cheek and your thumb brushes lightly over the bruise like you could somehow soothe it away.

Another crooked smile tugs at his lips, faint but still warm despite the pain. “Y’know, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice raspy with exhaustion, “you’re pretty good at this. Maybe I’ll come to you more often when I get hurt.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as your hand lingers against his cheek. “Please don’t make getting punched into the sidewalk a habit, Superman.” Your voice is light.

His eyes flicker up to yours again, as if he's memorizing your face in this moment. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, the tension slowly melting beneath the warmth settling between you.

Slowly, Clark leans forward, closing the space between you. His lips meet yours, soft at first, but then deepening with a quiet urgency that takes you by surprise. His breath catches as you respond instinctively, with your hands moving to cup his face, fingers moving gently through his dark, messy curls.

He pulls you closer, and you move carefully to straddle his thighs, mindful of the cuts and bruises hidden beneath his torn suit. His hands tighten a little on your waist, holding on to steady himself from the pain and exhaustion.

His lips part slightly, and the kiss grows deeper. Your hands slide down from his hair to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His hands rest gently on your back.

Everything around you, the city noise, the light, even the pain in his side, fades away, and all that matters is this quiet moment between you.

When you finally pull apart, your both breathing soft and steady.

You smile gently and brush your thumb over his cheek, feeling the bruises and the last bits of dirt still clinging to his skin.

“Stay here tonight,” you say quietly, almost a whisper. “I don’t want you going out there like this.”

He returns your smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

You lean back with a smirk, looking down at him. “For a guy who’s supposed to be nearly invincible, you sure have a talent for getting roughed up.”

Clark shoots you a playful glare. “Hey, a few bruises never hurt anyone."

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly, it hurt you.”

He shrugs. “I think it's just part of the Superman job description."

You squint at him. “Does the job description say anything about dripping blood all over your girlfriend's floor?"

Clark looks down at the mess, then shrugs. “In my defence, it was just small leak. And look you patched it all up.” He waves toward the bandage on his stomach. 

You roll your eyes and stand up, grabbing the towel again to wipe up a few drops of blood that had leaked onto the ground. “Great. So now I’m your personal medic and your janitor.”

Clark grins. “See. Multitalented." He waves toward you.

You toss the towel at him, which he catches with a dramatic wince. “Golly. Ow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, shaking your head as you sink down beside him again. "Well, at least you really know how to make an entrance."

He looks at you, tired but smiling. “Guess I’m just lucky to have you waiting.”

You place a small kiss to his cheek. “That’s right, Superman.”

WC: 1.5k

[hatethysinner]

it's a bird, it's a plane!

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: or, clark kent fucks you in the sky.

wc: 2.3k

warnings: 18+ mdni (!!!), established relationship, no plot all porn, exhibitionism, soft!dom!clark, praise kink, very light lactation kink, unprotected sex, p in v, belly bulge, cervix fucking, body worship, nipple play, creampie, banter, levels of horniness the dc universe has never seen before, i had to take a little bit of creative liberty with the suit y'all gimme a break

The air was cold.

At least, it it should’ve been.

The wind tore through your hair, whistling past your ears, whipping at every edge of your clothes—and yet your whole body felt flushed, dizzy-hot, molten right where Clark’s chest pressed against your back.

“You okay?” His voice came ragged in your ear, breathless, but not from the altitude.

Not when he was moving in you like that.

You choked out something halfway between a laugh and a moan, your fingernails digging into the back of his neck where it pressed to your shoulder. “You’re asking me that?”

Clark’s laugh was quick, soft, a little sheepish—like he didn’t quite realize how insane the question was, given the circumstances. His grip tightened at your hips, one big, calloused hand splayed wide over your stomach, holding you steady while the other cupped under your thigh to keep you just where he wanted you.

Which was—

God.

Exactly where you wanted to be.

“Just—don’t want you getting nervous, is all,” he said sweetly, unhurried even as his hips drove into you with relentless, delicious precision. “It’s a long way down.”

“Clark—” you gasped, your voice catching hard when his thrust angled just right. “You can’t—oh my God—say stuff like that when you’re—”

“Flying?” he supplied, a grin in his voice, even as his breath hitched against the back of your neck. “Don’t see why not. Feels—mm—feels good, don’t it?”

Your laugh broke apart into another moan. “You’re—God, you’re ridiculous.”

The absurdity of it hit you for just a second—your back against his broad chest, your legs braced around him, miles above Metropolis, the glow of the city spread beneath you like a galaxy. And he was inside you. In you. Pushing deep with every stroke, filling you so completely you could hardly think straight.

And with every deep thrust, you felt him there—pressing so far you swore you could feel the shape of him high inside you. Your breath hitched when his palm slid a little higher over your belly, fingers spreading possessively—and the heel of his hand brushed that firm, perfect swell in your lower stomach.

He froze for half a second.

“Oh—” His voice cracked, that earnest, shy wonder spilling out. “Sweetheart—look at that.” His hand spread wider, pressing just gently enough for you to feel it shift under his palm every time his hips rolled forward. “I’m—I’m right there.”

Your cheeks went hot, your body tightening around him, and Clark groaned low in your ear, hips stuttering once before he caught himself. “You feel amazing,” he murmured, almost reverent. “All warm and—God, you’re takin’ me all the way. Right to your—” He cut himself off with another ragged sound, like even saying it out loud might undo him.

“Clark—” you gasped, and your voice cracked when his next thrust kissed deep—too deep—his cock nudging against the tender point that made your whole body jolt.

He pulled you tighter against him, adjusting your angle just slightly in the air, his voice dropping lower, softer, right against your ear. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?” he murmured, though the steady, rhythmic drive of his hips made it clear he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“It’s—” Your voice dissolved into a moan as another deep thrust brushed your cervix, the sensation so sharp you could feel it radiate through you. “It’s not—oh my God—it’s not too much.”

He huffed a laugh, and you could feel it, the quiet pride that he was the only person on the planet who could make you unravel like this. But then his mouth dropped to your shoulder, and the sound he made wasn’t goofy at all—it was hungry. Open-mouthed kisses trailed along your neck, teeth grazing, tongue warm, as his pace stayed deep and steady.

“I love you,” he murmured, quiet enough you almost missed it between the wind and your own breathless noises. “Y’know that, right?”

Your heart stuttered, a fluttering thing barely tethered to your ribs. He said it like that every time. Like it was the most important part. Like the flying, the strength, the incredible, dizzying sex miles above the world—none of it meant a thing without you knowing that.

You managed to turn your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him—hair blown wild from the wind, glasses long since discarded, eyes so blue it made your stomach flip.

“I know,” you breathed, and then bit back a whimper as he rolled his hips again. “Clark—oh God—”

His laugh was quieter this time, almost shy, like he still couldn’t believe the effect he had on you. “You’re so good to me,” he said, a little dazed, and the way his voice cracked slightly on the last word made your cheeks burn. “Every time. Every single time.”

The praise made your chest ache in that dizzy, molten way again. It always did. He never made it dirty, even when you knew exactly how much he was falling apart, even when his thrusts grew a little more erratic, a little deeper, a little harder. It was all adoration.

“Clark—” you started, but whatever words you meant to say dissolved into a desperate sound when he shifted his hand up from your thigh, skimming over your ribs, his palm curling over your breast.

He groaned softly, the sound almost reverent as his thumb brushed your nipple, rolling it between calloused fingers. “So perfect,” he whispered, breath ragged against your skin. “Every part of you.”

You arched into him—and then gasped when his head dipped suddenly, his warm mouth closing over the peak. His teeth grazed you, just enough to make your pulse stutter, and then he was suckling slow, deep, like he couldn’t help himself.

The pull sent a shock straight through you, made sharper by the steady, teasing press of his cock as his hips rocked into you. His other hand stayed firm at your stomach, holding you back against him like he was afraid you might slip right out of his arms and into the sky.

He pulled back with a wet pop, his lips glistening, breath warm against your skin as his eyes lingered there like he couldn’t decide whether to go back.

“One day,” he murmured, voice low and full of promise, “I’m gonna get a taste of you, sweetheart.”

Then he was kissing you again. Or trying to—his mouth was clumsy against your jaw, your cheek, your neck, like he couldn’t get close enough. Like there was too much sky between you even when there was none at all.

Every brush of his lips was rushed, desperate, his breath coming harder each time he pulled back enough to try again. He couldn’t keep still—not with the way his body was moving against yours, each thrust deeper and more uneven than the last.

You didn’t need to see his face—though you could imagine it perfectly, the way his dark brows would be pinched in concentration, the way that stubborn cowlick might’ve gone even messier from the wind and his own restless fingers.

No, you could feel it.

In the way his thrusts were changing. Not losing strength—not Clark—but losing that easy rhythm, stuttering just a little, like his body was starting to betray him. Like the control he’d been holding so tightly onto was slipping with every second he stayed buried inside you.

You could hear it too.

That unsteady, ragged breath against your neck. The little hitched exhale every time your walls clenched around him. And—God—the little noises he was trying so hard to swallow back, like it would make a difference when you could feel him coming undone.

“Sweetheart—” His voice cracked on the word, half a groan, half a prayer. His chest was warm and solid at your back, his heartbeat rabbit-fast against your spine. “You—you feel so good I’m—shhh—shittake mushrooms—”

You almost laughed, and the sound came out breathless and broken when his next thrust hit deep.

“Clark—”

“Don’t laugh at me,” he muttered, the corner of his voice tinged with that bashful grin you knew so well. His hand on your stomach shifted, fingers pressing just a touch lower—not to tease, not to distract, just to ground himself. “You—you know I don’t like swearing.”

“Then don’t—”

“I didn’t,” he insisted, voice shaky but earnest, hips stuttering again. He groaned low, breath catching, then ducked his head a little lower toward your ear. “Baby…”

You felt it in that single word.

He was close.

The tension in his voice, the almost frantic press of his body to yours, the heat of his breath brushing your jaw. He was right there.

His thrusts had gone deeper now, slower, like he was trying to draw it out and failing spectacularly. Every roll of his hips nudged your womb, making your thighs tremble in the warm air rushing past you both. His hand at your stomach pressed just firmly enough to make you feel every movement deep inside, the familiar bulge shifting with every stroke.

“You—” He swallowed hard, and the sound was almost desperate. “You close too, baby? Please tell me you’re close.”

Your chest tightened, your breath stuttering to match his. “Y-yeah—”

Clark groaned, forehead pressing to your shoulder like the relief of it had nearly undone him completely. “Good—good, ‘cause I—I can’t—” He cut himself off, breathless laughter tangled up in his words. “You know I can’t go before you. You know that, right? Drives me crazy thinking I’d leave you like that.”

You almost melted right there.

Your body clenched around him almost involuntarily at the sound of it, and he felt it. His groan came low, helpless, his hips pushing a little deeper in response.

Your head tipped back against his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as his pace shifted again—still deep, still precise, but with that edge of urgency that made your pulse spike.

“Come with me,” he whispered, the words cracked and earnest right at your ear. “Please, sweetheart. I don’t wanna—I can’t—”

Another thrust, deep enough to make your breath hitch.

“Please.”

It was almost too much—his voice, the heat of his body pressed so solidly against yours, the deep, steady thrusts that kissed your cervix just right, his palm over your stomach like he was holding you steady against every roll of his hips.

You could feel yourself getting closer, the heat curling low in your belly, your breath catching in rhythm with his.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, his other hand gripping your thigh tighter, almost trembling with the effort of keeping the pace steady. “I’ve always got you. Just—just let go, baby, I’m right there—”

Your breath broke on the next thrust, and you felt it—a dizzy rush that pulled the air from your lungs, your body tightening around him as the pleasure hit hard.

It wasn’t slow, or gentle, or gradual. It was intense—a sharp, shuddering wave that snapped through you so hard your fingers dug into Clark’s forearms like you’d fall without him. Every nerve seemed to fire at once, heat curling low in your belly as your cunt clenched down around him in tight, desperate pulses.

You could feel what it was doing to him. Each flutter of your walls squeezed his cock, dragging a rough groan out of his chest. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering once, twice, like the sheer grip of you was pulling him under.

And God, you were wet. Every movement sent slick gushing around him, soaking the trunks of his suit, dripping down the insides of your thighs. You could hear it—the soft, obscene sound of him pushing into you over and over—and the heat that flooded you only made it worse, your body clenching hard as you came around him.

Clark’s breath hitched against your neck, his voice a deep, strangled growl you so rarely heard from him. “Baby—baby, I’m right here—”

He bottomed out hard, holding himself deep as his orgasm slammed into him.

And then you felt it.

Hot. It was so hot—spurting deep inside you in thick, pulsing ropes that seemed to go on and on. He groaned through it, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his big hands holding you firmly in place like he didn’t dare let go. Each pulse sent another rush of heat spilling into your cunt, the steady, relentless press of his cock holding every drop exactly where he wanted it.

You gasped against him as you felt it spilling over anyway, that impossible, endless heat overflowing, thick streams slipping past the tight seal of you around him. It ran hot down your already soaked thighs, mixing with your slick in a way that made you shiver.

It never failed to shock you—just how much there was. Just how warm. Like he carried the sun in him and he was spilling it straight into you.

Clark groaned again, hips giving a weak, shallow thrust that had more of his come seeping out around his cock, tone low and almost dazed. “Ohhh, sweetheart—look at you—”

But you couldn’t. You could only feel.

His chest was heaving against your back, his heartbeat pounding fast and unsteady against your spine. His cock throbbed inside you even as his release slowed, every tiny movement pushing more of that molten heat deeper until you felt impossibly full—filled to the brim, his weight and warmth and him settling heavy inside you.

He stayed there, buried deep, catching his breath like he didn’t want to risk moving too soon. One hand slid up, smoothing over your stomach as though to soothe you, thumb brushing light circles against your skin.

“Still with me?” he murmured, ragged but soft, his lips brushing your temple.

You nodded faintly, still trembling faintly from the force of it.

He gave a soft, breathless laugh, pressing a lingering kiss against your cheek. “Good—‘cause I’m not letting you go just yet.”

[keferon]

I don’t know if I got their designs quite right. It’s my first time drawing them :)

Monster hunter au lambo twins ehehe

[aphrmoosun]

"These characters [Noa and Mae] have now saved each other, and they have a complicated connection [...] There is now a history and real feelings between the two [...]

Her whole journey is changed by meeting Noa just as much as his journey has been changed by meeting her. [...] If there is any chance for peace between those species, it will probably be between these two characters no matter what happens." -Wes Ball.

____________________________

No words (Nomae:Two shot)

You and me (Nomae: fanfic)

Noa and the beast (Nomae:One shot)

Wattpad | AO3 | Twitter | Tiktok

____________________________

[megamindsupremacy]

So like, y'all know that popular Star Wars fic trope of Time Traveling Obi-Wan Kenobi where he dies and then wakes up in his 11ish year old body back in the Jedi Temple? You know how usually he wakes up, has a few minutes/hours of confusion, and then goes about trying to act like he was at age 11 while slowly fixing everything wrong with the Jedi Order? Personally I think he would not do that.

I think that Ben "Lived As A Wizard Hermit For Two Decades On Tattooine, Left, And Then Died Immediately" Kenobi would wake up as an eleven-year-old, have a panic attack, attack the nearest adult Jedi while accusing them of Doing Weird Sith Shit To His Brain, fucking flee, only then realize he has time traveled, steal someone's ship, go flying out of the temple to god knows where, continue panicking, crash into a random moon while distracted, nearly die, build a survival camp out of his broken ass ship and eat whatever bugs he can find, get kidnapped by pirates, overthrow said pirates, steal their ship, and then very calmly return to the Jedi temple like nothing happened.

Then and only then do I think he would start trying to act like a normal human person (while also dodging questions such as "what the fuck was that" and "where were you" and "is that a pirate's ship?"), except he'd be bad at it due to having lived as an Insane Wizard Desert Hermit for the past twenty years who has experienced enough trauma and time that he doesn't super well remember the details of his childhood, what with all of the wars and death and wars and such.

His acting convinces nobody, but nobody is sure what exactly to do about All Of That so he's for the most part left alone (after very vehemently refusing sptherapy), all the way up until he catches a glimpse of palpatine out of the corner of his eye and then its On Sight

[imclou]

can't believe fnaf brought me out of art hibernation man what a turn of events

[assim-eu-sou]

🚨 NEW FIC IN THE PLANETSVERSE 🚨

[saltymarshmall0w]

Danny was a half-a.

Until tragedy struck. He could tell, the moment he died. He didn't even pass out, it was just like a string cutting and all of a sudden he knew it was over.

But the battle wasn't over, and Danny could keep fighting, so he did.

With the bad guy defeated he regrouped with his friends and family. They cheered and celebrated, retelling that moment he seemed to suddenly gain a second wind to defeat the baddie, all while Danny didn't have the heart to tell the truth.

Being dead wasn't all that bad.

He just couldn't tell anyone.

Everyone knew he was the protector of the earth. The human boy turned superhero thanks to his ghost abilities that everyone secretly envied.

He just had to convince Spectra to teach him how to imitate his human form, which worked---so long as he didn't pass out or lose focus.

He had to be careful no one got close enough to see his real eye color shining through his contacts or notice that he no longer breathed unless done so manually.

His obsessions constantly buzzed in the back of his mind. If he wasn't indulging in one, he was thinking and planning the next time he could. He lost time staring at the stars and couldn't help but constantly check for unseen threats around his friends.

Sometimes, he forgot his name was Danny. Keeping two feet on the ground was hard. He no longer could digest human food and using his powers became second nature.

[dinomintz]

a super simple and basic chara relationship chart thingamajig for my fic. It's hard to keep it all organized and things are bound to change with better writing and the nifty trick of character growth, so have this fun lil thing lmaooooo

[octraiin]

── .✦ Printing Press - [Clark Kent]

FT. Clark Kent x gn!reader

SUMMARY: It's your second week as an intern at the Daily Planet. When you're unsure how to use their ancient printer, you get help from Clark Kent.

CW: none? fluff

It was the start of the second week of your internship at the Daily planet, your dream job.

You always remember the first time you took one of your dad’s newspapers and read about the event that formed the JLA, the invasion of the Appellaxian warriors. Most people your age were dreaming of being members of the JLA but you wanted to be the person who told their story.

As you scanned your badge to open the elevator, the moment you read your Daily Planet internship acceptance email played your mind again. Before a smile could form on your face Mr. Lombard started, “Hey you." You look towards him with a questioning expression on your face. “Yeah you, fresh meat.”

The elevator had trapped the two of you together so there was no escape. “Good morning sir” You blurted out.

The Legendary reporter and director of the Daily Planet, Lois Lane had assigned him to you which you weren't too happy about. But you were determined to make the most of it.

“I’m going to need you on the testing printer today” Mr. Lombard said with his signature frown-speak. “Okay sir” you nodded. You quickly realized that you hadn’t pressed a button on the elevator, but before you could reach it the doors opened.

You look up to find Mr. Kent walking in looking like he was rushed out to work like he usually does.

Mr. Lombard grumbled but before he could speak Clark cheerily said “Hey Steve, d’you see the meteors games yesterday?” After a silence seeming longer than it was, Lombard finally answered Clark’s seemingly dumb question.

He responded with “Well of course I did Kent, I was there.” Clark took a moment to reflect on the answer and mentally smacked himself upside the head saying “Oh yeah of course, you’re the sports guy!” Lombard shook his head.

As the elevator finally began to move up to the newsroom, Clark’s eyes began to wander eventually landing on you. He blinked dopily and it seemed like it sent a wave down his body. He began “Oh hey, good morning Y/n!”

“Good morning, Sir” you responded almost autonomously before you realized.

He knew your name?

He knew your name.

Your heart began to beat so fast you swore it shook the elevator.

You always saw Clark Kent around the office as it was obviously hard to miss his tall muscular figure and intimidatingly blue eyes. But, you never exchanged words with him any more than a small ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ when he was blocking your way to the coffee machine in the morning.

“Sir? Just call me Clark.” He smiled. You nod and look away trying your best not to make it awkward by staring at him for too long.

The elevator then finally reaches the newsroom. Once the doors open Clark gestures for you to get out first, the two men following behind. 

You find your way to your desk, if you could even call it that. It was a small folding table with numerous coffee rings and a chair that looked like it predated the founding fathers of metropolis in the corner of the newsroom. As you sit down you remember Lombard speaking about how “The rings give it character."

You smile thinking of all the other past interns in this exact spot, like Clark Kent. His name lingers in your mind for a moment then you remember something else Mr. Lombard said, “I’m going to need you on the testing printer today."

You jolt up and walk over to his desk, momentarily glancing at Clark who was hunched over his keyboard typing carefully almost as if he were to type slightly harder the keyboard would break.

“Y/N!!” Lombard yelled, snapping you out of your trance not realizing you had made it to his desk so quickly. “Yes, Sir?” He looked at you expectantly “You’re at my desk… why?” You had forgotten what you came for.

Just then a soft yet stern voice echoed from behind you “The testing printer right?” you looked in the direction of the voice to find Lois Lane.

You’re in shock. The only time you saw Lois was when she welcomed you to the Daily Planet family on your first day. But after that, she’d been stuck in her office due to all the mayoral election drama.

“No crazy developments today” Lois said relieved. “So far” Lombard replied.

Lois rolls her eyes and turns to you. “So i thought why not show you how to use our testing printer! It’s the first ever digital printing press we’ve had, so she's a piece of work but you’ll learn to love her.”

As she begins to walk, you instinctively follow her to the elevator. She presses down and it begins to make its way to the floor you're on. But just as the elevator is only a few floors away her phone buzzes. She picks it up and you instantly know that the crazy developments she was talking about earlier had just happened by the look on her face. 

Beginning to slowly walk backwards Lois says “Oh, no. Hey i’m so sorry Y/N I have to go but i’ll see if i can make it in time. If not i’ll send someone to help you. Go to the basement.” You let out a useless “okay” as she had already been in her office by the time the words left your mouth. You solemnly enter the elevator and press the button to the basement.

Once the elevator arrives in the basement, you step out and look around at all the printers until you spot the one which is clearly older than the rest. You stare at all the rubbed off buttons not knowing which ones do what. Afraid of breaking it, you decide to wait until whoever Lois sent gets here.

Suddenly you hear the ring of the elevator arriving on the floor and Clark Kent steps out with a smile on his face, beginning to walk over to you. "Hey Lois sent me to help you with this old thing." He says while patting one of his hands on the top of the old printing press. "Don't worry, when I was an intern I had no clue how it worked either"

Clark brushes past you to stand in front of the press. "Okay first you press this button. Make sure you hold it for a second, since it's old the buttons take a little longer to work." You nod paying close attention to which button Clark is pressing, trying your best not to let his hands distract you.

"There!" Clark exclaims as he points to a green light that turned on at the top. "Once that light turns on, you can put the paper right in here." He points again to a slot right next to the green light.

You and Clark look around for the paper to put in. Both your eyes land on the paper sitting on the table beside the press. You reach over but instead of your hand landing on the paper it lands on Clarks hand which was already on the paper, sending a shock down your spine.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your eyes shot up, surprised to see him already looking at you, a small, amused smile on his face. Your cheeks warm up. “Sorry.” you said softly, but you didn’t move your hand right away and he didn’t either.

You slowly remove your hand from his, your eyes still locked on his blue ones. The small smile doesn't disappear from his face as he continues to show you how to use the press.

"When you put the paper in make sure it's straight or it might not work properly." He carefully places the paper in the slot assuring it went in straight. "Then press this button." He says while pointing to a larger button on the left.

You nod, trying to fight spacing out while thinking about the lingering touch from before.

"When the green light turns red, take your finger off the button and wait about two minutes" he pauses and looks at his watch "until the red light turns green again. But, I want you to try before we start printing." Clark presses a button on the bottom seemingly to cancel everything he had just done and removes the paper.

"Okay" you say nervously hoping you payed enough attention. He moves over giving you space in front of the press. "So first I hold down this button until the green light turns on."

"Mhm" he hums.

The green light flicks on. "Then I put the paper here." You make sure to place the paper in straight, just like he had said. "Then I press this until the green light turns red."

The green light turns Red. "Then we wait." You turn to him with a proud smirk on your lips.

"Perfect, you picked up fast!" He claps his hands lightly, nodding his head with approval.

"Thanks I had a good teacher." You both step away from the press. Clark leans casually against the table and you in a chair nearby.

The press hums softly.

“So,” Clark says, looking at you with his bashful, dimpled, smile while pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “do you think you’d be okay running the press on your own next time?”

You shrug, smiling softly. “Maybe. But only if you don’t mind sticking around to help.”

He shifts a little, eyes flickering away for a moment. “I could do that. I mean, I’d be happy to. As long as you don’t mind.”

You lean in toward him slightly, voice gentle. “I don’t mind at all.”

Clark smiles, “Honestly, I’m still figuring it out myself sometimes."

You meet his eyes again, warmth in your smile.

The quiet hum of the press fills the room. Neither of you move wrapped in the calm, comfortable silence.

A loud ring suddenly emits from the printer, startling you. Clark notices your scare and places a hand on your shoulder to reassure you. "That just means it's done printing."

Clark gets up and walks toward the press with you following behind. He takes the paper out of the bottom.

"Ta-da!" He exclaims while holding up the page like it's something magical.

You giggle. "Wow, it's actually kinda cool to see it printed." You take the printed page gently from his hands, your fingers brushing his.

"Right?!" He exclaims

You look down at the paper reading the words.

Clark rubs the back of his neck. “You did great. I wasn’t sure I’d explain it well.”

You smile locking eyes again, handing the paper back to him. “You did. You made it easy.”

As Clark takes the paper from your hands, his eyes drop to the page, studying it with quiet focus. His glasses slide slightly down the bridge of his nose. When he finally looks up, his expression proud, you notice the way his glasses are still slightly crooked. Your chest tightens.

You hesitate, but then build up your courage.

Reaching up gently, you press your fingertip to the bridge of his glasses, pushing them back into place.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks at the same time colour rises to his cheeks too.

“Sorry,” you say softly, almost a whisper, your hand already away. “They were slipping.”

Clark blinks, then offers his usual bashful smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thanks.” He says, voice quiet but sincere.

You both stand there for a moment, the freshly printed page resting between you, the press still humming quietly in the background.

Clark glances down again, then back at you. “I, uh… should probably get back upstairs before Steve wonders if I got crushed by the paper stacks.”

You laugh quietly. “Right. And I should probably return to my 'desk'.” you say holding up air quotes.

Clark takes a small step back, then pauses. “If you ever need help with anything again, press or anything at all, I’m usually around.”

"Thanks, Clark. I'll be sure to ask you." You smile.

He starts to turn away, but then hesitates again. “And, uh… if you ever want to get coffee sometime... strictly for... you know, press-talk, of course.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Press-talk?”

His cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. “Well, we can improvise or something.”

You nod, your voice soft. “I’d like that.”

His face lights up, clearly caught off guard by how easily the answer came. With a quick wave and that familiar, sheepish smile, he turns and walks toward the elevator.

You watch him leave, the printed page still in your hands. There’s a warmth settling in your chest, like your small corner of the newsroom just got a little brighter.

WC: 2.1k

[zerobaselove]

zb1 finding out you have a crush on them from another member

pairing: ot8 zb1 x reader

genre: fluff

warnings: lowercase intended, not proofread

notes: wrote these on the bus home from work :') also sorry theyre so long i actually kinda hate it but i didnt know if separating it would look silly or not so here