#golly i hate him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bodhiscurls · 29 days ago

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put you in a bodybag or in my bed. ( clark kent )

clark kent is your mortal enemy; it's been a constant battle between who's going to get front page privileges and clark always manages to top you with superman. when you both get a little too drunk and repressed feelings rush to the surface- surely it can't be real? how could it be real when you wake up naked in his bed, unsure of how you ended up there? when you've accidentally sent the department the doc you made in a rage listing all the reasons you hate clark kent? it can't be real so why does it hurt so much when he calls it quits- when you cry to superman of all people- when everywhere you go reminds you of him?

superman! clark kent x fem! journalist! reader (no use of yn- clark nicknames you neutron)

themes: onesided enemies to lovers (you are enemies- he thinks you're lovers but he's also a brat), hidden feelings, workplace rivalry- clark is not that nice in this (neither are you tbh which is not canon i know bit it is an enemies to lovers- sue me!!!) drunk shenanigans, kissing, implied smut, and love confession, fluff, angst, betrayal (juicy angst), mentions of insecurities, feeling overwhelmed, confiding in superman, previous relationships and an ending inspired by "how to lose a guy in 10 days"

wc: 15k (CLARK HURT COMFORT FINAL BOSS)

masterlist.

it's the smug half smile that catches your narrowed eye unwillingly, the sympathetic look your best friend jimmy sends your way and the fresh copy that lands at your desk to settle the fire in your blood.

you love the smell of fresh paper printed; the crispness, the warmth of the stories it tells and trusts you with. the faint inky scent that bleeds under your fingertips, excites you to new highs- you're sure this could very well be a strange addiction. but now? seeing clark kent's name printed small under the overbearing headline that's most certainly not yours but very well deserves to be, you've never felt the urge to scrunch it up, crumble it to death as it shreds along with your pride.

metropolis' man in the cape saves again: his thoughts on humanity, hope and his place in the world.

and he might've. you applaud superman, he's a man of the people, a story worth writing and you've even asked to interview him once- he never replied, like a ghost, except he haunted you through repetitive interviews with your mortal enemy clark kent and it burned. and from that day? you preferred batman, at least he rejected you with honesty and a bluntness you could appreciate. he didn't get cosy with the enemy, he punished them and relished in the feeling of it, just how you wished you could do yourself to one person in particular.

"you'll get em next time tiger," and its a stiff pat of the lazily dropped on to your shoulder, a smile imprinted in the air that englufs you. you don't even have to look up to recognise the unwanted looming 6'4 shadow towering above you, as if from that height you couldn't feel anymore smaller- be anymore smaller compared to him. the rage bubbles over in your stomach, steaming at your organs and quietly releases through the air that flares from your nostrils. you're seething and he knows it, he tortures you with the same lame comfort every time he makes the front page and you don't- which these days, feels way more often than not.

but you won't burst, not yet, and definitely not infront of the one person who's waiting for it to happen. you wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he's won, he's under your skin and you let him roam free there. so you grit your teeth, open your document and begin to list all the things you hate about clark kent.

. . .

"golly, if it isn't jimmy and neutron," shining blue eyes twinkle with a tease and you feel the bile rising up in your system already. the play on words had gotten old very quickly; matter of fact a day after he met you quickly and decided that because you were pushing in the field of science journalism, using your physics degree to explore current trends in space with an environmental focus often- clark had used his big brains to label you as neutron, fitting for your best friend jimmy. it was also the last time you wore red, clark's evil pretty smile basically bursting when he saw the correlation and on your first day, before lunch time had even hit- clark kent had made two embarrassing (on your part) mistakes. first, he had thought you were the latest intern and asked for his coffee order and then came the likening you to a fictional character- the nickname sticking to you with hot embarrassment. months later and you're still neutron, you're pretty sure you may die as neutron.

"ha, ha," the stale echo leaves your mouth as you shoot him your best disapproving glare. it doesn't deter him one bit, you get a flash of teeth in return, a blinding superstar grin that just fuels your disgust- god, how could anyone be as obnoxious as him, you think.

"hey clark!" jimmy calls out and clark responds with a wave, you hiss at your friend, the outward act of betrayal infront of your own eyes as you duck your head low to avoid any further confrontations with your mortal enemy. that's enough evilness for one day, anymore and you'll be at the gates of pure hell, clark kent's poster face ready and waiting.

"keep walking jim," you whisper through your teeth, giving clark one last glare before continuing on to the lifts and into your lunch time plans- the weather seemed nice enough to eat outdoors, you two had thoroughly checked the weather days in advance, hoping to get some much needed serotonin, sunshine and serenity the city can offer.

"hey jim, say if you see this nerd about yay big," he levels your height with his hand, purposely making you look smaller, "tell her the second page is looking for her," and you flip him off as you walk away, hearing a loud weight of boyish laughter thud in the air of the daily planet. a sliver of his stupid face disappears once the doors shut, though it lingers at the forefront of your mind- the crevices and lines etched of his skin burnt into your memory as the words echo again. you rub at your temples, massaging them softly as you slump your body against the wall- jimmy immediately taking your bag from you and lightening the load on your shoulders.

he doesn't have to say anything; he knows what has you so uptight and part of him thinks its the funniest and silliest game of cat and mouse that you and clark are locked in, both blissfully and painfully unaware.

"i hate when he calls me that," you mumble into your hands, feeling the anger seethe, bubble and then you mute it down into what feels a lot more like practised exhaustion and fatigue. there's no bark in your bite whenever clark isn't around, there's just something in his presence that greatly amplifies your annoyance and the secondary feeling of insecurities pushing on you. he's clark kent. he's loved by the whole team, he's buddies with superman, he makes the front page like it's his birthright with such ease, he's built like a damn machine and he has a dog, he talks to his parents every other day, he watches star wars and he is kind- albeit kind to everyone but you. you can't help but feel like this is all a personal attack- of course clark kent isn't perfect and has enemies, he chose you as his target, you as his nemesis- he must've seen some sort of match to play though often than you'd like to admit you do feel way out of your sparring depth.

"i think it's cute," jimmy shrugs, and by the downward turn of your curled lip, bordering into snarl territory he knows you disagree- and hard.

"he said i had a big forehead!" you didn't mean to shout, but the outrage is astronomical, the disbelief burns in your veins. clark kent cannot find you cute- he's satan in disguise, this will ruin everything, everything you've worked for and against because that will mean you are wrong and clark kent is actually capable of being a decent person.

"he called you a genius!" jimmy tries to reason and the look you level him with incredulity makes him want to hide away and wait this out.

"a young boy genius-"

"the most renowned of minds," he compliments, trying to make it sound way better than what it is, not that you have a giant forehead or the one instance you wore red and became the butt of a joke. you're his best friend, and he loves you more than anything but some part of him wants to just shake you awake, that clark kent must be drawn to you if he only ever acts this way around you. for two incredible journalists, you two are so stupid with the evidence right there infront of you.

"oh yes jimmy, because that's what every girl wants to hear- not that i'm hot or that my work matters and is good enough to make the print but that i'm a young boy genius with a forehead the size of fucking space- what? why are you looking at me like that?" you take a step away from him as the lift finally opens and leads you outside and on a pathway to the nearest park where you can settle down, let the breeze run through your skin and hair and squash any thought of a certain black curly haired nuisance in your already occupied brain.

"oh nothing," he teases, "why would you care about clark kent, your quote unquote "nemesis", calling you hot?"

"i don't," you immediately spit out, aware of how suspiciously quick the response came and the smug look jimmy olsen tries to hide. it's like your brain had this rehearsed, formulated in a strict "clark kent protocol" and shot it out along with any inclination that you could feel anything other than a strong dislike for your co-worker.

"okay," jimmy shrugs, his hands drop lazily in surrender but the smile he sports is as clear as day; soft as the clouds you sit under as you unwrap your sandwich and kick your legs free.

"i said i don't," you repeat, even minutes after the conversation dies down and jimmy is busying himself trying to find a movie on his laptop, but it bugs you the indifference- no, jimmy not siding with you immediately, like there's some secrecy he's holding to himself instead of defending your honour boldly.

"i heard you the first time babe," he mumbles, scrolling and clicking, "how do you feel about star wars?" he asks, and your heart knocks against your ribcage, a slump at having to work overtime at the constant reminder of clark fucking kent. but you know jimmy, saying no and bringing up clark's strange addiction with the series would only prove his point- that as much as you dislike him, some part of you searches for his opinion in a sick and twisted way.

so you take a bite of your sandwich, swallowing pesto and your pride and let it grow stale in your mouth as you nod, "sounds good to me," you try for a careless, offhanded comment of indifference but it burns, it bothers you in ways you can't even explain.

"okay," fuck you, okay.

. . .

"oh, she loves when i call her that," he doesn't even try to dull out the laughter when he spots your middle finger sent his way, his tongue presses in his cheek, mischief laced in his mind as he watches your form disappear through the doors and out into the wind. he swivels back in his chair, the wheels rolling as the gears in his brain turn- he really needs to think of a new article for next week's brief, check in with perry, come up with something that can top your new advancement on the science column. that task enough was difficult, you were smart and everybody included clark kent knew it and had to deal with it, you really gave him a tough run for his money in the fight to make the front page.

"do you know if she's seeing anyone? she's hardly with anyone other than jimmy- maybe she's seeing jimmy," he mutters as he closes the millions of tabs open on his screen, his stomach rumbles and he's due for a break soon. he was tempted to join your and jimmy's picnic, overhearing you guys from across the corridor and he salivated at the mention of you bringing some banana bread and tea in flasks. he lingered at the printers, waited to be given an invite, even focused on jimmy- the weaker of you two to crumble first but the pure steel you gave him as you moved to the opposite side of the room with your best friend following like a lost puppy as soon as you caught sight of clark staring intently, it was clearly not going to happen.

"clark, what do you care? you give her absolute hell-" lois' warning is cut off by clark's brows shooting to the ceiling at her admission.

"i do not! it's our thing-"

"i think this might be a you thing-" she tries to reason to her colleague, bring him out of the depths of delusion he's ran himself through and back to the surface of reality.

"she likes it!" clark scoffs, you engage in this mini war just the same as he does- the effort does not go unnoticed by him. out of everyone he's ever met, only you've come close to his wit, his intellect, his humour- you're his equal and if he has to mess with you to keep the competition on your toes and your focus on him, clark kent will spend the rest of his life playing this dangerous game. and if anything, he loves a challenge. you didn't swoon when you first met clark, you didn't bat an eyelid or even go out of your way to impress him but you've stolen his attention from the first look and the rest is history.

"and what makes you think she likes it?" you. lois wants to say, but she doesn't think her friend is ready for that type of conversation yet. but the real meaning is unspoken but heard, lingers in the air as his eyes are struck on the spot where you've left.

"she smiles," and he sports one of his own, if lois focused a little longer than maybe she would've heard the subtle pick of his heartrate, the dreamy sigh that leaves his lips followed by a little gasp when he pictures you, how he has to press his lips together to stop himself from bursting out the seams.

"at everyone but you," lois, the true voice of reason and honesty, tries to hit him with.

"exactly," he's smug when he faces his friend, kicking his feet up on his desk and relaxing back in his chair, "mine are reserved," he brags. he thinks about the small smiles kept with clark kent's name attached to them. how they're half teeth but all heart, with your lips pressed together but clark can see the small curve of your lip. the smirks that radiate confidence, how clark marvels at your talent and intellect, the small snarls where you mean to throw disdain but clark catches it with pride that he can rile you up this good. then there's the smiles where you don't think he's watching but he always is, where your eyes crinkle and your whole existence seems to soften with something gentler, something kinder, something so overtly hidden from him that he doesn't want to ruin the moment and let you know he's there.

he must've trailed too far off into the distance, overstayed in the shrine he's built of you in memories that lois' knowing look pulls him back to the surface and he tries to return back to their earlier conversation- the start of it all, questioning the existence if there's someone out there other than clark who is deserving of your attention, "i don't think her and jimmy are a thing, i mean i saw her wrestle him for a coffee mug in the break room earlier," and he tries to hide the fondness with a poorly executed scoff.

"clark again, what do you care?" except this time lois doesn't bother to hide the giggle of stupidity at one of her closest's friends and clark panics, he doesn't care. he can't care- it'll ruin his easygoing relationship with you and if you have to hate him for him to get access to a side you don't give out to anyone else, clark kent will do it.

"i don't, i told you, maybe if neutron got laid or was seeing someone, she'd like i don't know lighten up," he excuses but the words feel as misplaced as they leave him, when they linger in the air and cut through the thickness with a swift elbow jab from lois. it feels wrong, like a branding he's put out there- a label on your character but he needs to throw his friend off his trail. he's clark kent, he's number one and you're the competition. and then a heavy silence takes over and clark trails lois' apologetic gaze to where you stand just a few feet away from him, sporting the same glare you always mean for him but a new faint red blush creeping up your neck.

oh lord, he thinks.

because somewhere along from torturing yourself with star wars and your work nemesis thinking of your smile, you've made it back to the office- forgetting a cup for your flask. and at that moment in time, fate is a cruel twisted and funny thing because your ears burn hot with the intensity of the words he's hit you with and they paint a tomato hue of embarrassment you can't bring yourself to die down.

"dick," you scoff in his direction, disgust laced on your features but its a little more of a weaker whisper than you'd like.

"hey, you can borrow it whenever," he tries to recover, regain the comedic banter and shoots you a wink to recover from his stumble. but you just stare, stare and stare till he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. when you're satisfied with his squirming you turn to head back to your desk to grab a small blanket and some cups.

"i'd rather eat glass," you return smoothly, "glad to know a dry spell is also hitting you too or do you just you offer your services up to anyone?" it's snarky, but if you weren't so thrown off guard, you know you could've done better.

"ah, not anyone, just you babe," another smirk. but when you've disappeared he faces a stern lois who stands with her brows raised clearly unimpressed, theres just something about you that brings out the competitive childish side in him and he doesnt know what to do. his mouth moves far too quick for his brain to keep up with, anything for you keep your eyes on him. until you don't.

"oh gosh," he breathes when you're out of earshot, though he'd never let you hear or give you the satisfaction of throwing him off his usual calm, collected and smooth game.

"a little too far, kent," she pats him on the back, its a little harder but carries the consequences of him mouthing off "keep that up and you'll drive her too far out you'll need a damn map to bring her home."

"oh i'm not trying to bring her home," he rolls his eyes and a beat of silence passes the two of them.

"clark, i think you like her," lois softens.

"i think you're being crazy and should just help me with damn article," he huffs, directing his attention to literally anything but the confession his friend hits him with. he can't like you- he can't, but lois saying it doesn't make it feel any less real. so she lets it go, settles into their easy routine and helps nitpick where he's gone wrong and what he can do better, clark listens obediently and tries to focus but he can still feel you in his orbit. he needs to do something to salvage the mood and so he does what he knows he can do- pure journalism.

"full disclaimer not that i care or anything but for purely based on my outstanding deductive skills as a journalist- that means she's not seeing anyone," he breaks the shifted mood to recall your earlier comment from memory, like his muscles remember the contraction, the wave of oxygen it takes to formulate your name and your entire existence like its a secret oath he's sworn to protect.

"not that you care though right," lois teases and he feels his friendship slowly restores its balance, his earlier slip up not forgotten, just lightly grazed over into something familiar.

"of course not," he confirms and ducks his head lower into his desk, not without sneaking a look in the direction of your desk that still sits empty- you must've returned to your picnic with jimmy and afternoon without the tyranny of clark kent.

"it was on the record- observational, i'm a journalist," he excuses with a shrug. lois catches the ramble fondly but clark is too far in his head to notice. and maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it enough.

. . .

the thing is, clark kent has tried to be nice to you. a truce of some sorts.

it started with coffee cups that he would leave on your desk, watch you sniff cautiously and the first few you spilt down the sink along with his eager-eyed hope for peace. you weren't sure of who was leaving them until you arrived to work a lot earlier than usual- your plans to leave a lot earlier that day and make up the time.

you watched him pick up your mug from the cupboard through blinking tired eyes- it had to have been a blur, a lapse in judgement you were half asleep. but the guilty look, his widened eyes like a deer in headlights, its a look you'll score into your memory.

from there, he still made the coffee and he'd watch you drink it in agonising slow slips, never once did you acknowledge it, thank him other than a slight nod, but he held onto it.

he tried through giving you pointers on your work, just little comments to push you in the direction and you were pushed alright. you didn't speak or look his way for days, the cold shoulder freezing clark out as you poured yourself into long days glued to your desk to come out better, to do better, to be better.

he even offered to walk you home and you looked at him like he was insane; and maybe he was. maybe he shouldve known it came across as weird, out of the blue, i mean you two were hardly even friends and your commute was in the entirely different direction of his but he thought it was gentlemanly, honourable even but you gave him one weird look and left. and he never asked again.

and from then, clark decided there was higher reward that came from annoying you than what came from being nice to you. nice didn't earn him your attention, didn't push him to be his best for you and him, in fact he owes a large part of his career growth to you- it's nice to be challenged but being nice wasn't going to get you to look in his direction and linger. nice was for strangers, for friends and you and clark? he knew your connection was meant for more.

. . .

it's wednesday and you have the mornings off, entering the daily planet just after the callback from lunch is announced and you step into the meeting room ready for a debrief.

you've had your hair cut, clark notices immediately as he catches sight of your frame slipping through the door behind perry. he likes it, a lot, he decides. it looks so soft and bouncy, styled in a blowout that clark for a second, thinks what it would be like to feel the strands through his fingers, like silk. do you use silk pillows?

you catch sight of lois, send her a sweet smile and it drops to a slower polite one at clark, who lets his fingers dance in a teasing wave as you walk past the pair to get to your usual seat- right across from him. he gets a faint smell of vanilla and deeper notes of cherry that intoxicate his bloodstream and lure him deeper in your vicinity- is that a new fragrance? he doesn't have time to notice because a laughter like sunshine streaks through the sky, throwing planet earth off orbit.

"that good?" jimmy murmurs, and you shake your head, eyes widening and flashing in delight,

"incredible," you gush in a whisper and clark feels left out. there's clearly something unspoken in the air, you just feel lighter. you've abandoned your usual slacks for a fairy-like skirt, paired with a simple knit sweater and bow ballet flats, you look ... nice, he wants to say. like, you always look nice but today, you look really nice. you look softer, less guarded and it is drawing clark in like a magnet he can't turn from.

before he can even tease you, the room drifts off into a deep discussion as they pass around their ideas for the week and when it gets to you, clark uses the opportunity to ask you the most useless questions, hold your gaze intently as he quizzes on random hypothetical scenarios and when he hears the frustrated sigh leaves your lips as you pack up your things, clark faces a tired lois, ignoring how he hears you mumble a faint "i'm going to kill him jimmy, i'm going to go down for first degree murder and i give lois permission to have that story."

"what?" he questions. she levels him with a look and he shrugs it off, "she looks different today," he adds a little quieter today.

and then lois swats his shoulder in annoyance, "dude," she breathes, "you know, maybe she finally got laid and eased up a bit" lois repeats a stale regurgitation of his previous words and scoffs at how ridiculous it sounds. and as if by instinct, clark's fists clench and rumble under the table as he pins a dark look to your seat. he can't imagine it- you? sharing an electric chemistry with someone other than him? must be a nightmare he's stuck in because suddenly clark doesn't feel as special anymore. he feels lonely, and a little bit childish for getting such a reaction out of you. he tunes out on lois' teasing and taps his fingers against the table in thought and then without saying goodbye, he leaves lois lane confused behind.

for this type of journalism, clark has to go out on the field.

he tries to find you on many occasions to conduct his investigation on your love life but it seems you're playing hide and seek, though he does spot jimmy olsen refilling his coffee in the break room and very subtly leans his back to the counter, facing jimmy cooly.

"can i help you, clark?" jimmy furrows his brows, looking around to see if there's anyone else clark is here for.

"hey jimmy," he smiles and it's strange, unnerving even. clark has always been nice to jimmy but his little stunt flustering you in the break room after you've clearly had a good morning, jimmy feels the need to protect his honour and show his loyalty today to you today.

"listen, i gotta go," he swats off clark, holding up two mugs and clark catches it instantly- the mug he used to refuel so often for you. he matches jimmy's stride within seconds, his longer legs having to slower down a few steps to keep up in tandem with him. jimmy catches on slowly to what clark's doing and speeds up, narrowing a corner and hoping to lose him.

"what do you want?" jimmy breathes out, trying to catch his lungs up to this metaphorical turned physical chase.

"neutron," clark stops him, extending his arm as a physical barricade to the wall and cutting him off and jimmy nods slowly, careful not to pour any more spillage from the steaming mugs he's transporting. "she uh, she doing okay?" he asks.

"is she doing okay?" jimmy dumbly repeats, "yes?"

"yes?"

"yes?" he repeats,

"why are you saying it like a question, she is or she isn't," clark rumbles in exasperation.

"yes she's fine! what do you care?"

"why does everyone keep saying that!" clark bursts our and quietens down once he sees the few stares that have accumulated his way. jimmy rolls his eyes and sends him a glare, eerily similar to lois' but all clark can focus on is how its nothing like yours.

"clark, you're like, a menace-" jimmy gets out, "in the nicest way possible, i think you're out of your depth," and clark doesn't make a move, just sets his lips between his teeth and sits on it.

"she's not seeing anyone is she?" he speaks low, a depth he's sure can touch the centre of the earth and meant for jimmy's ears only. a smirk settles on your friend's features as he tries to hide the smile.

"you'll have to ask her yourself," he shrugs trying not to act too smug, "her business is her business." and he ducks his head under clark's arm of a barricade and carries on his way, he walks around the corner slightly again out of clark's way but sends a final look back in resignation and slight pity for your work nemesis who's clearly trying to branch out into friends and more territory with no clue how to, "clark?"

"yeah?" he answers hopeful, the beat of his heart skipping as he jumps to each conclusion.

"save her a dance tomorrow, i think she'd like that," and he nods to himself, that's if you don't kill him before the daily planet gala starts.

. . .

"girl, tomorrow you wear the dress. trust me on this, no questions, just do it."

. . .

there's faint buzz of something questionable, something familiar and something that makes the butterflies soar in your stomach as you take a walk around the room. it's been decorated so beautifully and you take the time to just soak up the ambience- the warmth it offers as you're here so often this place is basically your second home, you've made friends, enemies but so many memories that tonight is a celebration.

you let yourself looser, you dance as much as you can and let the liquid courage swim through your veins as you float carefree, until you hit the deep end. 6'4, 240lbs of a deep end.

"clark," you nod and sip into your drink, you had wanted to avoid him tonight but coming to think of it, there's nowhere in existence you could go without clark kent following you at your side.

"neutron or would you prefer my sweet nemesis?" he grins, taking in your attire and he lets his eyes roam on your frame, it warms a different kind of fire in you, a little bit of a burn that wraps around your frame- the kind that comes from a campfire, settling into the sweet night.

"you look well," you get out, ignoring his trap and his smile grows. well. he straightens to his full length, relishing in your compliment and fights back the drawl, he knows he looks good. and he knows that you know he does. he looks fucking incredible in his navy suit, his slicked hair with a small curl that hangs to the forefront. it drops, dangling dangerously infront of you and you feel the urge to reach out and wrap your finger around it, tug it enough for him to fall into you and-

"you look incredible, you know," he leans in with a tease, "for a nerd," and your heart races at the intensity of being so close. you take a step forwards, ignoring the beat of a drum in your ears and the warnings blarring in your mind and you whisper, letting it simmer in the air and lands on his lips.

"you look well," you repeat, "for someone who's about to be second place to me," and he rolls his lips together, melting your words into his soul, imprinting what he knows and loves. clark kent doesn't come second place- it's not in his nature, but the confidence you shoot at him, it sends something straight to his head and his heart. god, he loves a challenge- he likes you. and he just doesn't know what to do with all of this.

he replaces your empty glass of drink with his own, and when your lips touch the mark where his own had been moments before something tingles down his spine. you chug it down in one go and face him with a smile. your best friend's words come to you earlier and remind you that tonight is a party and you're allowed to enjoy yourself. you're a professional, you work hard, you deserve to let loose and you'll be damned if you let clark kent steal all your energy to keep up with his immature banter. there doesn't have to be a fight or arguement tonight, you could be civil coexist in the same place as clark kent and not have everything go to shit.

"jimmy said you were gonna save me a dance or have you gotten all chicken-shit?" you lay the bait and he takes it, burning at the red of your dress that flashes in his brain. he wants to photograph this moment, burn it into his soul for permanent memory because the twinkle in your eyes is dangerous, he's falling in deep. he tries to play it safe, knowing that you'd hardly let him close to you if you were sober and aware- the alcohol numbing your nerves and feeding in his delusions. so his hands find your waist at a respectable distance as he sways you to the beat, your own wrap around his shoulders and before you know it, he's skipping you around the room, twirling you in his arms and all you can feel is him.

"i need another drink," you laugh when you detach yourself from his hold, patting his chest (and pretending like you didn't feel a whole bunch of muscle under that white shirt) in a forced friendly manner and making a bee line for the table set up.

someone needs to stop you before its too late, so he warns your best friend who cheekily nods at him before he takes off in the same direction, needing the same liquid courage that has you seeing stars though clark kent is far from sober himself; his tolerance just a lot higher than yours.

the shots line up and clark takes them with each loosening his muscles and drowsing him with replays of how you smiled at him, how your laughter sounded when he finally let go of you. how tonight you weren't pretend enemies, he was a man standing infront of the most gorgeous woman alive and pretending like he wouldn't sacrifice anything to be close to you.

it's sloppy to get drunk at a work function, but clark decides its sloppier to let the only person who's ever made him feel so alive walk away so he searches for you in the sea of souls, eyes straining as he dodges body to body till he sees a sliver of red make a beeline to the bathroom and he follows.

come on clark, you're superman, you can do this, the alcohol cheers him on.

you can tell her that you love her and it all won't go to shit.

. . .

the knocks at the door interrupt your application of a fresh coat of lipstick, the red as crisp as your dress and you feel yourself blush slightly; you look good and you feel great too, which makes a really nice change for once.

"occupied," you raise your voice and steady yourself at the sink, taking a deep breath in to pace yourself. it might be a good idea to think about turning in for the night, making sure you have enough rest- you have the day off tomorrow but, still. you've had your night of breathless fun and it's time to clock back into being responsible you.

the knocks clutter again and you huff, ripping the door hinges with more force than you intended that you stumble your balance, reach out for the frame to lean on for support and face the almost intruder.

"clark?" you don't mean for it to sound like a question but it just does.

"you are infuriating," he breathes. his speech is slightly slurred and you scrunch your brows in annoyance, then your nose at the smell heavy in the air. god, he's ruining your mood already.

"all you had to do was wait," you hiss, it doesn't come as quick as you'd like but it lands all the same. he's blocking the corridor to get back out on the dance floor with that looming intensity and you wait, tapping your foot- the click of the heel signalling where you want to be.

clark refines the sound and aligns it to his heartbeat, matching each click with a footstep closer to you until he has you up against the wall, milimetres and months of tension separating the two of you. "i've waited so long," he murmurs, suddenly softer and his hand reaches out hesitantly, his fingers stroke your jaw before he cups your cheek in his hand. the other snakes around your waist and you close your eyes, subtly leaning into his touch and he hums.

"this colour on you," its a whisper as his fingers trace your lips and his eyes darken with something heavier and unfamiliar you can't name but it excites you. you wait so patiently any moment now to feel his lips on yours, if you angle your head just slightly, bend your waist into him, you'll be there yourself

"you talk too much," and sparks fly when you decide to close the gap yourself and bridge something new. theres a soft "oomf" as you throw yourself at him and he bends immediately into you, moulding your soul to his as he lets his lips lock into yours, catching your lip between his teeth as he makes further work down your neck.

"clark?" you whisper and he hums against your skin, the breath as warm as the blood pooling through your veins that you have to press your hand against his abdomen to steady yourself.

"look who's talking too much now," he rumbles and a small gasp escapes you when you feel the graze of his teeth.

"clark?" you call out again, tugging the curls of his upwards to lift his gaze to yours and you find a hint of concern hiding in them.

"yeah, baby?" and the gruff sends a new sensation to your heart, bleeding through the edges as you scramble to find a new home where you can slot the words "yeah baby" into existence for the rest of your life. it goes straight to your head, weakening your knees to jelly as you fold. for a moment it reminds you of why you don't like being called neutron when clearly, baby is the best option out there by lightyears.

"not here," you shake your head softly,

"mine?" he asks in the inches that separate you.

"yeah," you breathe before you're tangled in him again.

you're the picture of grace and elegance as you wobble away back out into the main hall. you wave to your friend goodbye and jimmy yells for you to get home safe. minutes later, clark does the exact same except he doesn't stop for anyone. he tears the front doors down like they're a mission and meets you in biting secrets of midnight. a taxi is called, the two of you two drunk to drive and keep your hands to yourself as you land at his door.

with his mouth on yours and his hands clearly busy, it takes four tries to get the key through the door before you almost trip over yourself getting in. he catches you effortlessly and where the door had taken four attempts, it only takes clark one and possibly four seconds to have you undressed and feel his skin on yours, and not just linger under it like he usually does.

it's a night filled with praises, a messy tangle of the months of yearning and miscommunicated feelings that rush to the surface. and as your back hits the soft clouds of his mattress and he sends you to a new type of heaven, you forget all the reasons you've ever hated clark kent. how could you not? when he's hell bent on making sure you're loved enough in one night for a lifetime.

. . .

the first thing that unsettles you is that when you wake there's no sunlight that peeks through your blinds which alarms you dangerously.

it then amplifies when you sit upright and the sheets slip, pooling at your naked waist that you gasp horrified, clutching them back to cover you as you dart your eyes in your surroundings.

the hangover rushes to your head, a drum that pounds with panic as you bite your lip down, blood rising with a bruised ego as you realise just where in the hell you were.

in hell.

in satan's homeland you've lost your dignity.

you stand, the urge to cry in embarrassment as you flush, desperately grabbing your trail of clothes all over the room and dressing at the speed of light. the mirror catches your reflection, the print of pillows that aren't yours etched onto your cheeks, the ruffled of your hair a sloppy mess- a direct echo of how you feel and you shudder at your appearance. this feels like a far cry from how you looked last night- you just look so undone and it nags at you as you plan your escape.

heels may be too loud with their clicking, you ponder so you clutch as the straps and pad barefoot out of the bedroom door. the eery quiet and silence of the house just makes it easier to hear your heart thud in your chest, begging to break free and relieve itself from the anxiety building up in your system.

just a few steps to go and freedom will feel so incredible.

"not even going to join me for breakfast?" and its a deep runble, etched with fatigue and gentleness that pulls you from your escape plan as you freeze. you're mid-tiptoe and pause, turning swiftly to face the bane of your existence, the cause of all your problems and most recent mistake with a cheesy smile.

its a new one, clark thinks and he makes a mental note to jot it down for later safekeeping. it's childish even, curled with nerves at the edges as he watches you try and come up with an excuse. he sets the frying pan down on his oven and makes his way towards you. unlike you, a hot mess, he's dressed in a cotton t shirt and pyjama bottoms- like a normal person would be and you couldn't help but feel more stupid. he plants his hands on your shoulders and steers you into the direction of his kitchen, ignoring your pleads and excuses with a hand firmly pressed to your mouth, stifling you to silence.

"come on neutron," he mumbles, "eat." and the plate placed infront of you unlocks something ravenous, caveman-like, setting back your mannerisms years to the beginning of existence. you swallow your pride and some of the omlette he's made slowly and clark smiles, it feels like the very first time he saw you actually drink one of the coffees he made for you at the office and its funny how the deja vu just hits him.

if he could take it back, he would have tried harder, he thinks. would've made the coffee regularly into a habit, wouldve showed you in the smaller moments that he can be more than the competition, he could be a steady force in your life. or maybe, he could've just pavlov'ed you into expecting a coffee that when it didn't come, it would've caused you to seek him out either way.

"fuck," you mumble, of course clark kent had to have been a good cook too- this feels highly unfair on you, you think.

"yeah we did," he mutters into his steaming mug of coffee and when he feels you freeze under the table opposite him he apologises. its the softest of "sorry"'s you've ever heard in your life, the first from him for sure that you test how it feels on your ears, savour the sensation and decide you like it almost as much as you loved hearing the word "baby" slip from his lips last night. clark sends you a softened look, hoping his slip up hasn't scared you off- gentle steps, he curses at himself. he knows you, knows the structure you value that any sort of off balance will drive you away and he intends to keep you as close as he can.

he waits for you to finish breakfast and you sit there awkwardly, "i can do the dishes?" you offer and he shuts you down instantly, letting you linger in your shame a lot longer than you'd like as you try to come up with new escape routes.

"i can feel you thinking from here neutron," he offhandedly calls as he dries the dishes he lays on the rack, his broad back is still turned to you and you mouth a plethora of curses at the muscle you could recite like its the word of god. "lay that big brain on me, baby."

baby.

and your heart skips too many beats you fear you may go into cardiac arrest, so you settle for deflection instead, "i think last night was a mistake," you rush out. and its painfully slow how long it takes him to put down the rag, turn around and lean against the sink counter, the slight tense of his forearms as they brace at his sides the main inclination he already doesn't like what you're about to say.

"i don't think it was," he tries to catch your gaze and as soon as he does, its an intense lock of eye contact as he searches deep into your soul.

"clark we were drunk!" you try to reason, squirming under the intensity of it all. and that's the last time you'll ever drink, you swear to yourself.

"and i would do it sober," he shrugs, he bounces off the sink with a little leap as he stalks towards you, each step an echo of how he approached you last night and how you know how easy it could be to just slip and fall into his embrace all over again; clark kent is pure poison, evil and intoxicating that you feel a strong dependancy on him. you don't just love somebody like clark kent and when he leaves you make it out alive- you just about tried hating him and it feels like you're hanging on for dear life. the consequences should be earth shattering, heart-breaking disastrous.

"you don't think we have a chance here?" he asks, his fingers tipping your chin upwards to him, crushing some centimetres of distance.

"i don't think we'd work," you softly speak, "up until last night, i'm sure you hated me," and he recoils, letting out a strained sigh before nodding.

"i couldn't hate you, no matter how hard i try. i don't think we hate each other at all," he confesses, "i think we feel a lot for each other, maybe too much we can handle and know what to do with it so it possibly gets misplaced. warped and wrapped up but it's shaped in the love i feel for you," he reaches out for your hand, lays it on his chest where his beating heart rests and spreads your fingers so you can feel the extent of the contraction. "i don't know what to do with all these feelings but i do know, with my life and more than anything, that i want to be with you and i want to try- we worked so well last night, that was just a tester baby, i'd be so good to you, we," he pleads, "we could be so good to each other." and he presses his forehead so tenderly into yours, a greater look into your vulnerable gaze.

"i don't know how to do this clark," you whisper, "i'm scared," and the voice that escapes you is so small and foreign, clark's own heart breaks at the sound of it.

"we'll do this together, slow. i'll take the lead if you want but i won't pursue this if this is something you don't want," if i'm someone you don't want, he doesn't push to say.

"okay," you swallow, blinking back a few stray tears and he narrows his eyes, assessing if there's any underlying feelings you're hiding from him. part of you doesn't know if this is okay, but the word leaves you before you can stop it.

"okay?" he asks, to be sure.

"okay," you breathe and he holds your head against his chest, rocking you into his embrace and you stiffly pat his back. you've never been anything other than clark kent's work nemesis before and part of you feels way out of your league, this is unfamiliar territory and you're wildly unprepared for being someone he could love. but the way he looks at you, like you've lifted the sky to its height and hold the weight of his entire universe, you have to give it a try or it will crush you whole.

. . .

the first time clark kent holds your hand in his you almost scream.

his own is dropped at its side and when he walks with you up to the office, he tries to be subtle with how it knocks into yours. a soft slide of skin as he slows his steps to match yours. it happens four times before you grow suspicious but he doesn't bother to look down at you, the guilt is already lingering in the soft smile he tries to downplay. and then he just interlocks his hands in yours, sends you a sweet smile and carries on walking like it's the most natural thing to do.

it's unbelievably warm, protective and holds what the future could be like for you one day. it swings in tandem as you walk and he only lets go once you've made it to your desk. he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then to your forehead and whispers "have a good day honey, meet you for lunch?" and all you can do is stand there, dumbly nod as he stretches out his arm to the full length before he actually has to let go of your hand and walks in the direction of his own desk.

you stand and then you sit, trying to regain composure of how different it felt to not have to have the snark ready on your lips, to not have to brace yourself for a day of matching wit- your heart beats softly, telling you to relax, get a grip of yourself- it's still clark. the clark who's showed you the worst of yourself and has still chosen to take an interest in you. he's clark, for god's sake, that hasn't changed.

"what the heck was that?" jimmy's head pops up into your view and you stutter, trying to find the words, but nothing comes up right.

"i don't know," your wide eyed gaze startles your friend. he's seen you seconds before a deadline, after a five coffee caffeine crash, when your past partner broke up with you months ago because of how much of a workaholic you were but the stillness in your gaze as you wander in the direction of where clark sits. as if he can sense your attention like its a damn superpower he meets your stare with a grin, a poke of his tongue out as he waves and you slowly return the wave back. his grin grows larger and he swivels back around but the nerves in your stomach still stay.

"honey, are you okay?" jimmy crouches to your height, "when did all of this happen?" and you look around before whispering carefully, hoping it reaches his ears only.

"i slept with him the night before last and when i woke up i thought we could go back to normal- he hates me, i hate him, whatever but," and you shake your head, "he's being really nice to me and i don't know what to do, this feels so strange, jim, this is," and you groan, dropping your head into your hands.

"oh honey," he sighs, "do you like him?" he asks quietly and you nod slowly, hoping the tears don't start spilling from your waterline and ruining your mascara.

"i think i might," you murmur, "i don't know yet, i haven't given it the time for this all to really settle yet- am i making sense?" and jimmy hugs you gently. he thinks you do already, it'll just take time for you see past the previous persona clark has shown you- that he can be more than a rival, he can be dependable, trusted, loving.

"i'm giving it a try," you add, "i mean you never know unless you try, right?" and he pats your head affectionately.

"i'm here if you need me, my friend," and you pat his shoulder in return, thankful for one thing that hasn't changed in the last few days that have blurred past and thrown you off course.

"thanks, jim."

. . .

your days moves slower when there's no arguing that takes place; it's kind of peaceful, slower paced in a way that lets you regain control of your feet. it feels a lot more intentional; the uneasy weight from the last few days slowly slipping away as you enter this new normal and you've been enjoying it.

the sex is incredible- it's hard to think when clark keeps you busy when you're alone and when he's so soft and tender in the moments after, you feel incredibly grateful to see this new side of him. there's something special between the two of you and you look forward to seeing clark, to spending time with him as you learn more about him.

like how he also loves the theatre.

you find this out when you're catching your breath, your back to his mattress and bare tummy to the air as he lies next to you.

"question," he murmurs, planting a kiss to your shoulder.

"that's not a question," you tease and roll over to your side, he flicks your nose in return and continues.

"last week when you came into work-"

"i come into work every day, clark-"

"well baby, if you let me finish my sentence," he rolls his eyes and it feels like the clark you've always ever known and you really like it. and then there's that damn baby again that has you weak in the knees all over. you smile and gesture for him to continue, "you had your hair cut, you were smiling- but not like you always do- but like," he pauses, "it was radiant, magnetic like you looked happier," and you stop and try to think of what you had been up to recently.

"oh," you mumble into his chest, noticing the slight tense he holds in his frame that you pull back with a wrinkle in your forehead.

"was there someone else?" and its the quietest you've ever heard his voice before, it wobbles a little at the edges and knifes a jagged edge into your heart.

"oh no," and you try to hide yourself in his embrace, an embarrassed chuckle leaving you as you squirm, "you're going to think this is so lame," you groan and he twists so you're underneath him, trapped by his huge arms as he hovers on top of you.

"what?" he chuckles at your sudden nervousness, an astronomical size of relief taken off his soul knowing that there's only him- even when it hadn't even been him.

"jimmy got me tickets to "hamlet" as an early birthday gift and it was incredible," you beam, "the haircut was just an addition but god clark," and when you're excited, rambling underneath him he can't help but linger into your space, cut you off with a swift kiss to the corner of your lips as you chase him for more.

one ends up into two then three and soon enough, forever.

"that's insane," his breath tickles into your skin and you scrunch your nose in delight, "because i also happen to be a former theatre kid-"

"oh my god, clark," you laugh, "who's the nerd now?" and he pinches at your side, "clark kent, a fellow drama lover- who would've thought?"

he talks with you about his favourite plays, how he wishes he had more free time to see them live, how wonderful acting is as a profession and when he lists off all the things that excite you the very same way you realise that maybe after all, you and clark aren't so different after all.

he makes a promise that this friday, the two of you will see "romeo and juliet" live as an official first date and you can't hide the soar of butterflies swirling in your stomach that you check it down into your calender immediately, pepper him with an insane amount of kisses and mentally start preparing your outfit.

he stares at you with such fondness as he listens to you talk about your family out of the city; how it was your mother who first showed you the importance of maintaing a creative outlet when pursuing such an academic and intensive career and he listens and listens and wants to soak up every single word like a sponge and wash away the doubts that have circled in his head the past week.

he worried he was moving too quick, then too slow but all he really had to do was show you he's here, that he wants to get to know you beyond your work ethic and integrity, beyond the conversations he has to search for details about you and slowly, he thinks its all falling to place.

its in the quiet of the night where he asks you again,"you sure you're okay with this?" he wouldn't be upset if you weren't, he'd bear the weight of patience and wait forever for you, he really would with how bad he wants this to work.

"yeah," you breathe and when you say it this time, the earth settles into a slower spin, and when it tilts you're ready to hold your balance. it feels right when you look into his eyes and say just one word, and you really start to believe it that this is okay, more than okay and you're only scratching the surface of how incredible it could be.

. . .

a week into spending more time with each other and dating, it feels like this is what your soul was meant do that you feel silly for even worrying about this all at the beginning.

it's monday, which means there's four days until your next theatre date with clark, you had so much fun last time that you've decide to make this a weekly occurence when you can. it's a secret you're going to surprise him with after work on the way home, you'll lean into his side, whip out the tickets like theyre gold and you know he'll be insanely pleased; its the first time you're making a move in this relationship and it's a big deal for you.

you don't see clark whilst you're at work and you think it's strange- clark's been known to disappear randomly and you've not noticed it too much in the time you've officially spent together to be bothered by it in the slightest. your main concern is finding your boyfriend and seeing if he has plans after work.

its 3pm and you start to worry, you don't want to draw any attention to you by asking others for his whereabouts but you catch lois lane in the far corner of the room who tenses when you come near and its the first warning that throws you off.

"lois?" you call out and she awkwardly turns around, feigning surprise like she hadnt stalked you for a few minutes before making your way over there.

"hey!" and you watch her cross her arms over her chest, a defensive posture, you note. why?

"have you seen clark anywhere?" you ask, and she shoots you a careful look before sighing.

"i think its best if you give him some distance for a few days," and you crumble immediately, panic flaring in your chest as your gaze narrows. god, you knew this was too much- that you were too much, you should've-

"i didn't realise how deep your feelings were for each other," she mumbles and it cuts your spiral off eerily short.

"what?" you pause, "what do you mean?"

"i think the word document says enough," she winces, "i thought the rivalry thing was a joke but.." her words trail off because you don't give her the time to finish. your heart is racing as quick as your footsteps out the door and you break out into a full sprint.

the purring of cars and clattering of metropoliton city drown out the whispers of gossip from the daily planet and your muscles burn but you keep going, you push and push and push till they give way and your heart collapses.

a sob escapes your throat in a raw guttural sound and this time, you can't stop the tears. you have no idea where you are but you know that this all just fucking hurts. your tears well up and are caught in your hands that also carries the weight of your head and the world as you just cry. knees tucked in close to your chest against the side of a building, you just cry. hours have passed and when you look around, hardly anyone around to have noticed your breakdown you just about stand. the energy completely taken out of as you sigh, you wish the ground could just wake up and swallow you whole for how stupid and careless you had been.

of course it was a word document that was going to be your downfall, you had made a lame list of things you disliked about clark and on the torturously long walk to his house they burn in your mind.

i hate the way he laughs so loudly, it rings in my ears i'm pretty sure i could go deaf in the near future.

i hate the way he looks at me like he's got something to say but never does or maybe he's too much of a coward.

i hate the way he's buddies with superman- lame.

i hate the way he sneaks up on me, throws me off guard- he's so big it consumes my space and i can't think.

i hate the way second best to him still feels like its worth something- it shouldn't.

i hate the way he makes me feel.

i hate him.

you've got to find him, you've got to apologise to him, salvage what you can and make it out of this alive, hopefully still with him but each word you remember, each muscle moved to type the childish betrayal raises a fresh new wave of tears and you're a blubbering mess by the time you reach his door.

"clark!" you shout, your voice raspy from crying, exhausted from thinking if you could run quick enough, you'd be able to outrun all your problems. you tap against the door, then full on bang with urgency as you shout his name, "clark, please!" you try, panicking when you can hear the shuffle of footsteps behind the door but no words in reply.

"clark please baby," it slips from your lips- the first time you've ever called him that in a sheer moment of desperation and you recoil, you don't deserve to call him that right now- you had the privilege and dishonoured yourself with it, "clark please open the door!" and you bang your head against it, the hot touch of your forehead cooling against the steel. "i didn't mean it," you cry, "i didn't mean any of it, i swear- i don't hate you, i promise please just let me in, please let me explain," the choked sobs rise and you're mumbling, half coherent but the words land the same. "i wrote it ages ago long before we started to get to know each other, i don't feel that way god no, you just gotta let me explain, i don't hate you, i lo-" and you're cut short by the rapid movements and the sudden open of his door.

he looks devastated and still so beautiful that it knocks the already very little air out of you. like he too had spent the afternoon working mentally in overtime, he shakes his head, restraint evident as he grips the door. his ocean eyes pierce your soul and when you move to take a step forward he grits out a sharp, "don't" and closes the door just an inch.

you can see forever through that sliver, it's so close but it's so far away, just out of your depth and reach.

"clark please," you cry and he shakes his head, torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting to protect you.

"don't," he repeats, its heavier, a little firmer but still somehow hurts all the same, bleeding through your heart as it crackles and lays bloodied and bruised open for him. and he steps on it with his next words, "god some part of me knew this wasn't going to work and gosh," he breathes, "you really do just hate me,"

"no," you shout in desperation, shaking your head and all your senses, "i don't! i swear- clark, i'm in lo-" and he cuts you off.

"i don't think you should say things you're not ready to mean," he whispers and he looks as though he might reach out, grasp your hand a final time but decides better of it.

"you win neutron," he speaks softly, lethally tender and it destroys your entire existence in one soft breath, "i thought for a second we were working, that everything was fine. but, if everything's ever just been a competition and that's all you've ever seen me as, then you win. i give up, this game? it's not for me, not if i'm never going to come first place for you," and he closes the door with a soft thud.

you don't move from your position, crying and knocking on the door once more, "clark, please!" and you fight the urge to just slump and slide against it, to camp out here forever until he opens the door and gives you an inch to redeem yourself, to clear the air and just listen. "clark, i don't hate you- i could never hate you," and fate is a cruel and twisted thing to have you repeating the same words he promised to you the morning you woke and everything changed. "i can explain, please let me explain," and you know it's heard, it just doesn't matter enough to be actioned.

you hang your head low, the image of the door closed bruising your optic nerves that it's time to go home. the damage is done and its time to mourn the casualties of getting crossed in the fire. you knew you'd never come out of loving clark kent alive, you just didn't realise hating him had burned you first long ago.

. . .

you try to catch him at work but he's missing for the first two days and you're subjected to the growing whispers and judgemental looks that are shot your way as he proceeds to just plain avoid you. he's never at his desk when you pass by, he's never at the break room, when he gets an inkling you're in his vicinity he takes off completely in the opposite direction and you can't even feel him, but you can hear the thoughts about him.

"i knew she never liked him,"

"she's actually gotta be deranged to make a whole document- imagine who else she's got written in that death note."

"i don't know babe, clark wasn't exactly the nicest to her."

"didn't they try dating?"

jimmy takes a seat beside you after the great shift where he's noticed you avoiding every single person in sight, including him and it hurts. you try your best to smile at him in greeting, force the ends in an upwards curve that it falls embarrassingly flat.

he sighs, leaving your newly filled coffee cup at your side and rests his head on yours affectionately, a little bump of support to let you know that he's always been on your side and always will.

"people are talking," you mumble, "i get it if you want to take some space," you nod tightly and he scoffs.

"we're not going anywhere," his voice is firm, "i don't care about what they say, you're my best friend and i am here for you." and you breathe out a thanks of appreciation, begging yourself not to cry again as he wraps you in a hug.

"you okay?" he murmurs into your hair and can feel you shake it against him and he sighs once more.

"he'll come around," when he pulls back.

"how can you be so sure?" you whisper, broken.

"because he's clark, he's never been one to stay away from you," he grins but your heart drops. not this time, you think. maybe not ever again.

but still you try, you pull tricks out of his own book in a pathetic grovel of sorts- but you just have to show clark that you're here, you're waiting and you'll do whatever it takes to show him.

so for the next few days you start to get to the office earlier, you make him a fresh cup of coffee and lay it at his desk, you write little pointers of encouragement on post it notes (given the fact that you have no idea of what he's writing to return him the advice he used to give you), but when the end of the day comes and you've tried not to make it obvious the way you stalk his big build that exits through the lifts and takes your heart with him, you make your way to his desk. the coffee sits untouched and cold, filled to the brim but the notes? they've disappeared. the blinding yellow fluroscent isn't pumped at the bottom of his bin with other scraps of paper he's scrunched up. you're embarrassed to admit that you half emptied it to check, they- like clark, himself- have just disappeared and you're left to deal with the radio silence in the aftermath. which somehow hurts more when it leaves everything unsaid and then some.

and like the days that have come before and all of your life before you gave clark kent a try at this thing called love, you walk home alone and lonely, all the same.

. . .

you finally meet superman on your commute home.

its the end of the week, you're final day before you're due to take some time off and you've left the office later than usual, giving clark ample time to avoid you and leave without having to actively dodge you, and then you had to speed up your writing because you've fallen behind on schedule and with everything in your life going to shit, you just needed one thing to be constant and be completely yours.

it's actually good enough to beat clark this time, you think after perry had complimented the first draft earlier. but he's made it clear that this rivalry the two of you were enamored in is no longer something he's interested and the win feels bittersweet, pointless even you could argue, it's just not the same and you hate it.

there's a hum of billy joel "piano man" that dramatically belts through your earphones as you turn the corner of the next block and if it weren't for the extra pair of feet tappering behind your shadow you probably wouldn't have noticed the strange man following you from behind. you take a random turn, panicking and afraid of leading this stalker to your doorstep that you don't recognise the alley you've turned into.

the evening air darkens with the absence of street lamps and you shake your head softly, "please," you quietly plead and at the flash of yellow teeth you throw the first punch. it's lazily and poorly directed that you miss and he grabs at your waist. you elbow him, hit him and then plain knee his nuts as soon as he drops you to the ground. the panic turns to rage and you feel the weight of the week just climb into each punch you land that you don't even feel the body turning eerily limp below you or the flash of blue and red that lowers into the alleyway.

"miss?" a deeper, ruff voice calls out, it catches sight of your side profile and softens, "hey, hey, hey," and arms that feel oddly familiar wrap around your waist and peel you off the weird man who heaves at the floor, "you're safe now,"

"no thanks to you," you almost scream the words, "for fucking superman you sure are slow!" and the agitation turns to straight tears as you just sob, "oh my god, what the fuck even is this week?" you breathe out shakily, "it's just shit after shit and i can't catch a break? i can't even get saved by superman?" and superman (clark) part of him wants to laugh at how strange both this situation and you are right now.

he wished he could've gotten to you quicker, it took him a flash of a second to recognise your scream but of course your rage was faster and you did all the heavy work, the least he could do was lend you a listening ear, even if hearing you open up so vulnerable to him broke his heart even further.

"how are you feeling?" he tries; part of him is easier to be superman like this, he stands at a distance, giving him space between the two of you because he knows he'd just crumble. he wanted to at the first sob he heard that night? the first cup of coffee he noticed, the first yellow post it note that now makes itself home in the top drawer of his desk- he couldn't bring himself to throw your little attempts at love notes away. he pats the ground next to him, offering his cape as a little blanket which you sit gingerly on, sniffles sitting in the centimetres that separate you respectably.

"i don't know if i can tell you," you mumble and his body freezes, surely you wouldn't have caught on to his identity- "you're like clark's buddy aren't you," you scoff and he blinks slowly.

"clark?" he asks, ignoring the huge weight lumbered off his chest and lets himself breathe again.

"6'4, 240lbs of pure muscle mass and glossy onyx curls, god he's just so," you groan, "he's so perfect and i as always," you start to fear the wave of sadness take over and you lower your head between your knees, focusing on how the ground feels underneath you, how the gravel looks a lot more sharper up close, "i ruined everything," and its a heartbreaking admission.

superman doesn't say anything, he stares at you, brows raised waiting for you to continue your story, "clark and i- it was strange. we weren't exactly friends, i mean we work together but it was always different. we used to compete for the spot for the first page privilege and thanks to you," you scoff and he sends you a wince of guilt, "he would come out on top most times- but he always used to push me to just be a better writer. it was petty i know, and for the longest time i just thought thats what we were. we were enemies, we hated each other- he brought out the worst in me," you chuckle,

"and yet he always stayed, he never expected anything from me in return, he was just there, you know and one night, we got together and i didn't think i was ready but i was going to try you know, he asked me for a chance and i gave it to him. i owed it to us, to the special relationship we had, to the way he made me feel like nobody on earth ever has. and you know, i've been in relationships and they've ended terrible- i'm not the best person i know but clark made it feel like it was easy to love me like he saw the worst and loved me despite it- most people would run away but clark he," and you cry, "he was my person."

you feel a hand land on your shoulder, his thumb soothing you in a backwards and forewards motion and through the tears you can't even see superman anymore. "so what happened?" he asks, though he already knows this first hand.

"when i first started the job, clark kent liked everyone but me and it felt personal, it hurt," you gasp, shrugging your shoulders as you relive the memory, "he made fun of me, and before i learned to understand and match the digs, before i found the routine and loved it with him, it honestly felt targeted so i made a word document- this was months ago, you have to believe me," you plead, "i was childish, i started listing these nasty things about him that i hated like god his smile, his laugh, just him- i had to get out all this negative energy somehow and i'm a writer, i fucking took it out on a word document, sue me," you bitterly laugh, "i don't know how it got out but it did, because the world hates me and i'm undeserving of the good things and now, i'm undeserving of clark,"

"he's incredible and i've never felt this way about someone before, but he doesn't believe so with that stupid document and me not showing up in the ways he has when we got together, he thinks that i hate him," you get out, shaking with the thick of emotion.

"and do you?"

you press your lips together in thought, maybe to repress them, if you don't speak it it won't be real, it won't be true, it won't hurt so much. but you're a journalist and your whole career has taught you that the truth is powerful, especially when it can hurt, so you be brave for once and face superman through the tears, "i'm in love with him."

the words don't come, clark feels his heart break through his chest and he wishes, oh he damn wishes that he wasn't superman- that superman doesn't even exist, he wishes he could be clark. your clark in this moment and hold you and tell you that he wants to fix this, that we can fix this and it will be alright again, he's in love with you too, he has to let you know this.

but he can't. because being superman is bigger than being clark kent. so he murmurs some useless advice at how things take time, you'll heal and clark will come back to you if he's the person you've fallen in love with- clark kent is honest and truthful and determined, if he's right for you then he will return.

superman does nothing but let his heart plummet further as you slide a faded white, slightly crumpled ticket his way and his blood freezes at the sight of shakespeare printed in small, "if you see clark, could you give him this? i wanted to take him, make it a regular thing- show him i'm committed to this and having time for it and i know we're not talking and he hates me more than anything but, i think he'll like it."

"then i will make sure he receives it, you have my word," and the world burns when you sniffle, send him a soft smile and get up to stand. to leave your problems in the hands of superman and in the darks of the alley, there's nothing more you can do and honestly you're tired of this all. you've tried and all you can do now is play the waiting game.

"i see why clark likes you, and you owe me an interview soon big guy," you nod and he sends a tight smile back, saluting you with a wave and ignoring the way his bones want to snap at how weak he feels right now. "have a good night, superman," and he waves again.

when he sees your form disappear and his tears fall onto the worn out ticket, still warm from your sweating hands, he whispers an oath, "see you soon, neutron."

. . .

"some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them," the voice of malvolio echoes throughout the hall and you watch intently.

there's an ache as you try not to look beside you, at the empty seat- the clark sized hole that mirrors the vacant area in your heart as you train your eyes forward. the theatre has always been your favourite place to just let go and relax, have someone else feel the emotions for once and bring them to life but it feels lacking tonight, you can't distract yourself enough and suddenly the air weighs down on you and crushes you at a great intensity.

you silently grab your purse, sneak out the back row and head out of the doors. it's time to call it a night, go home and probably call your mom- maybe it's time to go home home, ground yourself with people who do love you and have never treated you any different, to be in an area that just doesn't remind you so heavily of clark, maybe it'd make the healing process a lot easier and you can actually start it.

you wave into oncoming traffic, drawing the attention of a taxi and rocking yourself as you wait for it to pull up near to you. the bag on your shoulder lightly dips as you step off the curb and into the taxi door before an arm pulls you back and youre thrust back into his orbit.

"clark," you breathe as his ocean blue orbs sink and drown you in. you've seen him in the week but this is different; this is upclose and vulnerable, this is intimate and before the world exploded on you.

"where you going?" his drawl lands breathless in lieu of an actual greeting.

"home?" you question and a small curl of his lip extends to the sky, the faint smile lines resting at peace.

"i said where you going, baby?" he repeats, earnest laced in his voice as his hold on you tightens against him, you're breaths are uneven as you intake his breath as your own air and you blink.

"come on man!" the exasperation of a third stranger breaks your trance and clark pops his head into the cab window at your side, lands a fifty note in his hand and grins.

"i'll take this one, thanks, have a good one," he wraps his fist in a gentle tap to the back of the car to signal its departure and the cab driver wolf whistles in return, counting the money and shooting clark a thumbs up for good luck, steering off into the distance.

"clark i-" and he presses his finger to your lips, silencing your tired fight immediately.

"so where you going, hon?" and the frustration builds up inside of you. you don't think you can do this tonight, you need energy, defense, bite and a plan to escape out of this untouched but its the sudden intensity he stares down at you, boyish and determined as he clears his throat, not offering anything else but patiently waiting for you to reply and then it hits you.

oh. home.

he is home.

"clark, i'm sorry," you whisper, "i'm sorry how this started and how it ended but it just goes to show we don't work," you get out, the words betray your voice in a tight strain and you shake your head softly, trying to detach yourself from his hold but he reaches for your hand and interlocks it, kissing your knuckles like its the very first time and then holds it to his chest.

"i don't believe that," he breathes, like its some secret joke only his soul can memorise. "you said you hated the way i laugh- it's too loud," and the words are a sharp stab, even as they spill from his lips.

"it is too loud," you confess, "i can hear it after you've stopped, it rings in my ears like an echo and i start wishing i knew how to make you laugh like that, how to keep hearing that sound again and again," the words start spilling before you can stop them and he softens completely.

"you hate the way i look at you, i'm a coward," he breathes.

"because you look at me like i'm the only one who ever matters and i didn't know what to do with all of that. its heavy, its all on me and i get nervous, clark," you scoff, hitting him lightly, tiny fists against his chest, "its worse when you look at me like you want to say something more but you don't because then i spend all day torturing myself with the what if's and its brutal," you stretch, resting your head on his chest in defeat and his heart sings beneath the touch.

"you hate the way i sneak up on you," he narrows his brows, "i take up too much space," he echoes and you glare at him.

"i know what i said clark," you seethe, annoyance bubbling up inside of you all over, "and you are big, you're fucking massive and you surround me, you consume me and steal all the air like its your birthright and i feel so damn helpless i hate it," you spit, taking a step away from him in hopes the chill of the evening hair will cool the fire that steams from your skin. "i can't even think when you're near and you're the only person who can throw me so hard off my game that i can't even remember my name some days and you do it so easily," you heave.

"do you hate that almost as much as you hate the way i make you feel?"

"oh thats worse, you make me feel like i'm not in control," and you take a step closer to him, "and i've never not been in control, you make second best to you feel like first place- like i'm still a winner because i get that cool look swung my way and i giggle like i'm back in school and i hate it- it's like you take all the years of hard work and practise just like nothing- you took my heart like it was nothing," and the tears are free to fall now, you don't even lift your arm to wipe them away you let him look at you, really look at you and let him feel the extent of the damage he's done- how he's caused you to come so undone.

"you hate me," he laughs, and its the same damn laugh you hate, you hate that you love it so damn much that you want to bottle it and get drunk on it every single night you spend in his absence.

"i do," you giggle and it feels like the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, you blink through the tears and he cups your jaw with his large hands that again, he's here consuming you all over. he presses a soft kiss to your lips and its not as hungry, as devouring and deep as the first drunken kiss you shared on that night two weeks ago. its slow, earnest, filled with the pinings and regrets of never knowing the right way to show your love. its wrapped in apologies and forgiveness and a promise to be brave and loud in how you feel.

"but here's a new one for you," you pause, "i really do hate the way that i broke your heart," you mutter ashamed, lowering your gaze but he catches it instantly with a shake to his head.

"do with it what you will; it was only ever yours to have because i'm in love with you," he smiles when he pulls away and its so loud and large your heart soars, "and you're in love with me," he presses his forehead into yours, uniting your broken hearts.

"i am," you swear, "i don't know when i fell but i know that i'm here in the deep end with you and i'm scared but i'm here clark, i promise," and he wipes away your stray tears.

the bustle of the crowds exiting the theatre breaks you free from his hold and he laughs once more, and then quieter for your ears to burn into memory only, "it's okay," he murmurs into your hair, ogling at the stars swimming in your eyes, "we have next week to make up for it," and you stare at the theatre doors and then at your lover. you lean up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips once again.

"we have forever to make up for this, so take me home, baby," you whisper.

and he does.

he does it for a lifetime and more.

riya saying hi: there's a lot to say but first hello! first clark fic after a few days off 🥺🥺 i poured my whole heart and soul into this one hence how long it is, how angsty it is - this is clark hurt comfort final boss. this by far has to be the best ive written and my most favourite love confession to date. ugh ! i really do hope you like it, i fear it did take a large portion of my energy so i will be focusing on requests for the next few days something easier and slower paced compared this monster.

i do want to reiterate that thank you so much for 1k followers! it means the world, beyond that how much this all feels and god im the luckiest person on earth. its such a gift to be able to create something, put myself in some words on a page and have it liked, and enjoyed my god i am gonna cry- but to celebrate this and you (!) because this in no way shape or form wouldve been possible without you, i am taking in clark requests and will try my hardest to get them out asap so send in whatever ! literally whatever ! (just not smut soz) but again thank you !!!!

and finally, this fic would not have been possible without the incredible, the STUNNING @hangmanwrites - anna i owe you a serious portion of my heart (not that you didn't already have it) for letting me work through this with you, helping steer it in the right direction and bring it to life. youre an incredible writing partner and your support has forever altered my brain chemistry- thank you my love, i appreciate and love you so damn much !!! 🥺💘

and again, to you readers, let me know what you think! my ask box is always open if you ever want to talk (and inbox too if youd prefer a longer conversation) thanks for being here and reaffirming kindness on this blog- love you !

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she-is-juniper · 29 days ago

Text

sharp edges and warm hands - golden retriever bf!Clark Kent x black cat gf!reader - chapter one

word count (chapter one): 6.7k (more chapters to come) pairing: golden retriever bf!clark x black cat gf!reader (Superman 2025) synopsis (series): Your new next door neighbor and coworker Clark Kent is a ball of fucking sunshine. You are not. He’s noisy, he’s clingy, he tries too hard. You pretend to hate it but eventually, you have to admit it… he’s kind of the best. Although you can't help but wonder if he's keeping secrets from you. rating (chapter one): M (mature), explicit smut to come in later chapters ♡ content (chapter one): sunshine x grumpy trope, coworkers, next door neighbors, slow burn, fluff, clark is soooo soft and romantic eee author's note: My first Superman/superhero fic and I’m the fakest DC fan known to womankind. I had a lotta fun writing this and I hope you have fun reading (˶‘ ᵕ ‘˶) The story kind of resolves here so you could technically take this as a fluffy oneshot BUT I have plans to publish at least 3 more (verrrry smutty) chapters! if you like it and want to see more, please send me an ask to let me know and i'll gladly add you to a taglist! ((And please, for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks/follow me if you want to see more of my writing!)) series: click for chapter 2

✧⋆.˚⟡ ˖ chapter one ˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The repetitive knocking is coming from the wall. From the only wall you share with your next door neighbor.

It’s not a surprise that this shabby midtown apartment has walls as thin as your patience for its shitty occupants. What surprises you, though, is who you find on the other side of the neighbor’s door when your patience finally wears out.

The infuriating sounds are new. As in, you hadn’t heard a peep from this particular neighbor before today. And now it’s as if they’ve brought a whole damn circus into the building. Loud, annoying punk music that was popular a decade ago, playing from bass-heavy speakers. Off-key singing from a male voice. Incessant barking from a dog. And now?

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Fuck me. You groan in frustration and heave yourself onto your feet. Dodging half-unpacked boxes as you make my way out of your new apartment, into the hallway, and up to the wooden front door of the noisy neighbor. The neighbor you have yet to meet. In fact, you hadn’t realized when you first moved in a week ago that you even had a next door neighbor, things were so quiet. Not so lucky now.

You knock. Behind the door, his damn dog starts barking. No one answers. You try again—and nothing. You’re midway through a tirade of angry rapping when the door finally swings open.

It’s an absolute wall of a man. Your eyes travel up his legs and torso to his face. The first thing you notice is his face. Clean-shaven, chiseled features, thick-framed glasses that somehow look both too clunky for him and yet perfectly suited for his face.

And that he’s smiling at you.

It’s an all-star, earth-shattering smile that nearly knocks the wind out of you, except for the disconcerting fact that the man somehow doesn’t seem surprised at all to see you banging on his door.

“You must be a new neighbor.” His voice is deep, warm, interested.

You cross your arms over your chest. “I’m about to break my lease and move out if you don’t keep it down.”

The man’s dark brows stitch together before realization floods his annoyingly handsome features. “You moved into 3-C,” he remarks. A statement, not a question.

”Yup.” You narrow your eyes at him.

His face contorts. “Golly, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t realize they finally got someone to rent that unit out. It’s been vacant for months, so I hadn’t thought to keep the noise down.” He turns to face the barking dog behind him, says, “Krypto, no barking. Inside voice.”

The dog, like many dogs, pays him no heed and continues to bark and whine. The man rolls his eyes and steps into the hallway with you, closing the door. Had he said golly?

“Really, I’m so sorry about the noise. Krypto just likes to bark at strangers. And the TV. And out the window, sometimes.”

“The barking’s not really the worst of it,” you tell him. You jerk your chin toward the wall you two apparently share. “It’s the thumping. Repeated. Constant. All day today. It’s driving me crazy.”

His face lights with sheepish realization. “Oh. Yeah. That. That’s just—“

You cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t even want to know what it is.” Probably his headboard or something. Gag. “Just… make it stop. It's scaring my cat.” And pissing me off.

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and says simply, “Understood. Yes ma’am. No more noise.”

“Great.” You turn and begin storming back to your own apartment when he gets your attention again.

“For the record,” he calls out. “It was just a tennis ball. Nothing else, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It works. You turn to face him, giving him your full attention again. Is he… blushing?

“The… tennis ball?” you repeat.

He gestures loosely. “I toss it against the wall for Krypto to chase. He gets antsy if I don’t burn off some energy before bed.”

Ah. The dog. Still doesn’t explain why the thumping was happening twice a second. How fast was this dog?

“Your dog’s name is Crypto? As in, the currency?”

He presses his lips together in what seems like a repressed smile. “Different meaning,” he says simply.

“Okay, well, have you considered, I don’t know, walking your dog, or going to the park, instead of keeping your neighbors up at”—you glance at your watch—“eleven-oh-five-pm?”

He runs a hand through his dark hair. “We do. Go for walks, I mean. And—he’s technically not. My dog, I mean.”

The aforementioned dog peeks his white head around the man’s legs. The man smiles sheepishly.

“It's more of a foster situation,” he explains.

This stranger, his handsome face, his antics, his way of speaking... He intrigues you, but in an attempt not to show it, you frown at him and say curtly, “Whatever the situation is, just… keep it down, okay?”

He holds his hands up placatingly. Large hands. “I hear you loud and clear. No more noise.” He salutes. It’s not in a mocking way, but in a completely, utterly dorky way.

It’s annoying. It’s endearing.

You huff, nod your head. Problem solved. You got what you wanted by telling him off. So why didn’t you want to leave?

“Oh, and another thing…” you add. “The music.”

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You heard that, too?”

“Oh yeah. Hard not to. And the singing.”

“Impressed?” he smirks.

“If you mean, impressed by how off-key it was, then yes.”

“Well, it wasn’t meant to be on-key. I was harmonizing.”

“...No, you weren’t.”

“...You’re right, I wasn’t.”

You repress the smile that threatens to come to the surface with a scowl. “You know they make these little knobs or dials that control the volume on your speakers, right? Maybe you should learn to use them.”

He’s unfazed. “I’ll have to check that out. Thanks for the tip.” There’s zero malice in his tone, just lighthearted playfulness.

“Great.” Without another word, you head back to your own apartment.

“Have a good night,” he calls out. You wave him off in response.

Just before you close your door, you barely hear him say under his breath, “I didn’t get her name.”

~~~

The next morning, you leave early. It’s your first day of work. The Daily Planet, associate copy editor. A big step up from your last job. On your way out your front door, you nearly stumble on something. It’s a small box with a lid tied with twine. And a note. You read it first, noticing the small, neat handwriting.

Sorry again about the noise. Figured I owed you a peace offering (and caffeine, for keeping you up). Hope this makes up for it.

– Clark (and Krypto, who says ‘woof’)

So his name is Clark. Inside the box is a bag of single-origin coffee beans from a local roaster. You don’t even like coffee. But the whole thing is so… sweet. You can’t help but smile this time, to yourself.

Sweet gesture from such a shitty neighbor.

~~~

Your first day. Once you meet your new supervisor and get settled at your new desk, you don’t get much more interaction than that. Everyone seems extra busy today—or maybe it’s like this all the time. Someone’s barking out assignments from a conference room, and nearly everyone in the bullpen is furiously typing or frantically scribbling notes. You keep overhearing something about another Superman sighting in the sky last week. The strange, alien hero had emerged into the public eye a few years prior. Whoever he was, it was just one of Metropolis' many enigmas.

You put your headphones on, keep your head down, get to work editing your first headline. You hadn’t been wanting any extra attention brought to you or anything on your first day. Hadn’t even really expected outright friendliness from your new colleagues—this was Metropolis, after all. So the work flow and pace here seemed right up your alley.

Someone came stumbling in late. Balancing a coffee, a scone, a briefcase, a stack of manila folders, his glasses slipping down his nose—

You gape. It’s your goddamn next door neighbor.

It doesn’t take long for him to discover you that day, either. He approaches your desk, eyes glued to his laptop, and says without looking up, “Perry says to send all I have on the LexCorp piece to the new copy editor, which is—” He finally looks up, sees it’s you. Surprise lights his face, then delight. “It’s you!”

You stare at him over the edge of your computer monitor. “Unfortunately.”

He beams, unbothered. “Wow, small world. Neighbors and coworkers.”

“Guess so.” Just my luck.

He places his coffee mug on the table beside your keyboard. If he sees you glaring at it, he ignores it. “I apologize again about the noise yesterday.”

“Noises, plural,” you correct, bringing your gaze back to your computer screen. Pretending to type. Hoping he’ll take the hint.

He doesn’t. “Noises,” he affirms. “It’s just been a while since I’ve shared a wall with anyone. You won’t hear a peep from now on, promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“What’s your name?” he asks. You tell him, and he repeats it, smiling as though the name tasted like honey in his mouth. “Well, welcome to The Daily Planet. I’ve been told you have a reputation of being very, uh…”

“Cutthroat?” you guess. “Merciless?” It’s what your previous coworkers called you. You don't take bullshit when it comes to syntax and adhering to AP style.

“I was going to say meticulous, but good to know.”

“That, too.”

“I believe it.” When you simply nod and don’t reply, he adds, “Did you get the box I left?”

“Oh. Yeah, I did. Uh, thanks for that… You really didn’t have to.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Honestly, to you, it seems like the most. He really shouldn't have gotten you anything. You move your cursor around the screen, pretending to work. He sips his coffee, sets it down again, doesn’t leave. You scowl up at him, and he just smiles.

You bite. “Are you always this… cheery?” And overbearing?

At least he’s not half bad to look at. Wrinkled shirt collar and scone crumbs on the lapel and all.

“No, I’d say I’m usually cheerier,” he says. As your glare intensifies, his softens. “Not all of us can be the mysterious, if-looks-could-kill type,.

“You should be grateful it hasn’t yet.” A small twitch at the corner of your mouth belies the venom in your words. He notices and it makes him smile, too. “Did you want anything else, or are you just here to waste more of my time?”

He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. And then clears his throat, looking at his laptop. “Right, yeah, the article. Want me to forward you the doc? Or do you want physical copies?”

“Forward. If you bring me anything printed, I will shred them out of spite.”

“Got it. Forwarding now.”

~~~

The rest of your first day passes without much incident. A steady onslaught of articles and captions and grammar issues that need editing to keep you happily busy. You meet some other coworkers during your lunch break. You avoid some not-so-obvious staring from Clark Kent as you pass his desk on your way to make yourself another tea at the coffee station. You’re efficient, so you leave work on time, yet still before everyone else.

When you finally get home after hitting the gym, going on a solo sushi date, a walk in the local park, you notice something else had been placed on your door mat. A small paper gift bag, and another note. Not this again. Inside the bag is a tin of loose leaf chamomile and a stainless infuser. The note reads:

Noticed you drink tea instead of coffee at work. I got this as a gift last Christmas but don’t care much for tea… Maybe it’d get better use from you? —C

That evening, while reading the latest book of your favorite series and sipping a cup of chamomile with your cat, Ember, curled on your lap, you think to yourself that maybe this Clark Kent really isn’t that bad.

~~~

After a few weeks, you come to the conclusion that Clark Kent has three habits that particularly irked you.

First, he’s usually late. And some measure of disheveled. Which is really more of his problem than anyone else’s… but it becomes your problem when it means he was late submitting copy. Which means, in turn, you’re late to edit his work. And you hate turning things in late.

Second, though the copy he submits is typically brilliant, he often does not do any of his own editing. As in, run-on sentences, misplaced commas, even sometimes entire sections that are just basically op-eds. As though he had just word-vomited onto the page at the scene of the story and sent it without even doing a single pass himself. You frequently return his work with a myriad of emotionally detached edits and corrections… “Unclear.” “Redundant.” “Rewrite for basic logic.” “Cut. Adds nothing.” Sometimes just a question mark.

To his credit, Clark takes all your edits like a champ. He also doesn’t seem to mind the fact that you’re openly irked by his lack of first pass edits. In fact, he doesn’t seem to mind you in the slightest.

Which brings you to the third point. He tends to stare. At you. A lot. Usually without realizing it. And every time you catch it, you just glare back at him until he looks away, usually with a dimply little smile on his face.

Okay, maybe it isn’t a lot of staring. Maybe it’s only every once and a while. Like when you sit across the conference room from him. Or when you’re grabbing a tea refill at the coffee station.

Maybe you’ve only been aware of it because you’d been staring at him first.

But that’s beside the point.

On one sunny day, you’re eating lunch outside. You sometimes sat with Steve or Jimmy during your lunch breaks, but today, they were too busy bickering about who was going to cover a press conference with MPD this evening. So today, you buy your lunch from the little café attached to the building and sit by yourself outside in the courtyard, where you find a perfect little nook on a bench.

You’re turning the page in your book when a voice breaks your concentration. “I should have known you’d find my spot.”

Clark Kent. He smiles down at you, holding a couple of leftover containers. You squint up at him.

He moves in front of the sun, blocking it with his shadow for you. My hero, you think sarcastically.

“Your spot?” you intone.

He nods, his curls hanging loose on his forehead. “I like to sit in the sun during my breaks. It’s… healing.”

No wonder you never saw him at lunch with the others. Turns out, even Clark Kent liked being alone sometimes.

“People like you shouldn’t need the sun,” you joke, deadpan. “You’re... sunny enough as is.”

You’d meant it to be backhanded, but he says, “Why, thank you.”

“You don’t understand. It’s blinding.”

At that, he holds a finger up and gestures for you to wait. He withdraws a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. Before you can say anything, he places the sunglasses on your face.

“Better?” he asks.

A giggle emerges before you can stop it. You quickly mold your smile into a frown. “I’m not giving these back.”

“Keep ‘em. They look good on you.”

Warmth spreads to your cheeks. “Do you, uh, want to sit?” you offered, deflecting.

He nods, and you scoot over, giving him room on the bench. You go back to your own lunch but get distracted by the smell of maple syrup wafting from his meal.

“Did you bring… pancakes?” you ask him. You look over at his container. Yep, sure enough. Pancakes and eggs, with two links of sausage.

“I made too much for dinner last night.”

“Breakfast for dinner?”

“It’s so good.”

“That’s despicable.”

“It’s the best meal of the day. Why not have it for every meal?” he says around a bite. Then he holds a forkful out to you. “Want to try?”

You want to say no. But you take the bait. The pancake, albeit leftover, is divine. Clark watches your expression as you chew.

“You like it?”

“It’s… not bad.”

“It’s my ma’s recipe.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” With the smallest of smiles, you snatch his fork and steal another bite. He lets you.

“Well, what did you bring for lunch, then?” he asks you.

You gesture halfheartedly to your sad chicken caesar wrap. “I didn’t bring lunch.”

Clark eyes it woefully. “Do you… not cook?”

“No, I do.” You love cooking. “My stove is broken. And my oven.”

He tsks. “Ah. Yeah. Those standard issue appliances. I had to replace mine after I moved in, too.”

“I tried contacting our landlord, but…”

“I could try to fix them for you.”

You stare. Mostly in reverence at the mere offer. “I—no, that’s okay.”

“Let me at least try. I’m pretty handy.”

His eyes look so much like a puppy dog’s that you sigh and give in. “I’ll let you come over tonight to try,” you say, “but only if you submit your copy before three o’clock.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says dutifully.

“And you have to read through it on your own first. If I see another sentence splice, Kent, I swear to god…”

He nods placatingly. “You got it. I’ll come over after work sometime.”

~~~

After spending lunch together, you and Clark exchanged phone numbers. Just to coordinate a time for him to drop by to fix your kitchen appliances that evening. That’s all.

He’d arrived at 6pm. Your cat, Ember, took one look at the stranger in her house, hissed dutifully, and ran to a hiding spot. Clark had just laughed and compared her to you, and you weren’t even offended.

He'd looked around, complimented your place even though you had barely started unpacking all your boxes. You’d showed him your broken stove and oven. He’d taken one look at it, claimed, “I can fix that,” and got to work.

And that’s where he’s been the past half hour. Crouched behind your stove, his hands full of wires, his brows furrowed in concentration. And he’s cursing.

Well, not really cursing. More like muttering half-obscene nonsense under his breath as he attempts to reattach the wires, saying things like “what the hay” and “son of a gun.” And, on rare occasion, a “damn” would slip out.

Having him in your apartment is both disconcerting and soothing. You hadn’t had company over yet since you moved in, and you hardly expected your first guest would be the annoying next door neighbor. But here he is, fixing your appliances—not only for free, but seemingly just out of sheer kindness.

He’d given you full permission to go off and do your own thing while he worked. So you’d curled up on the couch with a book. A book you’ve now long forgotten about, opting instead to watch him struggle in the kitchen. It’s far more entertaining.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” you call out to him.

“Yes. Well, I watched a YouTube video.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that totally makes you qualified to do this.” Your curiosity gets the best of you. You close your book and pad over to your kitchen, peering at him and his work. “I won’t be upset if you give up, you know, Kent.” You certainly had given up on it yourself.

“I can fix it,” he says back, determined. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You resist the urge to push them back up for him.

“You better not electrocute yourself and die. I’ll have too much time on my hands at work without your grammar problems to fix all day.”

“My grammar isn’t that bad,” he waves you off.

“It’ll only get worse if you fry your brain trying to fix my stupid stove.”

“I’m not getting electrocuted. Trust me.”

He says it with such certainty that you halfway believe him. “Okay, but just so you know, I’m, like, five minutes away from ordering pizza delivery for dinner tonight instead of cooking.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

Eventually, he does fix the oven and stove. You don’t see it happen—you’d popped next door to his apartment to grab a toolbox he’d asked you for. You may have spent a few moments longer than necessary studying the inside of his apartment. It was… unexpected. The layout, the décor, the overall tidiness of it. More notably, the lack of a dog.

“Where’d your dog go?” you ask him when you return with the toolbox. Only to find that he no longer needed it. Seeing as he was currently using the stove to make a grilled cheese. “Oh damn.”

“I got it working,” he says in triumph. “I hope you don’t mind me using some of your ingredients.” He places buttered bread on one of your skillets, and it sizzles. So the stove is working.

“How did you…?” It was nowhere near in working order when you’d popped next door. Or maybe you’d been wrong.

He answers your previous question instead. “Oh, Krypto went back with my cousin. I was just fostering, remember?”

“You mean, dog sitting?”

“Wasn’t sure when she’d be getting back.”

Hmm. For someone so chatty all the time, he sure could be cryptic.

But it didn’t matter. All of your qualms and gripes and other misgivings about Clark Kent dissipate, even if momentarily, the moment you sink your teeth into the grilled cheese he made you. It’s melty, crispy, buttery, perfect. You want to tell him it’s the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had, but you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.

“What do you think?” he asks you, smiling to himself as he takes a bite.

“I’m thinking, maybe you’re good at at least one thing.”

He folds his arms across the top of your kitchen table. “I’m good at plenty of things.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

It’s how you two banter now. Easy, familiar. You two still barely know each other, but he knows you well enough now to understand that the small smirk that tugs on your mouth means you’re kidding. And he always smiles back, unabashed, unguarded. Like he actually enjoys your sharp edges. He seems unbothered by your sense of humor, and you like that about him.

“Hey, Kent.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the sandwich. And for the stove and oven. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me a thing, sunshine.”

Interesting nickname. Your cat chooses that moment to emerge from her hiding spot. She graces Clark with a single look of pure disdain before jumping onto your lap and curling up contentedly.

He looks at the both of you. “You know, I’m glad we met,” he says matter-of-factly, out of the blue.

You glance up at him across the table. The warmth in his expression catches you off guard. It’s disarming, in a sincere, boyish kind of way.

“I’m not opposed to you either, I guess,” you mutter.

“Wow, high praise.”

“You’ll survive.”

~~~

Things change between the two of you after that day. Not in big ways, but subtly, incrementally.

Like when one day, you catch him leaving his apartment at the exact same time you do, and you poke fun at him for finally leaving on time for work. And so you both head downstairs together, take the bus together, walk in to work together. And the next day, he does it again. And eventually, he starts leaving work around the same time as you, too.

You pretend to be annoyed by it. But then one morning, he’s running a few minutes behind, and you wait for him—even though it means you’ll be late yourself. When he finally emerges from his front door and spots you waiting for him by the elevator, he grins, pushes back his mop of freshly showered hair, and says, “I knew you liked leaving for work together.”

To which you respond, “Hurry up, or you’re going to make me regret waiting.”

He starts leaving you notes at work. Like cheeky comments on docs he submits for you to edit that say things like, “Go easy on me, sunshine,” or, “I know you’re going to tell me to delete this part, but I like it a lot, so can we leave it in pretty please?”

You roll your eyes at them every time, but you secretly look forward to reading them whenever he submits copy.

One day, you catch his eye and notice he’d been staring at you from his desk across the newsroom. He quickly averts his gaze, then sheepishly looks back up. Glances away again.

You confront him during a mutual coffee/tea break. “You better stop staring at me like that,” you say as you stir your mug.

“Me? I wasn’t staring. I don’t stare.”

“You were. And you do.”

“Nah, I wasn’t staring. I just looked a couple of times.”

Even as he talks, he looks right at you. His sparkling eyes are irresistibly charming. Your skin grows hot wherever he glances, as if bathed by warm sunlight.

“Stop it. It’s distracting.”

“So you’re distracted by me?” he jeers. “Which part is the most distracting? Is it how handsome I am, or is it my charm?”

“More like complete lack of subtlety. And humility. And because your tie is uneven.”

“How observant of you,” he smirks.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You know, it’s fine by me if you don’t like me.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t.”

He sips his coffee and raises an eyebrow playfully. He knows your dry humor at his point. “Right, well, I was hoping you at least didn’t hate me.”

You don’t respond. You just tug his tie straight before walking off.

~~~

As the summer turns into fall and you continue to get more and more settled into life in Metropolis, the two of you start texting each other more frequently. It starts out as average neighborly texts…

You: the mailman put something in my box addressed to you again

You: i put it on your doormat

Clark: Thanks! :)

Or...

Clark: Heyyy I know it’s late but do you have like a half cup of milk I could steal?

You: sure

You: why

Clark: I poured cereal but I only had like a few drops of milk :(

You: why are you eating cereal at midnight

Clark: I was craving it

Clark: What’s a guy gotta do to eat cereal for dinner in peace around here? 🤣

You: your obsession with breakfast food never fails to baffle me

Clark: If you knew what was good, you’d never question my meal choices again 🤔

You: i have milk but youll have to be ok with it being oatmilk

Clark: …Okay never mind… I’ll just starve…

You: ????

Clark: You can keep your imposter milk but thanks anyway

You: dont be such a baby

Clark: I’d rather eat cereal with water

You: ok now thats just a crime

You: hold on im coming over with leftover lasagna for u

Clark: 😍

And sometimes, you and Clark would text each other during work, like during conference meetings...

You: Perry looks so pissed off rn

Clark: Haha he does… he just gave Jimmy a death stare just for breathing

You: no bc olsen did do that weird nose whistle thing again

Clark: That nose whistle haunts me…

You: i’m gonna record it next time and use it as my text tone for you

Clark: You’re sick

You: 😈

You: do you see how much perry’s sweating?!

Clark: It’s all the anger and rage. It’s gotta come out somehow.

You: i’m scared he’s gonna throw the clicker across the room like a grenade

You glance up at Clark across the room, and he meets your gaze. He mimics a small explosion with his hands and mouths, “Boom.” And that sets the both of you off in a burst of half-suppressed giggling in the middle of the meeting, that Clark tries to write off as coughing as you hide your smile behind your mug of tea.

~~~

On some days, things aren’t quite so lighthearted. Like on particularly busy days, or when the news is not so good. On days like those, you’re usually hunched over at your desk, headphones on, dark to the world for eight hours until you finally emerge from your own little pocket universe of copy editing, exhausted and drained.

And Clark usually looks particularly beat on those types of days. More beat than any of the other reporters. Sometimes, he shows up extra late, or doesn’t even show up to the office at all. As curious as you are about his whereabouts, you don’t pry.

You begin to learn that Clark, as it turns out, is not always sunshine and rainbows, like you’d thought.

It’s a breezy early fall evening when the two of you leave work together one day. Clark had been acting strangely sullen all day, even short-tempered. You’d seen him snap at the other reporters more than once. The copy he’d submitted was strangely terse, near to perfection in its grammar and syntax, almost too matter-of-fact. And he’d barely spoken to you at all, even on your mutual commute home.

“Alright,” you level with him on the bus. “What’s your problem, Kent?”

“What? Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“You don’t get to be the one acting like this. That’s my job. I take it very seriously.”

He barely cracks a smile but continues to stare gloomily out the bus window at the falling leaves. That’s when you know something serious is up with him.

You aren’t sure what to do, what to say. You’re no good at things like this. You sit in silence beside him for a while. Then you opt for a casual lean, letting your shoulder press against his. Which feels kind of awkward at first, but you’re getting the strange urge to break the touch barrier between you and him.

It works. After a moment of leaning, he sighs, relaxes, leans in closer to you, still staring out the window. His shoulder is big and solid against your own.

He finally speaks: “Do you ever feel like you’re the only one who cares about something that really matters?”

“I—” you stammer, considering. “Maybe?”

“Like…” He ponders his words. The crease between his dark brows becomes more prominent. “Like yesterday, when there were lives at stake at the harbor, but all Perry wanted to push out for today’s news were stories about the fire being staged, or the political motives behind the rescue, and all the think pieces on who was to gain financially from it.” His fists clench in his lap. “It makes me so angry.”

Clark Kent, angry? Your mind reels, about multiple factors to his words. “You’re talking about Superman saving those people from the burning building at the harbor yesterday?”

He nodded curtly, his fists still in tight balls. You frown at them, wondering why he might be so upset about what had happened in the news with the mysterious humanoid alien superhero who often saved the city from various supernatural plights.

“You’re right,” you agree simply. “It was shitty of Perry to even consider publishing that trash.” Taking a leap of faith, you place your hand atop one of his fists. Feel it soften somewhat beneath your palm. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt his hand, and it’s warm, big, slightly calloused.

“You… agree with me?”

You nod. “Usually I don’t, on principle, but this time, yeah." He cracks a small smile at that, which you mirror. "I think The Planet’s way out of line for publishing anything speculative. Half of the shit I edited today was based on mere, unfounded, opinion, not facts. I’ve never returned so many docs with so many edits.”

Slowly, but surely, like watching water begin to boil, Clark’s demeanor begins to change. “They don’t call you ‘The Guillotine’ for nothing, do they?” he remarks, breaking into a small, toothy smile that has your heart skipping.

Then you realize what he’d said. “They call me the what?”

Clark laughs and you nearly laugh too. He and you start going over what everyone’s nicknames for each other are at the paper. And by the end of your commute home, by some means, you and Clark had started to hold hands.

~~~

One Saturday night, you’re slipping on your pajamas when you get a text:

Clark: WYD tonight?! It’s a full moon

You’d just returned from a little night on the town with some new girlfriends you’d made. Some from work, like Lois Lane and Lane Cat Grant, and some new friends you’d met mutually. You hadn’t expected to have as much fun as you had, but you’re pretty tired now. And still tipsy.

Not too tired to be curious about Clark, though. You wonder why the moon phase matters.

You: abt to go to bed

You: are you abt to turn into a werewolf or something

He replies relatively quickly:

Clark: Nah, I mean, at least I don’t think so. Not as far as I’m aware, LOL

Clark: Come up to the roof before you sleep! You won’t regret it 😇

So you do. The fastest way to access the roof from your apartment is by means of the fire escape, a rickety, rusty contraption built on the outside of your balcony. You brave the danger and emerge onto the roof.

Sure enough, the night sky is blanketed in blue light from a full, yellow moon. Basking in the muted light on the edge of the roof is Clark. He looks ethereal, freshly shaven, wearing sweats and a hoodie, his eyes twinkling as he spots you. You think to yourself he’s never looked better.

You join him at the roof’s edge. He smiles as you approach, that cute, awkward, toothy, dimply smile.

“Thanks for joining me, sunshine,” he says.

You nod, folding your arms. He;s been calling you that goofy nickname for a while, now. You don’t hate it. “Mhmm. You’re lucky I even responded.”

“Busy, were you?”

“Earlier I was. You know Cat and Lois from work?” When he nods, you say, “We went out barhopping.”

Clark reared. “You went out with Cat and Lois?”

“Yeah. We’re friends. Don’t act so surprised I have friends, Kent.”

“Yeah, but no offense, but you three are like polar opposites.”

You snort. “If there's three of us, we can't be polar opposites. That's not how magnetic poles work."

"Oh my gosh, and you call me a dork?" he laughs with you, rustling your hair. "Well... was it fun?"

"It was."

"I didn't take you for a going-out type of girl."

"Why? And what's wrong with that?" You mock-glare at him.

He puts his hands up, mock-defensively. "I just mean. You should invite me next time. Sounds like fun."

You can't imagine Clark Kent going out dancing. Or maybe, yes, you could. "Your male energy would ruin my vibe."

He shrugs. "Fair enough. Speaking of your vibe,” he says, reaching behind him to pull out two travel mugs. “Hot cocoas.”

“My vibe is hot cocoa?”

“No, your vibe is probably more, like, a glass of dry red wine with a side of disdain. But all I had was hot cocoa.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you graciously accept. “Thanks, Kent.”

You don’t expect it, but you end up spending hours up there on the roof with Clark that night. Talking about everything under the sun—or, rather, the moon. The books you’re reading, the movies he likes. Your family, his family. Your career, his career. It’s the most open you’ve ever found yourself with him. And it’s the most open he’s ever been with you.

Clark is in the middle of telling you about Kansas corn—a topic that you would have expected to be boring (and did in fact joke about this to him) but is turning out to be rather intriguing—when a flash in the sky catches your eye.

“A shooting star!” you explain, grasping for his hand. You both watch the meteor trail across the sky before it explodes in an array of fiery colors. “Wow.”

Clark stares at you. “That might be the most excited I’ve ever seen you get.”

“I get excited,” you defend yourself.

“Never like that, though.” He grins. “It suits you.”

You both become aware at the same time that he’s still holding your hand. Or maybe it’s that you’re still holding his. In any case, your hand is grasped in his, and you aren’t pulling away. He’s still smiling at you. If it were anyone else, you would have already pulled away. But you're frozen.

“Dance with me, sunshine,” Clark says. It catches you off-guard, which is the only reason why you let him pull you by the hands into the middle of the rooftop area.

Your scowl, though originating more out of alarm and discomfort than out of dislike, does not deter him. He plants one of your hands on his shoulder, places one of his own on your lower back, and begins to rock back and forth.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“This is so fun,” he counters.

“It’s so cheesy.”

“So what?” He looks up at the moon. “So is the moon. The Big Cheese and all. Embrace it, sunshine.”

“There’s not even any music.”

You regret saying it instantly when he begins humming a horribly out-of-tune rendition of Harvest Moon. You groan and give him shit for it. He loves it. You love it too.

“I’m no good at this,” you tell him after a while, when the dancing becomes less goofy and more serious, when the giggles dissipate into intimate silence, when he begins to draw your body incrementally closer to his.

“You’re just fine at it,” he says, leading you into a twirl that makes you full-on smile. But the smile fades again as you look into his eyes.

“I don’t mean the dancing,” you say, in almost a whisper. “I mean… I just mean…”

He doesn’t prod you to answer, just squeezes your hand, waits patiently. You sigh and try again.

“You’re just really good, Clark.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a good person, and—and I know I’m not a bad person, I just—you and me, we’re so different. You always see the good in people, and in life, and… it’s just a lot harder for me.”

He peers down at you, his expression unbelievably soft. And he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “I think you’re good, too. And lovely. I don’t think you see yourself the way I see you.”

You can feel yourself tense up. “You have a goodness to you that I don’t have, Clark.”

“Okay, well, what if I don’t want to be good?” he responds with a wry smirk. There’s a hidden meaning, a roguish suggestion in his words that makes your stomach flip in a good way.

You smirk back and gently shove his shoulder. “You couldn’t stop it if you tried.” You sigh. “I just… I don’t know how to do this with someone like you.”

“What do you mean?” he asks softly.

“I just… ruin things. Or I freeze. Or I leave.”

He ponders this. “Those aren’t such bad things.”

“What?!” Those are three pretty bad things.

“I’m pretty patient,” he boasts. “I’ll happily wait for you until you un-freeze. And if you run away, I’m pretty fast, so I’ll just chase you.”

You smile, shaking your head. “This isn’t me joking, Kent.”

Clark steps closer, so close that you can smell his woodsy, soapy scent, can feel the warmth radiating from his chest. “I’m not joking either, sunshine,” he murmurs.

You can’t help but grab his shirt, then, and lean up into him, pressing your lips to his.

Just a peck.

Then you step away, gauging his reaction.

He blinks in surprise, his handsome mouth fallen open, and then something possesses him and he kisses you back, harder. He glides his hands from your shoulders to your back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. His mouth is warmth and softness and hardness all combined.

You can feel him smile through the kiss, and you pull away, your heart swelling at the sight of his dimples, the crinkles of his eyes. His blue eyes are exceedingly bright in the moonlight. You wonder if your own eyes are as bright as his.

Breathless, he says, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you yelled at me about the tennis ball.”

“This is a bad idea,” you say, but your shaky breath and exhilarated smile bely this attempt at indifference.

Clark kisses you again, kisses both corners of your mouth. “Probably. But you’re the one who kissed me first.”

“You’re going to be even more annoying now,” you comment as his lips trail down your cheek to the edge of your jaw.

You can hear the sound of contentment he makes as he smiles into your neck, breathes you in. “Definitely.”

As he kisses that place just under your ear, a single chill runs down your spine, curling your toes in the best way. Clark brings his hands up your back and to either side of your face. He beams at you, his own personal sun, while he caresses your cheeks with both his thumbs. Smoothing away all your sharp edges with his warm hands.

˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

click for chapter 2 (will be coming out on Saturday, August 9th at 1PM PST!)

A/N: Helloooo! Eeee I'm kicking my feet and giggling! I really hope you like this fic!! I will be publishing each chapter on saturdays! So chapter 2 (smuttyyyyy!) will be published next Saturday, August 9th at 1pm PST -- get hypeeeeed!!!!!

Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!

Much love ❤︎ from Juniper

about me || masterlist | AO3 || ask me anything! Superman taglist will be linked here Disclaimers: I do not claim to own Superman, DC, or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. Please note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim my work as your own on Tumblr, AO3, Wattpad, or any other website. You do not have permission to use my works in AI generators or in any way related to artificial intelligence. You may not use my work to sell or pass off as your own creation.

This fic has been edited (8/8/2025) to update title, heading, and moodboard photo.

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