#jimmy olsen/reader

[mallowwblossom]

I hate obsessing over recently released stuff because then I'll need to wait at least a couple of months for fanfics to arise.

[strawberry-knights]

Close Call

Jimmy Olsen x reader

Summary: You’ve been pining after Jimmy for months, but haven’t gotten the courage to ask him out. The imminent threat of death makes you reconsider. 

My Writing Masterlist

WC: 1.8k

TW/CW: kidnapping, held hostage, bomb threat

A/N: i feel like we all deserve to be kissed senseless by jimmy olsen, do you not agree? ((also mostly gn reader, reader is referred to as 'new girl' like twice, but other than that its gn))

You sighed, looking over your computer at Jimmy. He was sitting on the edge of Cat’s desk, talking animatedly with his hands. His smile was dazzling and genuinely the most gorgeous smile you had ever seen. 

He said something and she laughed, reaching over and touching his thigh. 

You frowned and huffed another sigh. 

“Lord have mercy on me, just ask him the fuck out already!” 

You jumped in your seat and whipped around to glare at Lois. 

“Shh!” You hissed. “What if he hears you?”

“I would love it if he heard me, then I would not have to deal with your kicked puppy look.”

You frowned. “I can see your are annoyed but-”

“I'm fed up, is what I am. Grow a pair or get back to work.” Lois glared at you and continued past your desk to refill her mug. 

You got back to work, albeit unhappily. Of course you wanted to ask Jimmy out, but he was so unattainable to you. You were just the new girl. He rarely talked to you, if ever. It was like you did not exist to him. 

Begrudgingly, you started editing your latest piece. It was some fluff piece to fill the pages and make the readers happy. It was filler, but that was a part of the job sometimes. 

During the rest of the work day, you were acutely aware of everywhere Jimmy went. Not like it was different than any other work day, but you wondered if anyone else had caught onto your little crush. 

You noticed when lunch time rolled around and the trio consisting of Lois, Clark, and Jimmy left for lunch. 

It was about ten minutes later when Perry stormed into the main office. 

“I need a reporter at Centennial Park yesterday! Some sorta metahuman is wrecking the place!” Perry looked around. “Where's Kent? Lane? Olsen?” 

“They went to lunch,” you replied. 

Perry threw up his hands. “Then you go, does it look like I care? I need someone on the ground now!”

You jumped up from your seat and started gathering the necessities. Once packed you bolted for the elevators and rode it down, tapping your foot impatiently the entire time. 

Once the elevator doors opened, you jogged the entire way to Centennial Park. You knew you were going the right way because you could see smoke coming up from the trees deep inside the park. 

You bumped into people fleeing as you ran towards the fray. Once you got close enough, you were able to see what was going on. 

Some sort of dragon looking guy, with scales and everything, was blowing fire at Superman. 

You crouched down and started taking pictures. You were so engrossed with the shots that you didn't notice the man sneaking up behind you. 

You felt a sharp blow to the back of your head.

And everything went dark. 

“C’mon, Lois, you know I don't have a shot.” Jimmy sighed. 

The three of them had gone out to lunch, but Clark left a few minutes ago citing a need to finish something he forgot. Jimmy knew he left because Superman needed to take care of a metahuman in Centennial Park, but he was letting Clark believe that he didn’t know about his not so hidden identity. 

Sometimes, Jimmy was just nice like that. 

“Really, Jimmy? Because you don’t have to watch the light die in her eyes every time you avoid talking to her.”

“I don’t avoid her…” Jimmy pouted and huffed. 

They were talking between bites of hotdogs they had gotten at a street side vendor when their favorite sub shop was too busy for their short lunch break. 

“Right, of course. You just weasel out of any conversation she starts with you.” Lois bumped into Jimmy’s shoulder and he shot her a glare. She was giving him a knowing smile. 

But what did Lois know? The new girl was hot, smart, and completely out of Jimmy’s league. There was no way he could land a girl like that. 

“She’s just… too good for me.”

Lois rolled her eyes and took another bite of her hotdog. 

At that moment, Clark came bounding up to them dressed in his civilian clothes, glasses on. 

“Lois,” he said breathlessly, not even sparing a look at Jimmy. “Do you still have the location of the new girl?”

“Yeah, I think so, why?”

“Perry sent her to report on the incident in Centennial Park and she hasn’t come back.”

Jimmy’s heart dropped into his shoes. “What? Where is she?”

“Hold on, I’m looking,” Lois grumbled as she swiped through her phone with one hand, the other still holding a half eaten hotdog. “She’s at the dam.”

Clark nodded and began to turn around, but Jimmy caught his sleeve. 

“I’ll come!” Jimmy announced. 

Clark looked over at Jimmy and his eyes widened. “I mean- we should let Superman handle this but-”

“Cut the crap, Clark, I am coming with you whether you like it or not!”

Clark looked over at Lois incredulously. 

“I told you interviewing yourself so frequently wasn’t a good idea,” she shrugged. 

Clark sighed and looked back to Jimmy. “Fine, we’ll talk strategy on the way. Let’s go.”

Jimmy began running after Clark, but not before he heard Lois say one last thing. 

“Thank fuck I don't have to deal with those two idiots pining anymore.”

You woke up slowly, your head throbbing wildly. It was bright, and the sun was making the headache worse. You tried to lift a hand to press it to your temple, but you found that you couldn’t move it. 

You blinked a few times and your eyes slowly adjusted. 

You were on the SAI dam, facing towards the lake. When you looked down, you saw that you not only were tied up, ropes binding you to a chair, but there was some sort vest on you. 

A vest. 

With a little screen. 

Displaying a timer. 

That was counting down. 

05:46

05:45

05:44

Oh fuck. You suddenly felt incredibly nauseous. All thought processes ground to a complete halt. You didn’t know what to do. What could you do? Were you going to die here?

Tears began to leak from your eyes. You squeezed them shut, willing yourself to stop. You couldn’t cry, no, you couldn’t give the villain the satisfaction. 

But you couldn’t stop. 

You were afraid. And rightfully so. You had just over five minutes to live. 

You couldn’t bear to look down at the timer, but you could hear it beep with each passing second, counting down your time. 

You were so wrapped in your own head that you didn't notice the approach of your saviors. 

“Jesus Christ, Superman, can you disarm it?” 

You opened your eyes and saw that Jimmy was crouched right in front of you, inspecting you. Your eyes met and you saw a swirling mix of emotion in his eyes. 

“Jimmy,” you whispered, your voice still raw and shaky. 

“Oh, man, I'm sorry that took so long, sweetheart,” Jimmy mumbled and began wiping the tears from your face with his tumbs. You leaned into his palm and sagged in relief. You weren't gonna die. Not today, at least. 

Someone cleared their throat. You looked past Jimmy to see Superman, shifting his weight between his two feet awkwardly. 

“Sorry, do your thing.” Jimmy moved to the side, but kept one hand cradling your face. 

Superman stared at the bomb on your chest then let out a pulse of laser from his eyes. There was a loud beep and then… silence. 

“I have to track down the culprit. Are you good from here?” 

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, digging in his pocket. He brandished a pocket knife. “I'll get her to safety. Give that fucker hell.”

Superman gave a small nod and then took off. Jimmy slowly removed his hand from your cheek and began hacking at the ropes binding you. 

He freed your right hand first, then began to work on your left. 

“I like you,” you said suddenly. 

Jimmy shot you a curious glance, but kept sawing through the ropes. “I would hope so, I am saving you.”

You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline still coursing through your veins or if it was the close call with death, but your hand shot out of its own accord. You grabbed a fistful of Jimmy's shirt and yanked him towards you. 

Then you kissed him. He didn't react, so you released him and he backed away slowly, his eyes wide with surprise. You were sure that if you weren't so emotional in that moment that you would be hurt by his lack of reciprocation. But it was the last thing on your mind. All you cared about was him knowing. 

“I like you, idiot.”

Jimmy blinked at you once, twice… 

Then he lunged forward and kissed you. 

It was a desperate kiss, full of teeth and tongue, but it was perfect. His free hand slipped behind your head, pulling you impossibly closer. 

You couldn't tell how long it lasted, but soon you both separated, foreheads pressed together and panting. Your breaths were mingling, breathing in the same hot air. 

He recovered before you, leaning forward and kissing you quickly once more before pulling away. You leaned forward, chasing him, but the restraints halted your movements. 

“You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that…” 

“Can't be much longer than me,” you replied with a dreamy smile. 

Jimmy chuckled and leaned in again, kissing your forehead. “You're gorgeous, and amazing, and perfect, and as much as I want to kiss you some more, I have to get you out of this vest.” 

“Okay,” you nodded. 

“Okay,” Jimmy echoed. He pulled away slowly and began sawing through the ropes with renewed fervor, flashing you a dopey, lovestruck grin every once in a while. You did your best to help, unraveling ropes after he sawed through them. 

Once freed, he pulled the vest up and over your head. He placed it on the floor next to you and all put pulled you up into his arms. You leapt up and wrapped your arms around his neck and the two of you kissed again. 

It made your head dizzy and a warmth spread through your stomach. 

Jimmy began kissing parts of your face between words. “We… really… should… get out… of here…”

“There is a bomb,” you agreed. 

Jimmy sighed melodramatically. “Alright, let's get you home.”

“Okay,” you smiled. You paused, hesitant. “You'll… you'll stay with me, right?”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Jimmy took you back to your place and kept his word - he hasn't left you since. 

[twiceasbright]

bad friend ┃ clark kent x reader

summary: your best friend asks you to set her up with clark kent, who's your work crush. despite your feelings for him, you agree- for the sake of your friend. but things go awry when you panic and end up accidentally asking him out yourself. now you have to find a way to fix it before things go too far.

pairings: clark kent x reader

tags: fluff, angst with a semi-happy ending, sfw, daily planet shenanigans, it's all a big misunderstanding, gn!reader, no use of y/n

word count: 5.1k

a/n: i saw superman and it instantly changed my brain chemistry. this is the result. please bear with me, this is my first time writing for this fandom. i hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave any thoughts or comments!! xoxo

You’re a bad friend. A very, very bad one.

When your co-worker, work bestie, closest thing you have to a sister, tells you about her crush on Clark, it’s a shock. You’d spent months commenting on him—his sweetness, his looks, his clumsiness. You never went into detail about how deep this little infatuation went, but you were sure it was obvious. Sadie’s been victim to more than a few tangents about ‘how can one man be so perfect?’ Of all people, she knows how you felt.

And yet here she is, telling you about her feelings for the journalist you’d been mooning over for what felt like forever. You know exactly what this means. You know what she’s going to ask long before the words come out of her mouth.

“I know you guys are close, like… friends or whatever,” she tells you, acrylics tapping nervously against her coffee mug. She keeps avoiding your gaze. “I just- well, I wanted to ask if maybe you… you could put in a good word for me. Maybe set us up or something?”

You smile at her, even as your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. It’s not her fault. You’d never made more than fleeting, shallow comments about Clark. There was no way for her to know how actually, desperately much you like him. You have no reason to feel betrayed.

Besides, you love her. You’d do anything and everything for her. Including—God help you—setting her up with the guy you fantasize about falling asleep with every night.

This makes you a good friend. The bad friend part is what happens next.

You approach Clark’s desk with thinly veiled resignation. Not the usual happy, skip-like gait you adopt when you decide it’s time to bother him. Which, much to his sure frustration, happens a lot. Sadie is your twin flame at work, but Clark is… he’s a companion. His desk is right across from yours, and the two of you have become each other’s support systems.

You’d hoped that one day it would turn into more. That feels foolish now. Especially when you’re on your way to pimp him out to your best friend.

“Heyyy buddy…” you greet him—terribly, awkwardly. You lightly punch his shoulder, which makes it a million times worse. You cringe so hard internally that you don’t get a chance to admire how firm his muscles are.

Clark looks up at you, raising an eyebrow as he pushes his glasses up with a finger. He’s just as bewildered by this as you. It doesn’t stop the amused curve of his lips or the way his dimples deepen. Your knees slightly buckle under the power of that smile. God, he’s so crazy beautiful.

“Hey there,” he responds, his voice like heat in your veins. Deep, smooth, calming. You want to strangle him with his stupid (charming) tie. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, waving him away. You sit on the edge of the desk, avoiding the half-full mug of coffee next to you. You cross your legs and clear your throat. “How are you doing?”

“I’m a little worried you’re having a stroke, to be honest.”

That sobers you up a little. You press your lips into a thin line. “Yeah, sorry. That was weird.”

He’s amused, clearly, but there’s a tinge of concern in those beautiful blue eyes. Of course, he’s concerned. Of course, he’s sweet and gentle and compassionate and everything you could ever want. How the hell is this your life?

“What’s going on, jelly?” he asks, and the nickname is a little like a punch to the gut.

It’s a bit from when you first started, a teasing comment from Jimmy or Lois or someone you can’t remember. You took such an instant liking to Clark, the two of you clicked so easily, that it became a joke amongst your friends. You two go together like peanut butter and jelly. Such a silly thing to say, and even sillier that you found it so meaningful. You kept it going, hoping no one realized how important it was to you.

How important he was to you.

Now, just shy of working together for two years, you use the titles more than your actual names. He’s your peanut butter, you’re his jelly. It’s stupid and inconsequential, and you hope he never stops calling you that. No matter what happens.

“Ah, you know me so well,” you joke, and it doesn’t sound the least bit convincing. So you just smile at him and push forward. “I, um… I have something to run by you.”

You can tell his interest is piqued as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The fabric of his sports coat bulges against his biceps, and you’re very much staring. You hope to God that Sadie isn’t watching this right now. Or Lois or Jimmy. Or—you shudder just thinking about it—Cat.

“I’m listening,” he coaxes you to speak. To do what you came over here to do. You suck in a breath and let it out slowly.

“So, what’s your policy on dating co-workers?” you ask, because it’s easier to delay the inevitable. You’re a coward; what can you say? In your personal life, you’ll always avoid the uncomfortable moments.

It’s probably what makes you such an excellent journalist. Because you channel it all into work and don’t leave a single line you’re not willing to cross.

Your question takes him by surprise. His eyebrows shoot up, and you swear the tips of his ears turn the tiniest bit red. Something ugly twists in your stomach. He’s thought about this before. Someone here has captured his interest.

He hums for a moment before responding. An attempt to gather his bearings. “Well, I- I don’t really see a problem with it. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of us both being able to do our jobs, at least. Why do you ask?”

“Here’s the thing,” you exhale, grabbing a paperclip from his desk so you have something to do with your hands. You force yourself to meet his gaze, trying desperately not to get lost in the sea of blue. “Do you… Are you free tonight? Or any time this week?”

“I’m free tonight,” he says almost instantly. That little smile is returning to his lips, matching the glint in his eyes. “Are you asking me on a date, Jelly?”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. And then it starts up again, and it feels like it’s going to jump right out of your chest. You try to speak, to explain, but the words get caught in your throat. Clark’s always been the best at throwing you off your game.

He must take your silence as confirmation, because his smile grows. He leans forward, so close you can smell his cologne. The man always smells so good. It’s intoxicating.

“I accept. I’d love to go out with you,” he murmurs, like he’s afraid others will hear. Knowing how gossipy your co-workers are, it’s probably a smart choice. “I wanted to be the one to ask you, but I… I always got in my head about it.”

You swallow back an onslaught of word vomit threatening to pour out. Is this happening right now? Did you just ask Clark Kent on a date—accidentally—and he accepted? And does he actually look happy about it? Like he wants this? Like he wants you?

Your brain has left the building, so you can only assume your heart is to blame for what you say next. “Then, you’ll just have to ask me on the next one.”

His face lights up. It’s blinding, but you can’t look away. He’s too beautiful. Too encapsulating. He’s the sun and you’re just another lifeform feeding off the energy he gives.

“Deal,” he chuckles, holding out his hand so you can shake it. It’s such a cute gesture, and taking his hand in yours feels like a death sentence. You’ve gotten yourself into such a mess. “Do you just want to go right after work?”

His hand lingers for a moment longer than it needs to. His skin is so soft, so warm, and he’s so large compared to you. It’s the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

“Yeah. Maybe around 6?”

That adorable curl bobs across his forehead as he nods. “That’s perfect.”

“Alright, then,” you confirm, smiling. Panic rises in you. Guilt and shame and a million other things are tearing at your insides. “I better get back to work. I’ll see you then, Peanut Butter.”

Clark’s grin could solve all the world’s problems. You’re sure of it. “See you then.”

You head back to your desk, fighting the urge to scream or throw something or run away forever. You are a terrible, horrible friend.

By the skin of your teeth, you avoid Sadie for the rest of the day. It helps that she’s caught up in meetings and scrambling to meet deadlines, but you scurry to the bathroom twice when you catch her staring. It’s shameful behavior, you know. You feel awful about it. But what are you supposed to say?

You know the situation is wrong. It’s deceiving in every way. You’re so full of regret that you feel sick. You know very well that the right thing to do is to go tell Clark the truth, ask him about Sadie, and then report back to her. But you can’t!

Maybe it’s fear, or something selfish that lives in you, but you can’t do it. You tell yourself a million times to walk over to him, and you stay glued to your desk every single time. His eyes land on you more than once, but you never let yourself look up. You’re just grateful he hasn’t walked over and tried to start up a conversation. You would probably burst into tears.

You want to go on a date with Clark. You want it more than anything. But you don’t want it like this. You don’t want to hurt and betray your friend to get it. Or for anyone to be deceived. You don’t want to be the person you’re being right this very second.

You decide you’re going to fix it. Tonight, when Clark comes to you at 6, you’ll tell him the truth. You’ll break your own heart, probably lose his friendship, and then you’ll go home. And tomorrow, after a night of some well-deserved wallowing, you’ll tell Sadie.

She’ll probably be mad. You just hope that the damage isn’t irreparable.

You make it to the end of your shift without vomiting or tendering your resignation, a feat in and of itself. You even got a draft finished, though there were sure to be mistakes to work on tomorrow. You’d gotten so focused that the last few hours just faded away. As far as anyone at the Planet was concerned, you were dead to the world.

You didn’t notice when Sadie left at 5, sending you a questioning glance. You didn’t look up at 5:30 when Steve knocked over the entire coffee station and everyone shouted in outrage. Hell, you didn’t even make a move when Clark snuck out at 5:45, going God knows where. You were completely captivated.

Now, with the clock showing 5:57, you pull yourself away and gather your things. There’s still a stab of guilt between your ribs, but most of it has fizzled into numb resignation. You know what you have to do. You know what you’re going to lose. There’s no stopping it.

Turning your desk lamp off, you hear footsteps and turn around. It’s Clark, of course, with his hands behind his back and a bashful smile on his face. Not even that sweet expression is enough to pull you from your misery. Not when you know you’ll probably never see it directed at you again.

“Hey,” he greets you, sounding a little breathless. “Sorry I disappeared for a minute. I had an errand to run.”

“An errand?” You ask, because you can’t help it. What kind of errands does Clark Kent run? Where’s his favorite place to shop? What are the staple items on his grocery list? It’s an affliction, really, wanting to know everything about him.

He moves his arm back in front of him, revealing the bouquet clutched in his fist. It’s gorgeous—all bright colors and big blooms. They’re the nicest flowers you’ve ever seen, and Clark is offering them to you with a soft smile. You might cry.

“You got me flowers?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. You’re taken aback by the kind gesture and the wrongness of this situation. It’s a wonder Clark hears you, but he does. He always does.

He shrugs a shoulder, as if it’s no big deal. As if he’s not your dream man in flesh and blood. “This didn’t start how I wanted, with you asking me out and all, so I just thought… I still wanted to make it special.”

No one’s ever gotten you flowers before. No one’s cared like this. You don’t deserve it; you want it desperately. But you can’t let yourself have it.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, and they are. You’d keep them alive forever if you could. “But…”

His eyebrows raise, like he knows what you’re going to say. “Don’t worry, I got a vase too,” he explains, hurrying to his desk. He picks up the glass container and brings it over. “I thought you could just keep them on your desk for the time being.”

Your hero, always thinking of everything and coming to your rescue. Superman has nothing on Clark Kent.

You stay quiet as he fills the vase with water and puts the flowers in. He even sets it down on your desk, tucked in the corner, and it looks perfect. It immediately brightens up the space. You didn’t realize how dreary everything was until there’s something pretty to look at.

“It looks so nice there. Like a little… ball of sunshine,” you laugh weakly. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on you. They’re warm, adoring—as if you’re something worth looking at. “Thank you, Clark.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” he waves you off, getting bashful again. He rubs at the back of his neck. “If you’re gonna go on a date with me, I should at least try to make it worth your time.”

Another pang of regret hits your gut. You inhale sharply. “About that-”

“I was thinking we could go to that place down the street, the Italian place? I’ve heard great things,” he explains, nipping your confession in the bud. He’s excited. It breaks your heart. “I’m definitely ready to eat.”

You press your lips together. You’re quite hungry yourself, if you’re being honest. This night’s already going to suck. Might as well get some food out of it. Besides, it’ll make you feel better if you buy him dinner.

“Well, I’m convinced. Lead the way.”

He smiles, offers you his arm, and does just that.

Clark makes conversation the entire block-and-a-half walk to the restaurant. He talks about work, the article on Superman he’s writing, and his plans for the upcoming weekend. You respond where you can. But your mind’s far away. Dreading what you have to do.

“Are you okay, Jelly?” He asks when you’re stopped at a crosswalk. He’s watching you with worry, brows furrowed and lips pursed. “You seem off.”

It’s no surprise that he noticed. The man has a sixth sense for knowing when things are wrong. And as much as you hate it at this moment, it’s always been another thing you admired about him. He’s got such a big heart—all creatures, big or small, are worth saving. You’re honored to be someone he cares about.

“Just… got some things on my mind,” you say with a shake of your head. A flimsy excuse, but you hope it’ll do for now. You’re not willing to spill everything on a crowded sidewalk. “I’ll tell you about it at dinner.”

He’s not pleased with your answer, but he respects it regardless. The light changes, and Clark presses a hand to your lower back as you cross the street. The touch is warm, electric. It sends a shiver down your spine. Everything about him has always—will always—fill you with life.

This is so much more than a work-crush. So much more than some fleeting infatuation. You don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to do this.

You arrive at your destination a few minutes later. Clark gets the two of you a table on the patio and pulls your chair out for you when you sit down. Then he’s across from you. Smiling at the server who brings you water, asking if you want to order wine, commenting on how good everything sounds. The sun sets behind him, illuminating the man in golden light.

He’s beautiful. You think you’re gonna be sick.

“Lois told me they have a really good penne rosa here,” he muses, not looking up from the menu. “She’s the one who recommended this place, actually. I thought we could trust her taste.”

You look down at your own menu, barely paying attention to all the entrees listed. “She’s definitely the safest choice.”

Something in your tone captures his attention. He glances at you, eyes slightly narrowing. “Do you want to talk about what’s going on yet?”

You huff out an undignified exasperated breath. “You’re infuriatingly observant, you know that? Like, weirdly in tune with my emotions.”

Despite your frustration, he quirks a half-smile. “I just know you well. And I’m here to help. Especially when we’re on our first date and you’re obviously miserable.”

A groan slips past your lips. You run a hand over your forehead, up and through your hair. “No, no, that’s not- listen.”

In a moment of bravery, or perhaps desperation, you reach over and place your hand on his. He starts a bit, but doesn’t pull away. Warmth blossoms in your chest. God, you wish this were simpler.

“I’m so happy that you want to go out with me. Seriously. It’s something- kind of embarrassing, but I’ve wanted this for a long time. It’s just… there’s more to the story than you know, Clark.”

He’s happy about your admission, blessedly, but it doesn’t wipe the concern from his face. He puts his other hand over yours, encasing you fully. “Then tell me the rest.”

You close your eyes for a moment. This is it. There’s no more delaying, no beating around the bush. You have to come clean. For the sake of your friend, for yourself, and because Clark deserves the truth.

“Okay, but I… I just wish I could have you promise you won’t hate me after.”

Those gorgeous blue eyes soften, turning your knees to jelly. His thumb rubs circles into your hand. “I could never hate you.”

Part of you believes him. But another part—the journalist, the realist—can’t take stock in his words. Clark is the closest thing to perfect you’ve ever seen. But that doesn’t mean he actually is perfect. No one’s perfect, not even this man you care so much about.

You fill your lungs with air until they ache, and then you open your mouth to let the truth spill out.

Clark glances towards the Metropolis skyline, brows twitching, as if he heard something. He blinks and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Glances at the screen to check for a message. You didn’t even hear it go off, not even a muted buzz. But when he looks up at you, expression a storm cloud of regret, you know what’s coming.

“I’m sorry, but there’s- a family-friend is having an emergency. I have to go,” he explains, pushing himself to his feet. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a $100 bill, and drops it on the table. “I’m so sorry. I promise I will make this up to you. Please get some food, whatever you want, on me.”

You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that. So you stay silent, just watching as he hurries to escape. You think your heart might be shriveling in your chest a little.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll reschedule. I’m really so sorry, Jelly,” he says, and you know he means it. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this upset. Not that it makes you feel better.

Clark turns to leave, pauses, and looks back at you. He deliberates, and then he’s leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. With one more rushed I’m sorry, he disappears from sight. And you’re left alone. At an Italian restaurant, on the patio, across from an empty seat.

You glance down at the money he left. The most expensive thing on the menu is $20.

A mix between a laugh and a gasp leaves your throat. You lay your head on the table with a muffled thunk. You ponder the science needed to make a do-over machine. More than anything, you wonder how you’re gonna force yourself to go to work tomorrow.

You end up eating dinner at the restaurant. Not because you want to, but because your emotions are a mess and you think getting something in your stomach will help. You pay ‌the bill with your own money, and slip Clark’s $100 into your pocket. You’ll give it back to him tomorrow. Alongside whatever confession you can muster.

The 20-minute walk to your apartment building is the perfect opportunity to clear your head, which is exactly what you don’t do. You spiral and second-guess and fall deeper and deeper into despair. Sadie hates you. Clark doesn’t like you like that. You weirded him out. You lost your two best friends.

Obviously, you’re doing very well.

Superman is fighting some sort of alien monster on the other side of town. It’s your one and only saving grace that both your home and your work are outside the battle boundaries. A damaged apartment would surely send you over the edge right now. You still remember when your car got stomped on last year. You still haven’t bought a new one—you don’t want to risk it.

Besides, you don’t mind walking.

The apartment door sticks a little when you try to open it, so you hit it with your shoulder until it budges. You really need to get that looked at. Whenever you miraculously find the time. Or if you can talk your shady landlord into doing it. Considering it’s been three months and your sink still leaks, you find that doubtful.

You hang your bag up by the door, kick off your shoes, and fall face-first onto your couch. Briefly, you consider cracking open the liquor cabinet, but you think better of it. Nothing in there is going to help you right now. What you really need is a long shower, a cheesy 90-minute movie, and an early bedtime. Maybe a treat for good measure.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. A big part of you wants to ignore it. It could be Clark calling to apologize again. Or Sadie trying to figure out what happened. But it could also be Perry, or one of your sources, or Jimmy needing your help to escape a bad date.

Stifling a groan, you fish it out and glance at the screen. Your stomach drops. It’s Sadie.

One thing you’ve learned about your best friend over the course of your friendship is that she’s persistent. If you don’t answer this, she will call again. And again and again and again. If that doesn’t work, she might even show up at your door. There’s no avoiding her for very long.

Pretending like you don’t feel extremely ill, you accept the call and hold the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Please tell me you’re done with your date, and you didn’t answer your phone in the middle of dinner.”

You sit up so fast that it makes you dizzy. “What?”

“Your date. With Clark. Are you done already?”

The air has been sucked out of your lungs. You clutch your phone so tight you fear it might snap. “I don’t- I need you to explain what’s happening right now.”

When she answers, humor seeps into her voice. “Honey, I asked you to set me up with Kent so you could get with him.”

Every ounce of intelligence you had has flown out the window. It’s like she’s speaking in an unfamiliar language, and you’re only picking up bits and pieces. “Huh?”

“Well, at first I thought my asking you would just get you to confess your feelings about him. But it didn’t, because you’re a sweetheart with no self-preservation. So then came Plan B,” she explains, voice crackling over the call. You wonder if Superman’s fight is affecting the phone lines. “I knew if you tried to set him up with me, he’d have to tell you he didn’t feel that way. And then maybe it could spark a confession between the two of you. That didn’t happen either.”

You’re gaping at the wall in front of you. You cannot believe what you’re hearing right now.

“At the very least, if he ended up accepting the date with me out of politeness or whatever, I could bail. Send you in my stead like the evil genius I am and get your relationship moving,” Sadie continues, oblivious to the crisis you’re having. “But you, you beautiful human, you handled it all on your own. You messed it up so badly that you ended up asking him out yourself. You did my job for me.”

“How… how do you know about that?” You ask, finding your voice after a few long seconds. What kind of maniacal plan is this?

“Lois sits right behind him, sweetie. She heard the whole thing.”

Great. Lois is in on it, too. You’re sure she’s not the only one. A headache is forming behind your eyes, and you rub ‌your temples. This is so ridiculous.

“You- what- why would you do this?”

“Because I was sick of watching you two pine over each other for no good reason!” She exclaims, though there’s no malice behind it. “You want each other, and you should be together, and I knew you just needed a push.”

She’s right. You never in a million years would have approached him of your own volition. He’s so out of your league, you didn’t think it possible for him to reciprocate. Still, this entire scheme feels like way too much effort. Not to mention how terribly you screwed it up.

“Jesus Christ, Sadie, why didn’t you just tell me that?” You groan. “Do you know how awful I felt all day, thinking I betrayed your trust? I’ve been sick to my stomach!”

She laughs. She literally, fully laughs at you. You scowl. Even though she can’t see it, it makes you feel better.

“Well, I would’ve if you’d talked to me! You spent the rest of the day avoiding me like the plague.”

She got you there. You had a skill in running from your problems. “This is so ridiculous. I hate you so much.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she giggles. You both know you don’t mean it. Hell, you’re smiling right now. “So how did the date go?”

The relief you felt at Sadie’s explanation evaporates instantly. Despite having the misunderstanding cleared up, the failed-accidental-first-date still weighs heavily on you. He’d left so suddenly. With some half-assed excuse about an emergency you don’t even think is real. It’s quite possible he just wanted a quick escape.

“It… didn’t.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘it didn’t’?”

You sigh, curling up against the couch cushions. “We’d just sat down, and I was about to tell him about the whole mixup when he just- he left.”

“He left?!” she shrieks, and you have to pull the phone away from your ear. She’s obviously invested in this whole thing.

“Yeah. He pulled out his phone like he got a message- which I’m quite sure he didn’t- and then he said he had to go. Something about a family emergency. I don’t know. It was weird.”

“What the hell? That’s so unlike him. What do you think happened?”

“Not sure,” you shake your head even though she can’t see you. “I’m worried I may have scared him off. I was acting pretty strange when I thought I was betraying you.”

“Very sweet, but unnecessary. I was never betrayed,” she comments unhelpfully. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like the type to scare easily. Especially with you. He likes you so much.”

You can’t stop the blush that spreads across your cheeks. Clark liking you so much? It’s a crazy sentiment. Damn near improbable. To even imagine it…

“Well, whatever it was, he left in a hurry. After giving me a hundred dollars to get myself dinner. Which I didn’t use.”

“Ugh, he’s such a gentleman. I love it,” she gushes. You agree, though you don’t feel the need to say it. She knows how you feel. “You should talk to him about it tomorrow. Try to figure out what happened, and how to move forward.”

“Yeah, I was already planning on it. He said we’d reschedule.”

“Oh, perfect, he still likes you then! Not that that was ever in doubt, but still.”

You roll your eyes. “I guess so. I just- God, I can’t believe the day I’ve had.”

Even though you can’t see her, you can picture the apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would ice me out all day. I was going to tell you.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s okay. It’s not your fault,” you assure her. “I put myself in that situation. And now that it’s over, I am so tired.”

“Alright, you should head to bed then. I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted to, you know, debrief.” 

“I appreciate that. I worked myself into quite the frenzy.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she laughs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And we’ll figure out this whole Clark thing.”

“Sounds good,” you smile into the phone. “See you tomorrow, evil genius.”

“Good night, lovebug.”

The call clicks to an end, and you drop the phone in your lap. Letting out a breath, you rub at your tired eyes. Jesus, what a crazy series of events.

Something tells you tomorrow is gonna have just as much in store.

[allhailbuckybarnes]

In sickness, in health

Clark Kent (Superman) x Ex!Wife!Fem!Reader

wc: 4.6k

boarders by @cursed-carmine & @saradika-graphics 🧊💋🦴

~ reblogs, comments, and likes are so appreciated ~

It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.

When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”

It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.

You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Clark has Kryptonite Poisoning, Clark is Whiny, Husband Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Very Slight Reference to Sexual Content, Guilt, Fear, Reuniting with your Ex-Husband Superman, Unsolved Tension, Lots of Angst, Slight Mentions of Near-Death Experiences, Pain, Reader is Down Bad, Clark is also Down Bad, This is Angst City, and I am the Mayor

You glance over at the clock, and it reads 2:15am. Great, another sleepless night, alone. The bed feels cold and empty beside you, hollow from days past. You roll over, trying desperately to get into a comfortable enough position to sleep. You know it’s hopeless, but you try anyway.

The wind whips against your window pane, reminding you of the harsh reality of the time of year it was. Late November, Thanksgiving had just passed, and it was your first Thanksgiving without Clark. You’d spent the day binge drinking and watching horrible Hallmark movies about city girls and country boys.

You sigh in defeat. It would only be a couple more weeks until he’d been gone for a year.

The sadness sank deep into your chest, aching and beating slowly in your sorrowful heart. The tears had all but vanished, causing you to lie there, eyes dry. You quit feeling sorry for yourself a long time ago, but the holidays reminded you so much of Clark, hopefulness lingering in everyone’s attitude that you passed on the street.

The difference was that each of your friends had someone to come home to. Lois had Jimmy, and you could sadly tell that they pitied you, often offering to take you to dinner, letting you third wheel their events, and pretending that everything was okay.

Lois had cussed out Clark when he’d made the decision to leave you. Calling him a “selfish asshole," and stating that his resignation to The Planet was "Total, utter bullshit!" Jimmy tried to stay out of it as long as he could, but he ultimately sided with Lois every time. You’d been really thankful to have someone on your side. Because once the media caught wind of Superman’s secret love affair, they’d immediately taken it way too far.

Rumors of cheating, emotional abuse, etc., lingered in the magazines for a few months. You barely left your house, afraid to be assigned a lead on 'the mysterious wife of Superman.' Clark spent many weeks as his alter ego fighting to have every false allegation taken down. He loved you so much it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put you in constant danger, not after your accident. That was his sorry excuse for walking out on you.

You blamed it on his fear that too many people were uncovering the possibility of Clark Kent being Superman.

You ponder the thought of calling him, and glance at your phone, thrown lopsidedly to the pillow next to you. After all the pain and abandonment, you had only called Clark twice. The first time was on your birthday. Lois had taken you out for drinks, and well... you got wasted.

You had called him, just for the phone to ring twice before going to voicemail. You cussed him out for not calling and singing to you, sobbed into the phone as your friends tried to calm you, and puked onto the floor when Lois finally ripped your phone from your hands. She muttered something crossly towards Clark in the message, stating that it was "just like you to not call her on her birthday. No contact doesn't mean forgetting everything she means to you."

The no-contact rule was torture for both you and Clark; he told you it was the best way to keep you safe. But he was unwilling to hear just how desperate you were to keep him in your life. You longed to know how he felt. You wanted to know the truth: that he missed every inch of your skin, just like you missed his. You were sure that he truly just hated you, and it pained you so bad that you spent many nights on the roof of your apartment building, pondering the fall.

You wondered if Clark would catch you halfway down.

You doubted it, the longer he'd been gone.

Abandoning those thoughts, you roll in the opposite direction of your phone, mentally cursing yourself for the pure audacity to think of calling Clark right now. He was probably out saving some damsel in distress anyway. You sigh, gazing into the clock that now reads 2:24am.

This was going to be a long night. The kind of night that promised nothing but silence.

You close your eyes, huffing into the stillness of your bedroom, and try to count sheep.

You’re about four sheep in when your phone rings, the song “You Are My Sunshine” echoes into your ears, and you sit up. That was Ma’s ringtone.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Clark.

Picking up the phone without a second thought, you raise a shaky hand to your mouth, biting your nail in anxiety, “Ma?”

The line cracks, muffled and broken between what you’re sure is Ma crying, and she speaks, “Y/n! Sweetheart, is that… we need you… Clark’s hurt… please… as soon as possible… he asked for you.”

The line goes dead.

You brush some of your bed head off your forehead and inhale with an open mouth. Your head spins and you stand on two wobbly legs. Clark was hurt. Superman, hurt. Your Clark. The cheeky man that had stolen your heart with his messy black hair and rigid dimples. The same Clark, who used to kiss your stomach unhurriedly and stare at you too long with those ocean blue eyes. You prayed for him to be alive within the cold air of the night.

Tears somehow found their way to your cheeks again, running like rain on a car window, recklessly. You pulled out a bag and quickly stuffed a charger, some clothes, and god knows what else inside. You didn’t pay it much mind, thinking only of Clark, and the quickest way to get to him.

You would catch the next flight, no matter what it took to see him again. Ignorant of the price, even though you had very little. You cared only to see Clark, to brush his hair between your fingers and whisper sweet nothings into his temple, breath brushing his ear. That was what you used to do when a fight went South, when a civilian died. You were the only one who could console him. He went at ease when you were near. Maybe that's why he needed you.

Ma used to call you his ‘emotional kryptonite.’ God, you missed him.

As you pass your kitchen on the way out, you glance at the fridge. No, you were still far too full from Thanksgiving dinner at Jimmy’s to eat anything. But you hesitated. Clark loved your peanut butter brownies. They’d go bad otherwise. Maybe that’s what he needed.

You sigh, rip a Tupperware container from its place in the dishwasher, hands shaking from stress and worry, and dump the remainder of your brownies in. Every little thing in this apartment still screamed his name, his presence. The candle by the couch, one he’d bought you after saying it reminded him of your shampoo. Each dent in the drywall, where he’d slammed you into the wall after a long day when he just needed release, nipping at your neck with want. The robe that used to be his, hanging on a hook, which now acted as your oversized towel after a bath.

It all became a way of coping. Every first aid kit you had on hand for the cuts on his knuckles, every pocket protector you’d stuffed away into a drawer with no need for them anymore. You slowly forgot the meaning of living with him, the meaning of living. But he was still in every sentence you wrote at The Planet. He lingered in every breath you drew in, alone.

Your life had faded into a concept of surviving. And you did everything you could to stifle any hope of him returning.

He’d made it very clear that he wouldn’t.

You zip up your duffel, brownies inside. Your heart still beats wild and uncomfortably in your chest. Every second you wait, you’re not there for Clark. He asked for you. Your lip tilts up, it’s not a smile, but it’s something.

The gate is quiet, the crowd small but steady. People shuffle between TSA checking and cuss at a small volume when they get flagged for the fluid bottles in their bags. You pass through, keeping to yourself, too hurried to worry about the way a woman shoulder checks you. You brush it off, rushing for your 4:30am flight to Kansas City. Pa would meet you there in his dusty red Chevy, probably halfway squeeze the life out of you, and cry like the old sap he was.

You loved it, you missed the family you lost because of those damn papers.

You take a sip from the four-dollar water bottle you bought in the small gift shop by your gate. The water tastes like metal and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. When they call for boarding, you spring up, wiry and light on your feet, clutching the strap of your duffel like it was rope and you’re hanging off a cliff.

You take the aisle seat on the fourth row, eager to be one of the first people off the plane. You had no luggage to pick up, no rental car to wait for, only the promise of your quick feet and small frame to shift through the crowd. You willed the plane to arrive before schedule, and sat back, headphones playing “The Mighty Crabjoys.” You chuckle, strained, and raise a head to your forehead, rubbing away the memories like smudged lead on paper.

The flight was four hours; that meant you had four hours to try and sleep. You crack your neck in restlessness, recoiling in the thought of how Clark must feel. Hurt, alone. A feeling you’d become far too familiar with. Still, it left a heavy sting of guilt deep in your stomach, causing it to churn with unease.

Every second you’d had with Clark was magical; you felt like you were in heaven in the moment. He was the dream, the perfect gentleman. He memorized your heart and made it his. Promised you a life full of adventure, risk, and happiness. You never expected him to stomp on it all with his custom Kryptonian boots. You didn’t think he meant to, truly. But now you looked back over the years like a sad nostalgic dream, crushed by the weight of every harsh truth and splintered trust.

It must be nice to never feel like this. You cursed every delusional happy couple; they all had what you still hoped for with every moment alone in the shower, someone to love. To hold.

Where you two had left things, it didn’t promise much to look forward to. The argument, which caused Clark Kent of all people to slam your door, snapping several hinges, explained his reason for never calling you, never sending a card. The way he’d spoken to you, the way you’d spoken to him, it was lethal. It destroyed years' worth of admiration, every morning naked in bed, giggling, every night dripping in sex and sweat. You both had crushed the walls you once built with hammering words, shattering the mirror of truly seeing one another.

Your heart died that day, with every word he’d uttered, fists drawn tight and rigid to his sides. And god, when you’d slapped him, he raised one of his fists. You both stared at it like it had betrayed you each in its own way. His eyes widened, and he gulped so hard you heard it. Your breath sucked in with a sharp gasp, and you flinched away. He crumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks, “baby, no, no… You know I would never. Oh god, Y/n, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”

“Get out, Clark.” You’d whispered, eyes screwing shut, your own sorrowful tears spilling all the way to your collarbones. He flinched like your words had slashed his middle. “Y/n, not until I know you’re okay—” but you’d cut him off, hands slapping to your cheeks and angrily swiping at your hot tears. You stared into his eyes, yours cold with hatred. “G-get the fuck out, Clark.” A breath, “Please, don’t make me ask again.”

He hesitated, watching your chest rise and fall quickly. He gave you one long and suffering look, his face screaming anguish. His mouth hung open, angry words dangerously hanging on the tip of his tongue. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, right foot beginning its anxious habit of tapping against your floor.

Then without warning, he’d turned sharply, grabbed his coat from the rack he’d hung only weeks prior, and left. No more backward glances, no more second chances. Clark read your mind in that last look, and had seen just how much he needed to go. So he did. The man was painfully true to his word.

You wish you could take back every word. Every cutting touch and angle you’d pushed. He only wanted to protect you, and you’d freaked. It wasn’t entirely your fault; you knew what you were getting yourself into from the start. Clark was never satisfied, knowing you were always unsafe.

Every encounter you’d made with villains, most of them run-of-the-mill losers who had figured out Clark's identity, had chalked up to another point towards an at-home fight. You were certain that you could handle it. Clark was never so sure, always so afraid of you breaking, of losing you. He didn’t know that he eventually would lose you in an even greater fashion. You weren’t glass, you weren’t a damsel in need of saving. You knew the cost of loving Superman; it laid heavy in your chest like a stack of bricks.

But the difference was you knew that it was worth it for Clark, and he didn't.

But then, the accident happened. You were never supposed to be there, if you’d just listened. He wouldn’t have almost lost you. Clark had been too late.

You could confidently confirm that when you’re about to die, your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It had, in a burst of darkness and dust. Then, you were gone.

You jolt awake at the force of the plane landing. Ah, you had fallen asleep. Clark. You were almost home. Please hold on.

When the airplane clears to exit, you shoot up. Offering a quick apology to those ahead of you, and shuffling between the rows, practically running down the loading gate. You sprint through the crowd, avoiding a businessman and his steaming latte. Your eyes scan the pickup lane, finally landing on Pa.

He’s waiting, cardboard sign in hand, with your name scribbled messily. You smile softly, and your heart aches with pure and utter homesickness. You run up to him, taking him by surprise as you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles in shock and returns the hug, squeezing you tightly like an overprotective parent when their child returns from war. You don’t realize the tears until they’ve already fallen, and he’s whispering, “I missed you, buttercup,” into your ear.

“Please tell me he’s alive, Pa.” You murmur, voice breaking, desperate and raw. Pa nods firmly, pulling back from the hug. “He’ll be okay. I think this fight woke’m up from the horrible, ugl’ah nightmare of losin’ you.” He confirms, patting your shoulder in comfort.

“He doesn’t miss me. I just wanted to see him. I-I had to know… had to know he was okay.” You cry, burying your head into his neck. Pa sighs, rubbing at your shoulder blade with his worn hands, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t know just how much he needs you.”

You bite back the words “I still love him” and instead nod, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Pa smiles, flashing you a true American farmer grin, and opens the door of the truck for you. You climb in, breathing in the scent of the Kent household and relax back into your seat. A feeling of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in the hollow of your heart.

The drive feels shorter than you remember, Billy Joel and Diamond Rio streaming out of the radio in their regular fashion. You watch the corn fields pass, remembering the first time Clark had brought you home with him. You’d been so nervous, even though you had no reason to be worried. Ma and Pa were the parents you never had.

When the split happened, they didn’t know who to call first. They’d called Clark, obviously. But you were the one they visited. That meant something real to you. You weren’t sure Clark knew, so you’d stowed it away with every flannel he hadn’t bothered to pick up.

You see the sign for Smallville, and your heart leaps in your chest, with a sudden burst of anxiety.

You pull up to the driveway, and with every yard closer, your chest grows increasingly tight. The house looks the same as you’d seen it. Crooked shingles and white siding frame the childhood home that Clark grew up in. The fields outside whistle in the wind, drifting with memory and nostalgia. You grip the handles of your duffel and pinch your wrist. This was truly real.

When the tires screech to a stop, you sit still against the leather, waiting a minute before hopping out. Ma meets you at the screen door, pulling you straight into her arms and brushing your hair with a soothing hand. You meet her with a sigh, “Ma…” She shushes you, just breathing into your shoulder with a shuddering inhale, holding you. Your face twists into something deeply uncomfortable, scrunching up like wrinkled laundry. You hold back the tears, and break apart, holding each of her shoulders, “I need to see him.”

She nods in understanding, stepping out of your way. “You know where to find him, babygirl.”

You move down the hall in a silent tradition, without a second thought. You pass the endless frames, which hold everything sweet and innocent about Clark beneath their glass. The hallway moves around you as your feet hit carpet, slow, sure, and familiar. Everything comes to a slow rhythm of instinct. The door to Clark’s bedroom is ajar, allowing you to see his posters, trophies, and baby blue wallpaper from the outside.

Your feet come to a rest at the threshold. Blinking in slow motion, your eyes well up once more. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming sensation of knowing that the love of your life waits inside. You haven’t seen him since he slammed that oak door back in the city.

You weren’t sure about this.

But nothing stops you from stepping inside, a vow kept in the hushed corners of the Kansas house. You were here in sickness, in health. Through the fall from grace and the cold, bitter reality of hurt.

When you behold Clark lying on his full-sized bed, completely crushing it beneath his massive frame, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He’s not asleep, but he hasn’t noticed you yet; that or he’s pretending you aren’t there.

His eyes flicker to yours, and he draws in a quick, faltering breath. “You came,” he cracks, with a pitiful and wretched timbre of disbelief. His eyes pinch together with a raw and painful flinch.

You drop the duffel and stride to his side in three short steps, collapsing to your knees.

“You called.”

He breaks, the waterworks instant. His chin quivers in a way that tells you everything you needed to know. That he regretted those words too, that he missed you every. damn. day. That he tried so hard to stay away that it had utterly destroyed him on the inside.

You drop your head onto his shoulder and sob, “I thought– I thought, oh god, Clark. I– I thought you were gone.” Your tears wet the flannel on his chest, and you bring a hand up to feel at his face. He struggles, weeping openly and watching you cry too, clutching your body with one strong but weary arm.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, painful and pure with every shake.

His voice is muffled in your hair, strands spread across his chest. He holds you like something scared, secret. It’s a moment that you both know you’ll store away somewhere safe. The air around you shifts in a tense click.

You lift your head, meeting his red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever through his crying, with yours. They hide away a hideous guilt, masked by his determination to make the right decisions. All the while, Clark knew he hadn’t.

He’d stormed out that day, only to collapse into the brick outside the building, tearing at his shirt and sobbing unashamedly.

Every day he’d spent without you had been true hell, and even now, Kryptonite poisoning and all, his chest felt lighter at the graze of your touch. It was all the pain medicine Clark needed.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He admits, not quite meeting your eyes this time. His chest rises in a steady thrum, and he rests his head back against the plush pillow. He doesn’t dare to lie, to fake some sorry excuse due to the no-contact rule. It was a dumb, fucking stupid rule that he had used to cower from his problems.

The truth was, Clark hadn’t felt like Superman since he’d left.

He felt like a traitor to the name of Justice and Hope.

You were his hope, you were his peace. It was all because of you that he could wake up every morning and promise the people of Metropolis his best self.

He hadn't promised anything in a real long time.

Clark stares at the ceiling as you shift off your knees, rising again to your feet and searching for the chair by his desk. You pull it to the bed, sitting down slowly.

“I came as quick as I could, t-took the next flight out.” You tell him, searching his eyes with yours, reminding him of just how much you cared. He looks at you again, and for a moment you both sit there, silent. The intensity leaves a pit in each of your stomachs. Clark clears his throat, coughing slightly in strained air, “Thank you, Y/n.”

You nod without restraint, your neck cracking at the sudden movement. You both huff out a laugh. It feels like everything.

You’re not sure how this moment feels so reverent, so private. But it does. You feel miles away and nearby all in the same twitch of your fingers. Clark stares at you like you might disappear into the light of the lamp beside you if he blinks. His hair is a mess, swamped around his bloody forehead.

“You need some serious sun, golden boy,” you laugh, calm and slow this time. Clark breathes out a sigh of relief at the domestic tease. “Wow, teasing me already, sweetheart? It’s true, nothing’s changed, has it?” He eases, but the words are more than a tease; he really is asking. The words hold the weight of the truth, the ugly and bitter loss of time together you’d each given up. Clark didn’t know just how much you had changed. All the ways you tried to survive.

You meet his eyes again and hold your breath. His face still screams apology, so you let it slide, allowing an instant quip to smooth out on your tongue. You wouldn’t start anything; not now.

He still realizes what he’s said, and mutters another stream of haphazard ‘I’m sorry’s.’ You just stroke at his collarbone with your thumb and shake your head, dismissing his fears.

You speak again after a moment of peace, the only sound being his clock ticking and the rustle of the covers from him shifting around, soft groans accompanying his change. "What hurts?"

He laughs, a deep tenor you had once heard in the shell of your ear and between your legs, and coughs, "The question really is: What doesn't?" It makes you furrow your brows and give him a pitiful look. He hated it, he always had. The look you gave him when he'd come home from a fight. You looked like you'd taken every single hit with him, and your eyes reflected the pain of every punch.

You always felt guilty, as if you'd held him a little longer, massaged his muscles a little harder, it wouldn't have hurt him so badly. Your empathy was your greatness weakness.

"'m so sorry, Clark," you breathe, voice laced with desperation. He shakes his head, "No. No, sweetheart. This ain't about that." It makes you immediately hush, nodding and trying to swallow down the pain you still long to express. He notices your retreat, and reaches out a hand, catching yours. "What I mean is... I wish I hadn't. I-" he pauses, flashing you a quick look of hesitation, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down.

"I never should've walked out of that door. I never should've pushed you away. I thought I-I was protecting you." He mumbles, words shattering the fragile veil of certainty, head tilted down in shame. Everything was up for question now. You gasp sharply and your face scrunches again, tears coming close to erupting.

He watches with a sick look on his face, swallowing down his own sorrow. You reach for his jaw with your palm, fingers spreading across the familiar dimple on his cheek. You dip the tip of your thumb into it on instinct. "I should've fought more for you." You whisper quietly.

His chest quivers, and his hand curls up around yours, grounding you.

"I can't keep pretending like I'm half the man I was when I had you."

You both let the words sink in, and you just stare. His face looks tired, lonely. The apologies promise more hope than either of you had been able to manifest. But there was still hurt, so, so much hurt.

But now... You each let it hurt. You take the first step towards acceptance. As a team.

You stand, and paddle over to your bag, reaching for the one thing you'd brought to lighten the mood. Clark breathes in an awkward laugh, "You didn't."

You smile at him, and for a second he remembers just how truly beautiful your smile is. You look perfect like this, messy hair and sore eyes. You had never needed to be anything but yourself for him to fall on his knees for you.

"I did. Always for you, Clark."

He frowns, and a tear spills over his cheek.

"I don't deserve it."

You sigh, and rub at your eye. "You don't decide that, Clark."

You sit back down, this time on the edge of the bed. The springs creak in protest, almost as if to say, "Really? You too?" But you pay them no mind.

In the silence of the dusty childhood bedroom. You raise a brownie to Clark's lips. As always, he takes a timid first bite, letting the flavor hit his tongue with a groan. You smile, he smiles back.

The pair of you still, and finally enjoy each other's presence. The moment is nothing solid; it flows like water, unsure and without balance. But it flows all the more, running over into every harsh moment alone, and flooding them into oblivion.

There is no promise of something future, no guarantee of something grand and romantic, no sign that leads to a full recovery. But for now, you're just happy to be with him again.

Your Clark.

Your love.

Your husband.

In sickness, in health.

In hurt, in heartbreak.

"I missed this," one of you whispers, the other nodding.

"Me too."

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! This is my baby. I hope you enjoyed.

Please consider reblogging 💌

[vitoriadior]

SHE EATS ICE CREAM!

Clark Kent x Model!Reader.

Where Clark may have a little crush on the fashion model he's having an interview with

Part two here!

Model!Reader serie's here

So maybe Clark could have a small crush on you. A really small one, if you asked him. It's not like he'll find himself staring at a magazine cover of you for a bit too long every time he goes to the grocery store; or finding himself distracted and grinning like a lovelorn puppy dog by a billboard with your face on it while he's fighting some alien threat under his Superman alter-ego.

Lately, your face seems to be everywhere, or at least, it seems that way to him. Even at work, while he's stuck on the computer, he can hear Cat talking to Lois about the article she's writing, which is actually about you.

The first time Clark saw you was in an ad on the subway he takes to go home. The model everyone was talking about lately, the face he always saw after a day of work. Of course, he thought you were pretty: everyone thought you were pretty. But he started to develop that platonic crush when he saw you on a television show one Friday night, after a long day at work and fighting bad guys.

It was a silly show, and Clark had turned on the television without interest. You were sitting while little girls interviewed you. What caught Clark's attention was the kindness with which you responded, the smile you gave them, and the sincerity that emanated from your voice. Usually on those shows, the adult always exaggerates their voice or makes lame jokes about the children. Not you. Your voice didn't bother him. In fact, he thought you had a very pretty voice.

"Miss." One of the girls, the one who seemed to be the youngest, turned to you, a little unsure of her question. The little girl's eyes lit up a bit when you turned your attention to her. "Miss, do you... eat ice cream?"

Of course she doesn't eat ice cream. Clark thought models' diets were pretty extreme after Jimmy explained how the fashion world worked. Poor girl, they were sure going to open her eyes, and that was going to be really cruel. Clark was about to turn off the TV before he stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing your response to the little girl

"Of course I eat ice cream!" You smiled at the girl, spreading the smile to all the other little ones. "My favorite is the berry one, although I actually think that's more like a sorbet. And yours?"

From then on, Clark found himself constantly enjoying that ad of yours on the subway. Besides being pretty, you were kind, and sweet, and good with kids! God forgive a man for having a crush. Now, every time he heard Cat mention you, he couldn't help but smile to himself like a fool. Something that never went unnoticed by anyone, much less when he'd do a Mickey Mouse Goofy laugh every time he saw an interview with you and you said something funny or simply smiled at the camera.

So, until a few minutes ago, he hadn't met you in person. Until a few hours ago, he had no idea that his assignment today would be to interview you and Jimmy about that terrorist attack at a jewelry store opening in which you were involved as the face of the brand.

"So you were hiding until Superman showed up," Jimmy wrote in a notebook while you nodded and recounted the events. From the first shot to the heroic appearance of Superman.

Clark wished his smile wasn't so obvious, but every time you smiled at him, he couldn't help but blush at least a little. "What exactly did Superman do?" Clark cleared his throat before speaking, reminding himself that he was working.

"The usual," you shrugged. "He got us all to safety. The truth is, many of the jewels were saved intact thanks to him." Clark can't help but feel a little proud of your flattery.

"What do you think of Superman, miss? As a model and public figure?" Jimmy continued writing in his notebook, only pausing to ask questions or look at Clark with a "really?" expression every time he found himself making a silly joke to make you smile (which, to his liking, worked embarrassingly).

"What do I think of Superman?" You thought for a few seconds, your soft voice sweetening Clark's ears: he felt almost hypnotized. If you asked him for a star right now, he'd give you the moon. "Mr. Olsen, what could I possibly think of Superman? He's our hero. Personally, my hero."

Your hero.

Clark needed a pinch.

"He's kind to everyone, and he always seems so willing to save everything and everyone without hesitation, no matter who or what they are." Your eyes sparkled as you spoke of the superman, something that didn't go unnoticed by either of the reporters. "I wouldn't have felt so safe in anyone else's arms."

"I must say, having a man like that save you certainly does things to a girl. Everyone has a crush on him, myself included."

After a couple more questions, the interview ended. Jimmy stepped out into the hallway to answer a call, leaving you alone with the nearly two-meter-tall man with an almost shy expression. Clark sat up straighter in his chair, not wanting to give the wrong impression.

"People have been talking about you a lot lately," Clark put on his best fully responsible grown-man voice. "With these statements, it would be easy to spread a rumor about a supposed romance with Superman. Wouldn't that bother you?"

"There are a lot of rumors about me," you brushed them off, finding Clark's presence alone appealing. As if you wanted to listen, to hear his voice. "Although I think a rumor about a romance with Superman would be very silly."

"Why? I bet Superman thinks you're pretty." Clark blushed instantly, realizing his words. "I mean—everyone thinks you're pretty—And, it's not odd at all, you're very pretty. I mean—you're a model, obviously you're beautiful." Clark stammered as you giggled at his appearance, finding it almost adorable.

"Thanks." The soft sound of your voice pulled him out of his vague words.

"But you know, it's not just that you're pretty," Clark said, managing to control the tone of his voice so he could sound like a normal adult again. "You're very kind. Like Superman. And there are little girls who adore you, you know. Like those little girls on TV."

"Oh, that show is so silly." You covered your cheeks with both hands, smiling slightly embarrassed. "I was hoping no one would watch it."

"I watched it." The man's deep voice made you raise your eyebrows, feeling your cheeks warmer than they had been a few seconds ago. "And... I don't think it's silly. At least not with you on it. You made a usually stupid show enjoyable."

"My favorite ice cream is chocolate, by the way." Clark's words only made you laugh genuinely, the hands on your cheeks slowly lowering.

"Thanks." She lowered her gaze slightly, but raised it in seconds to meet the blue eyes of the man in front of her: as blue as the sea. "No one has ever said something so nice about me just because of a silly TV show."

Clark replied with a shy "you're welcome," before laughing at the same time. As long as you did: he seemed to find your presence just as alluring. It breaks Clark's heart to think that this is probably his first and last interaction with you. Under what other circumstances would a reporter end up with a model? The whole situation had been a work of fate and Perry. Clark was sure it wasn't a two-time thing.

A few days later, he was vaguely scrolling through the local news on his computer, coffee in hand and Lois and Perry's voices in his ear. One last photoshoot of you and some kind of charity.

To be more exact, a picture of you holding a puppy wearing a Superman cape. You in a female Superman suit. He almost spit out his coffee, if he didn't want Jimmy making fun of him again.

It was definitely a tiny crush. Of course, he wouldn't buy the magazine with that photoshoot once he got off work. That would be super freaky.

To add u to my permanent Taglist 💗

Sooo, this was my first Clark Kent x reader thing. I didn't really liked ittt, but it was just a little thing I thought of. It is mainly inspired by that scene from little Miss Sunshine! Hope u like it...😭🫂

[quinnsanitywriting]

Just a headcanon list for today because I'm sleepy but I'm thinking like

Jimmy Olsen x Superhero!reader but he doesn't know it's you

𓆟 It's absurdly obvious he has a favorite hero. He always has a few more pictures of them, is happier to write an article on them, and often paints them in a really good light whereas Lois might be more objective.

𓆟 What is apparently less obvious is that this hero is you, his friend that he sees almost every day. The possibility it's you hasn't even crossed his mind.

𓆟 It's actually a frequent thing for him to just start talking about how much he loves you as a hero to your face. It takes a lot of effort not to make an expression that might give you away, especially because this man is just so sweet when he actually has interest in something.

𓆟 A line Jimmy has used multiple times before when accepting dates with other people (that never go anywhere) is "sure, I'm free, as long as [superhero name] doesn't ask for me." It's framed as a joke, but he probably would cancel a date in a heartbeat for you

𓆟 and when he rejects somebody? "Sorry, I'm leaving my calendar open for [superhero name]" because he can be a dorky fanboy at times, as a treat <3

𓆟 If he ever does find out, every single time he has talked about you AT YOU would come rushing back to him, and he'd probably be very embarrassed for a while. (Cute nervous Jimmy....PLEASE HE'D BE SO CUTE)

𓆟 But once he gets over that? He'll probably ask you out right away. He's loved you as a hero for a while, but he's loved you as a civilian and friend even longer.

[atlabeth]

rough first day - jimmy olsen

summary: lois asks jimmy to accompany her summer intern on her first day in the field. he is totally capable of being normal about it.

a/n: sorry this is lowkey just me manifesting because a paper like the daily planet is my dream and im a journalism student about to graduate into a nightmare job market for journos. superman lore? i dont know her. journalism antics based off my own life? of course (not the bombing part but the rest is pretty accurate lol) thank you to @emiliehornby for being my co-leader of jimmy nation

wc: 4.2k

warning(s): this is all fluff baby!!! there's a bombing at the end but no one dies so still all fluff

“Hey, Jimmy.” 

“Lois!” He rapidly switches tabs from his game of sudoku to the photos he’s meant to be editing and smiles up at her. “Hey— uh, hey. What’s up?” 

She shares a knowing smile of her own as she leans against his desk. “Do you have any assignments yet?” 

Jimmy shakes his head. “Nah, I haven’t pitched anything today. Figured I’d go where the wind takes me, y’know?”

“Well, the wind has arrived.” Lois looks across the bullpen to a young woman talking excitedly with Perry. Well, you look excited, but he doesn’t. “Have you met my intern yet?” 

“Yeah,” he says, a more genuine smile forming as he watches you. “We met when she came in for orientation last week. She— she’s great.” 

“You think so?” 

Jimmy nods. “I’m surprised you took her on, honestly. She’s a lot nicer than you.” Lois tries to swat his shoulder but he rolls back in his chair with a laugh. “Point proven!” 

“Oh, whatever,” she huffs. She calls your name and your head shoots up, and she gestures for you to come over. You say some kind of apology to Perry, who looks relieved once you walk off. 

“Miss Lane!” you say brightly. “What can I do for you?” 

“I told you to call me Lois,” she says. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “All of you are so nice here. I’m still getting used to it.”

Jimmy frowns. “Were the people at your last job mean?”

“My last internship kind of sucked,” you say. “I mean, I did some great reporting, don’t get me wrong! But everyone there was way more cutthroat than I thought they would be. And,” you tip your head, “I didn’t get paid. So this is already way better.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Lois says. “What was Perry talking to you about?”

“Oh, I was just asking him a lot of questions,” you say with a slight laugh. “This is the biggest paper I’ve ever worked at, so I’m trying to get to know all the editors. My college paper has like… fifteen people total, and it feels like I’m at least half of them some days.”

“What a coincidence,” Lois says, and she pats Jimmy on the shoulder. “My friend Jimmy here was just talking about how he’d love to show you the ropes.” 

“You would?” you ask, your eyes brightening as you break out that perfect smile once again. It’s deadly, he swears—blinding, if nothing else. 

“I would?” he stumbles, and then he blinks. Jimmy’s been wanting to spend time with you since the second you walked through the doors, and Lois is just handing it to him on a silver platter. He can show someone the ropes, can’t he? “I— I would, yeah! Definitely!” 

“Great.” Lois stands up and looks between both of you. “Senator Cia Strong is running for reelection, and she’s having a press conference today in Byrd Park for her stop in Metropolis. I think it would be a good, quick story for you to cover together.” 

“Oh, I heard about that!” you exclaim. “Her opponent’s Bill Macron, and he looks surprisingly strong for a newcomer— do you think she’ll win?” 

Lois smiles. “That’s for the two of you to find out.” 

“When is it?” Jimmy asks. 

She looks down at her watch. “Twenty-seven minutes.” 

“Twenty-sev—?” he blurts out, and he jumps up from his seat. “Lois, that’s a twenty minute subway ride on its own!” 

“You can make it if you hurry,” she says nonchalantly, but he barely hears her as he starts gathering his things at top speed. You’re moving at a similar pace, already booking it back to the intern desk they keep shoved in the corner of the office to get your stuff. 

You make it back ten seconds later—your backpack hangs off one shoulder, your camera is looped around your neck, and you’ve got your press pass and water bottle and jacket and probably five other things in your arms.

“Are you good?” he asks. 

“Yeah!” you nod, “I’ll meet you outside!” And then you’re already jogging out the door. 

Jimmy shoots Lois a dirty look as he grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and starts backpedaling. “You’re the worst!” he calls. 

She smiles. “Have fun!” 

Jimmy runs after you, narrowly avoiding a direct collision with Cat, and Lois walks back over to her desk and sits down. 

“I saw that, Miss Lane,” Clark says. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says airily. 

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“This is work!” she defends. “She’s my intern—I’m helping her get situated.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Jimmy’s been making eyes at her since her first day, would it?” 

Lois shrugs as she opens her inbox. “I told you, I don’t know what you mean.” 

“It’s sweet,” Clark says. “I didn’t think you of all people would be a matchmaker.” 

She frowns and looks over at him. “What does that mean?” 

This time, he shrugs with a wry smile. “I don’t know.” 

Lois scoffs and clicks on an unread press release. She gets two lines in before she deletes it. PR folks love sending her releases for things that, one, aren’t newsworthy, and two, aren’t on her beat. 

“They’re both good kids,” she finally says. “Cub reporters usually stick together anyway. I’m just giving them a headstart on it.” 

“Of course,” Clark nods. “And if sparks happen to fly, you can’t really be blamed, can you?” 

“You’ve got a one track mind,” she remarks, but she can’t fully bite back her smile, especially as she meets his warm eyes. 

The Daily Planet has a way of bringing people together, after all. 

-

You and Jimmy end up barely making it to the subway, the doors closing mere seconds after you get into the car. You collapse onto the bench beside each other, both very much out of breath from your multi-block sprint. 

“Do all of your stories start off like this?” you gasp out. 

“No.” Jimmy shakes his head, but it takes him another few seconds to respond as he tries to catch his breath. He hasn’t had to run that many blocks in… forever, he thinks. “But the reporters here like to go ‘trial by fire’ for their interns. Especially Lois.” 

“I’ve always admired her work,” you say. “Now I think she might be a little crazy.” 

A laugh tumbles out of him as he leans his head against the back of the seat. “To make it in this field, you’ve gotta be.” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I’ve gathered that.” 

The two of you sit there for another stop in silence, still gathering your thoughts and breath. Jimmy can’t help but pass a few glances at you, glowing from exertion. You shrug your backpack onto the floor and start organizing everything you grabbed off your desk in your haste.

He’s only been in your presence for a collective five minutes, between your orientation last week and your real first day today, but he doesn’t want to leave it. He feels like a meteor stuck in your orbit, especially when you give him that superstar smile. 

“So,” he starts, now that his heart has finally returned to a normal rate, “how’d you get this gig?” 

“Some networking and a lot of luck,” you admit. “My favorite professor went to college with Mis— with Lois. She told me to apply, so I did, and she put in a good word for me. Two interviews and a few on-the-spot articles later, and voila! I’m here.” 

Jimmy nods. “Nothing wrong with a bit of networking. Kinda feels like it’s the only way to get anything done these days.” 

“Tell me about it,” you sigh. “I swear, half my friends are going on dates, and I’m over here with a contact list full of small-town bureaucrats.” 

He laughs some. He kinda feels bad for wondering if that means you’re single. “If it makes you feel better, you’re probably getting left on read about the same amount.” 

You laugh too, and it makes him smile. Something about you draws him in and he can’t even help it. Could Lois tell, or did she just throw him into this without even knowing? 

Who is he kidding? Lois notices everything. This is probably her version of paying him back for handling her dailies last week so she could chase a Superman scoop. 

(He will never admit it to her, but it does kinda make up for it.)

“How long have you worked at the Daily Planet?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Only about a year and a half,” he says. “I got hired in the mailroom originally, but Perry brought me up to staff after a couple months. I had a ‘Humans of Metropolis’ photoblog that really impressed him.” He laughs. “And the Superman action shots that ended up front page, above the fold."

Your eyes widen. “You’ve met Superman?” 

“Yeah!” Jimmy nods after a moment of hesitation. “Yeah, so many times. We’re basically best buds.” 

“Oh my god.” You grab his arm and lean in and he stares at you with equally-wide eyes. “That— that is so cool! I— I’ve read a bunch of Superman stuff, but I never thought I might get to meet him!” 

He grins. “Reporting in Metropolis isn’t like any other city. I think you’ll realize that pretty quickly.” 

“I can’t imagine getting pictures like that, of a superhero.” You sigh and pick up the camera around your neck.  “I’ve also never been the best photographer. Not very MMJ of me.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” he assures. “One nice thing about working at such a big paper is that you usually don’t have to go out as a one man band.” 

“God, yes,” you mumble. “I struggled through all of my media production classes. I’m definitely meant to be behind a laptop, not in front of a camera.” 

“I don’t know,” Jimmy says, tilting his head, “I think you’d make a killing on broadcast.” 

You smile at him, more genuine than anything he’s ever received before, and he feels better just at the sight. It doesn’t make sense. He barely knows you—he can’t be thinking like this. He can’t be this obvious. You don’t make it easy.  

“Thanks,” you say. “But I’m happy where I am.” 

You and Jimmy continue to chat until you get to your stop—mostly idle conversation to pass the time, but he does learn a few things. You’re from a small town in Vermont, your preferred beat is politics, and if you could bring three things to a deserted island you’d bring a notebook, a knife, and your reusable water bottle.  

Oh, yeah—he also learns that he’s a complete goner. Jimmy falls deeper into your orbit during a twenty minute subway ride, pulling out every joke he can think of to try and make you laugh and see that smile again. How is he going to work with you every day and still stay a normal, self-respecting person? 

You’re magnetic. It’s no wonder you’re going into journalism, because he thinks you can get anyone to tell you anything if you just ask nicely and give them that smile. 

It’s certainly worked on him.

But Jimmy doesn’t have to think too much about that right now, because the two of you have another five minute sprint to make it to Byrd Park on time. You show your press passes to get to the front, then you separate as Jimmy finds a spot. 

You take out a pen, notepad, and a mini recorder while Jimmy rushes to fix his white balance. He always forgets to reset it. You give him a smile and a little wave from your front row seat. He smiles back and feels dizzy. 

The press conference goes a lot smoother than the rush over did. The senator delivers pretty much exactly what Jimmy expects—improved education, protected healthcare, lowered crime, the same old. Strong isn’t the worst senator, but Jimmy thinks half the state doesn’t know anything about her policies. She’s average, and most politicians seem to be that or worse these days. 

It’s just like any other press conference—with exceptionally good lighting, Jimmy might add—until the explosions start. 

He barely even registers it. One moment he’s on one knee zooming in for a better view of Strong, the next he’s been thrown against a tree so hard he thinks it breaks in half. He hopes, at least, because otherwise that crack came from his ribs. 

It takes Jimmy a second to come back into himself. He’s protected his camera above all else, wrapped in his jacket and his arms, and he snaps a round of quick photos of all the chaos before he struggles to his feet. 

Everything has devolved into hysteria—screaming and running and batting out flames. Jimmy has to find you. You’re a small town girl and now you’re caught up in a bombing in one of the biggest cities in the world. What a great first day. 

He’s trying to search for you, but it’s hard when half the park is enveloped in smoke and flames and he can’t stop hacking up a lung. How is he meant to find you or get any good pictures in this?

“Help!” 

A voice pierces through the disorder and Jimmy knows it’s you. His heart speeds up and he starts shoving his way through the crowd. He yells out your name and you call his in response—you keep Marco Poloing until Jimmy finds you, and his eyes widen. 

You’re face down in the dirt, your leg pinned down by a fallen tree. You spot Jimmy and yell for him again, and he runs up to you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dropping to his knees beside you. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you say, and you grunt as you push at the tree trunk. “I just can’t— get this— off!

“Just stay calm!” Jimmy says. “It— it’s gonna be okay!” 

Jimmy tries to push the tree off you and quickly realizes he is not anywhere near strong enough.

“Does this happen on everyone’s first day?” you ask. 

“Not everyone’s,” he grunts. “But welcome to your crash course on reporting in Metropolis. Metahumans can throw a superpowered wrench in your plans for the day.” 

“How do you know this is a metahuman?” you ask breathlessly. 

Jimmy thinks about the car he no longer has because of some villain of the week that tried to bash Superman over the head with it. If only he had been able to afford the next level up of metahuman insurance. 

“Because it usually is,” he decides on. “You, uh, kinda get used to it.” 

You huff an incredulous laugh. Jimmy attempts to lift it up even an inch, just enough for you to get your leg out, but no dice. He tries one more time—he has to save you, of course, but come on how cool would it be for him to do this in front of you?—and to his shock, the tree lifts up. 

You crawl out from under it and shift to your back, your chest heaving with effort. The crushed remains of your camera are scattered all around you. Your eyes only widen, but you’re not looking at Jimmy. 

“Superman!” you marvel, your voice a mixture of shock and awe. 

He looks over and sees that Superman is, in fact, beside him holding up the tree.

“Are you okay, miss?” he asks as he sets it back down. Jimmy glances down at his hands, a little disappointed. “Your leg isn’t injured?” 

“You’re Superman,” you repeat. Jimmy thinks you’re starstruck. 

“I am,” he smiles. His gaze goes down to the press pass still hanging around your neck, and his eyes light up. “You’re from the Daily Planet?” 

You nod, once, twice, three times. Definitely starstruck. “I’m one of their summer interns.” 

Superman grins. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you, then. Welcome to Metropolis.” He looks over at Jimmy and nods. “Good to see you again, Jimmy.” 

He nods as well. “Yeah, uh— good to see you too, Supes. Thanks for the assist.” 

Superman flies off to help more people before Jimmy manages to say anything else stupid—Supes?—and you look like you’re about to pass out. 

Jimmy says your name as he moves closer to you, his eyes still wide. He puts his hands on your shoulders to bring you back to the real world. “Are you still with me?” 

“We just met Superman!” you exclaim, grinning at Jimmy. It might just be all the smoke he’s inhaled, but he feels a little lightheaded. “My first day on the job and we met Superman—” 

There’s a sudden buzzing in the air, and you pull your phone out of your pocket. “It’s Lois,” you tell him, and then you answer it. “Lois, hey!” 

Jimmy can hear her frantically saying your name even from here. She’s not exactly quiet. You move the phone away from your ear some and he chuckles. “Are you and Jimmy okay? I saw the news— the bombs—” 

“We’re fine!” you assure, and you motion for Jimmy to come over. “Jimmy too, here���”

“Hey, Lois,” he says, loud enough to be heard through the receiver. “We’re good.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have—” 

“Are you kidding?” you interrupt. “This was incredible, Lois! We’ve got a way bigger story to uncover— no one just bombs normal senators. There’s gotta be dirt we can uncover. And— oh my god, we met Superman!” 

“...You did?” she asks, and she sounds less than enthused. 

“Yes!” you exclaim. “Oh my god, it was amazing. He saved my life!” 

“Sounds like him,” she says. 

“This is incredible,” you say. “Jimmy and I are gonna get a bunch of man on the street interviews from people that are here— can you call the Strong campaign PR person and see if you can get a statement?” 

“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital?” Lois asks. “You were just in a bombing, you have no idea who could be behind it—” 

“This is my chance to get my first Metropolis-sized scoop!” you insist. “Would you go to the hospital right now?” 

“...I’ll give them a call,” she says. “The two of you, stay safe. Jimmy has Clark’s number, call him if anything happens!” 

“Make sure you ask about her donors!” you insist.  

You hang up and you look over at Jimmy. Your clothes are singed and covered in tree bark and ashes, and you have a bleeding cut on your forehead, but you look happier than any normal person should be right now. 

“Did you get any pictures of all that?” 

“Uh, not of that,” he says. “I was kind of busy trying to save you.” 

“What about the explosion?” 

He nods and starts clicking through his photos. “I took what I could. I think I might have a concussion?” 

“That one!” you exclaim, and he stops. “That is perfect, Jimmy!” 

He got one right as the explosion went off, with Senator Strong speaking on a backdrop of blinding light. He goes to the next photo and it’s nothing but that light. He goes back to the photo that is definitely a front pager and shakes his head. He can’t believe his lens didn’t crack, but he’s very thankful. 

“Geez,” he mutters. “How lucky am I?” 

“Do you still have your laptop?” 

“As long as it’s not broken in my backpack, yeah.” 

“Change of plans, then. You get those photos uploaded to your drive so we’re ready once we get back to the office.” You take your mini recorder out, somehow not crushed like your camera, and smile. “I’m gonna interview anyone that’s stuck around. We’ll meet up in thirty minutes by the fountain, okay?” 

Jimmy nods. He looks down at your leg and sees that you’ve lost a third of your pant leg—not to mention the swelling and killer bruises starting to form. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” 

“I don’t even feel it,” you assure. “Which means we’ve gotta get this done before my adrenaline fades.” 

“You’re a little crazy,” Jimmy says. “I think you’ll fit in perfectly here.” 

You grin and Jimmy smiles. “Fountain in thirty,” you repeat. 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

You laugh, and then you run off to get your interviews. Jimmy watches you for a good, long second before he goes off to find a still-intact park bench. Police officers and EMTs are already starting to show up—he makes a mental note to get a quote from an officer before the two of you leave. 

He might be a little crazy, too. Because Jimmy is pretty sure he would go through a couple more bombings just to spend more time with you. 

-

You and Jimmy stumble through the doors of the Daily Planet. You limped your way back from the subway station, Jimmy is now sure he has a concussion, and you both look like you’ve been through Hell and back together. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been happier. 

“We need to start making phone calls right now,” you say to Jimmy as he speeds to keep up with you. “Like, search through Strong’s donor list and bother every single one of them.” 

“I’m already on it.” Jimmy’s been scrolling through his phone for half your scramble over here, sending texts to sources and answering ones from friends who saw he was at the bombing. “The news editor at the Metropolis Examiner has been looking into her shifty financial history since her first term—she just shared her master doc with me.” 

“Great!” you exclaim. “We can bust this wide open, Jimmy!” 

You pull up a chair at Jimmy’s desk and take your laptop out of your bag. You’re already typing at the speed of light. “I’ll start a write-up on the press conference so we can get it out as soon as possible. Do you edit your photos yourself or does someone else do it?” 

“I do my own,” he says. “No one else understands my vision.” 

“Then start editing your best shots, ones you think will make us a shoe-in for the front page,” you say, and you almost squeal in excitement. “This has got to get us above the fold, right?” 

“I think so,” Jimmy says. “Perry would definitely give it to us if we got an interview with Superman. That’s why Clark is always on the front page.” 

“Well, it sounds like you two really are best friends,” you tease. “You’re on a nickname basis with him?” 

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “It’s no big deal. We’re cool with each other.” 

“Maybe you can get us that interview with him next time,” you say. “Then I’ll really have something to brag about to my roommates.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. 

You grin. “Great. Now, get on those photos.” 

Jimmy nods. Technically, he’s higher up on the totem pole than you, but technically, he doesn’t think he’d get anywhere trying to pull rank when he’s only a step above you. You’re in the zone—he respects it, and he’s a little scared of it. 

“Once you’re done, you can keep looking into the Strong angle,” you say. “We move fast enough, we’ll have two articles to pitch to Perry before lunch!” 

“Yes ma’am,” Jimmy jokes. Lightroom has finally booted up, so he starts to transfer his favorite shots over. He passes a glance over at you while they’re loading. “You move fast, don’t you?” 

You laugh, high on life, journalism, and the adrenaline that comes with surviving a bombing. “Trial by fire, right?” 

“Are you two okay?” a voice asks, and you turn your head to see it’s Clark Kent with slightly wide eyes. He has a mug of coffee in each hand and he places them down in front of you both. “It’s all over every station; you even ended up in some shots.”

“We were on TV?” Jimmy asks. He might be working at one of the most acclaimed newspapers in the world, but it is still so cool to him every time he makes it onto the news for something other than his photos. 

“More than,” you assure. Your fingers are still flying over the keys, and you laugh again. “What a way to get my first byline here!” 

“I’m glad,” Clark says, and he looks at you. “Lois is off chasing that lead you gave her. I think you might be the perfect intern for her.” 

“I’m glad,” you echo. “If this is what the whole summer’s gonna be like, I cannot wait!” 

“Woah, new girl!” Steve is walking past them but he stops and backpedals, eyes wide as he looks you and Jimmy up and down. You do both kind of look like complete messes—him, at least. Somehow, you still look good. “Rough first day?” 

You and Jimmy share glances at each other and you grin. He thinks he might pass out. 

“No,” you say. “It was perfect.” 

[prozacwhorehouse]

clark kent x younger intern!reader…

——————————————————

clark kent and intern!reader getting talked you down on your first day. he reminds you you’re there for a reason, and you’ll do just fine.

clark kent and intern!reader who always calls him Mr. Kent, to which he insists you call him Clark. he wants you to think of him as a friend more than an authority figure, he just doesn’t feel right about it.

clark kent and intern!reader who always writes notes on the side of his coffee cups. whether it’s an “enjoy :)” or “you look nice today!”, he’ll always slide down the sleeve to read it.

clark kent and intern!reader that Lois insists she can see the way he looks at, and that he has to make a move before Jimmy does - because he also has a fat crush on you…who wouldn’t. you’re stunning. (remember that!!)

clark kent and intern!reader when he decides to go for it and start leaving cute post it notes like the ones on his coffee cups, instead on the files he drops on your desk. he goes for an “im proud of you,” or “great edits.” him playing it safe eventually turns into long time coming date proposal, “i love that dress on you - wear it to dinner tonight?”

clark kent and intern!reader who is always hanging out and giggling with jimmy - you two are absolutely diabolical together and like to play mostly harmless pranks around the office, such as switching the sugar at the coffee station to salt (lois was livid), Clark just laughs from his desk

clark kent and intern!reader when the office goes out for drinks after a successful publish - clark keeps his eyes on you at the bar incase some drunk asshole decides to try anything. “don’t drink anything i don’t buy you, okay?”

[alexislameee]

BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS…

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° ┊┊���✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° ┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° ┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

Corenswet! 🆂uperman x reader ᯓ★

summary: let’s be real, we all know Clark is a proud eater

word count: 725

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, explicit content, hair pulling, pussy eating (mwuahaha), curse words etc. 🂡

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° ┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° ┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　° ┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Let’s be so fucking serious, enough fucking around. Clark is 100% a PROUD eater. He can’t wait for any moment alone so he can finally dive in-between your thighs. Your lush, soft, smooth thighs that he could spend hours kissing, licking, and showering with attention. And he would if you even thought about asking him.

It’s just absolutely solace for him, doesn’t matter what kind of day he’s had, trust he WILL be in-between those thighs. He’s an absolute starving man when it comes to your sweet, wet pussy. And make no mistake it’s practically aching for him at all times.

One of the last times he did, you were in the kitchen, your back leaning against the counter as you were googling a recipe for dinner. He walked over, towering over you as he looked down. No words were said as he suddenly dropped to his knees. On his knees now in front of you, his hands on the back of your thighs.

He looked up at you, it was amazing how Clark could be on his knees yet still in control somehow. He kissed up your thighs, pulling down your shorts and embarrassingly soaked panties. He wasted no time in devouring you like his life depended on it, you swear he ate your soul out sometimes. It didn’t help that he was so strong that he held your hips in place. Restricting you from grinding against his face. That was a good day, and you never ended up making that dinner…

There’s just something so poetic for Clark about having your thighs wrapped around his neck, your hands in his hair gripping for dear life, and the sweet expression on your face as he pleasures you. He might even enjoy it almost as much as you are. There’s never a time where he’s having his favorite meal that his bulge isn’t straining against his pants.

He loves giving pleasure to you, Clark’s a natural giver. It’s just in his blood…or…his soul? Whatever…

There’s tons of things he did before you two started dating that should have given away what an absolute demon he can be about being between your thighs. He would always bring two coffees, offer to proofread practically everything you wrote. He would have been more than willing to check the grammar on a goddamn sticky note you passed to Jimmy if you asked.

He’s just ruthless when he does it, he holds your thighs on his shoulders tightly. Using some of that strength so that you couldn’t move your thighs if you tried, subjected to the pleasure he was so desperate to give you.

He never fails to tease you a bit first, giving a slow lick up your folds, maybe even holding his tongue there for a second. His eyes go up to meet yours, relishing in the way your face flushes and you avert your eyes. It’s a filthy sight that always turns him on even more.

He just buried his face between and goes at it. His tongue laps relentlessly through and in your folds. His nose pressing against your clit as he sucks you up like it’s his last meal. He loves the taste of you, and he’ll tell you.

‘Gosh you taste amazing…’ He’ll mutter against your pussy, his voice causing light vibrations to go through. It is a sport to not immediately cum when he does things like that.

You find that your hands always usually fly to his hair whenever he’s down there, showing you no mercy. He groans against you when your hands tug and pull on his hair. His eyebrows furrowing as he continues taking every drop he can.

All the places he’s ever insisted on eating you out are just downright crazy. Once he went at it after hours at The Daily Planet in a broom closet, in your kitchen, while your on phone calls, anywhere is the place.

His face once he’s done is something otherworldly…(get it). His mouth and chin glistening as he wiped his mouth, breathing heavily as he admired the absolutely blissed out look on your face. It brought him satisfaction like no other. And you’ve gotta admit, before you truly knew Clark…every part of him.

You probably would have never guessed how much dorky ole’ Clark Kent would have loved being between your thighs.

[fear-is-truth]

suggestive ; mdni

you always liked climbing on top of your boyfriend when he’s been sleeping too long and you’re bored. he stirs beneath you as you settle, brows knitting, lashes fluttering with the slow churn of returning consciousness. you lower yourself gently, mindful with your knees so as not to rouse him all at once. there’s a dried ribbon of drool caught at the edge of his mouth, and an indent carved into his cheek from the pillow. beautiful.

he mumbles something unintelligible when you redistribute your weight. the body responds before thought can intervene, as you can now feel him begin to thicken beneath the cotton of his sweats, stirring slow to life. “mm… am i dreaming?” a warm palm skates up your thigh in a blind search before settling on your waist. go still for a moment, like he’s grounding himself with the shape of you. “you tell me.” spoken noncommittally, while pressing your lips to his neck.

“too tired?” sneaking in another kiss beneath his ear. “never f’you,” he slurs, and there’s that grin, the one you always fall for—goofy, drunk on you. his cock swells fully now, twitching beneath the fabric.

“just gonna let you do all the work, baby. s’all you.” leaning in, your lips graze the hinge of his jaw, trailing downward across the column of his throat until your mouth closes over the swell of his adam’s apple. he groans, lips parting like he might say something clever, but then you grind down again.

“shiiit,” he croaks, blinking up at you. eyes fully open, the dazed warmth behind them cuts through whatever sleep was left. “yeah—okay. m’up now.”

[vamplvs]

warnings -> jimmy olsen x fem!reader, a hint of jealousy, no superman (2025) spoilers!

clark is infuriatingly perfect. he's tall, broad, too sweet for his own good, charming, and jimmy is sick of it.

not that he's actually sick of clark—the guy's his best friend—but he's sick of the way clark has been effortlessly stealing your attention since you've started working at the daily planet.

you're always bantering with him and laughing at his jokes, getting into silly hypothetical debates about metahumans and discussing aliens. and when jimmy rolls around to join the conversation—because he likes talking about that stuff, dammit—you go quiet every time, without fail.

clark gives you this look every time, like he knows something jimmy doesn't. it drives him up the wall.

"want some coffee, clark?" he hears you ask from your desk—which is conveniently situated right next to clark's, because of course it is.

"uh, yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

jimmy looks over to see you taking clark's mug with a smile that makes his heart do something funny in his chest. he frowns and turns back to his computer, his own mug long empty on his desk.

what's the harm in getting coffee for himself, too?

so he follows after you to the break room, mug in hand.

"how's that new article going?" he asks, and you nearly jump out of your skin. "shit- sorry, i didn't mean to scare you."

"no, no, you didn't." the coffee maker clicks and whirs as it spits out a fresh pot. "it's, um, fine."

"right, yeah." jimmy rocks back on his heels. "clark mentioned that you might need some pictures of the justice gang fight downtown. i have a few that just need editing." he actually overheard you and clark talking about it earlier, but he's not willing to admit to eavesdropping, honestly.

he can't admit that he's that obsessed.

then the coffee maker beeps, and you're racing to pour out two cups. "oh, sure. that'd be great." you're gone before he can get a word in edgewise.

"i'll just email those to you, then!" he calls after you.

despite all the sugar he puts in his own coffee, it still goes bitter on his tongue when he walks back to his desk to see you and clark giggling like schoolgirls. your eyes meet jimmy's for just a moment, and his heart stutters.

clark looks over his shoulder at him and then back to you and prods your shoulder playfully. you swat his hand away and mutter something to him with a roll of your eyes.

moment officially ruined.

god, this whole "crushing on his coworker" thing is getting old fast, and you've only been here for a month.

he spends the rest of his day editing those photos for you, making sure that they look as good as possible. he picks out the clearest ones he has of the fight and the aftermath—he got one with that mr. terrific guy and all his tech that he's particularly proud of.

"man, how do you do it?" jimmy asks, after you head out for the day.

"do what?" clark spins around in his chair and furrows his brow.

"seriously?" and clark has the gall to shrug. "it's like every girl here fawns over you."

"they aren't fawning over me, jimmy." clark gestures to two of the interns who are very much staring at jimmy. he waves awkwardly back, and they giggle.

"yeah, but the new girl is."

"is not."

"is too!"

"i promise you, she is not." clark spins around in his chair to face his desk again with a roll of his eyes.

"then explain all of the giggling and the lingering looks and the coffee!" jimmy gestures exasperatedly at the mug on clark's desk. "she doesn't get me coffee."

"maybe she's just quieter than the interns," clark says with a shrug.

"yeah, quieter with me, not you."

clark looks at him like he's said something ridiculous and sighs. "maybe it's for the best that you're a photographer and not an investigative journalist."

"what's that supposed to mean?" jimmy crosses his arms defensively.

"c'mon, i didn't mean it like that. just-" clark pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "you're not asking the right questions, is all."

"not the right-" then it dawns on him with all the subtlety of a brick being flung against his skull. "oh."

"yeah, oh." clark laughs then, and shuts his laptop. he makes quick work of packing his things up while jimmy stands by his desk, visibly buffering.

-

okay, so maybe jimmy is awkward the next morning. maybe he fumbles around the coffee maker for a little longer than strictly necessary in the hopes that you'll walk into the break room. maybe he looks at you for a little longer than strictly necessary, waiting for his shot.

clark is very obviously trying to hold back his laughter when he catches jimmy doing it, and lois does the same—betrayal of the century. he seriously told her, too?

you, on the other hand, seem entirely unaware. you wave politely to jimmy, thank him for the pictures, and continue on your day, business as usual.

this might just be worse than believing you were into clark.

because now he's caught off guard, has had the rug pulled from under him, and he figures it's best not to ask you out in front of the entire office.

but he wants to, dammit. he's itching to talk to you, to make you laugh, to take you out for dinner—or lunch, or to the movies. he'll take anything, really.

he finally gets his shot during clark's lunch break, he rolls his chair over to your desk. the office is mostly empty, except for you, jimmy, and a handful of interns—most people are out getting lunch, really. so, it seems like a great time.

he takes great pride in the small smile you shoot him as he approaches.

"hypothetically, if you were going on a date, where would you go?" he prompts with a grin.

your smile is gone in an instant, replaced by a confused furrow of your brow. "what?"

"y'know, hypothetically."

"uh, i guess the park downtown. why?" in his own head, jimmy cheers. he loves that park.

"okay, so, you want to go there this weekend with me?"

"sorry- me?" you point to yourself like you're not sure he's actually talking to the right person, and jimmy, frankly, has never been more confused.

"yeah...?" why wouldn't it be you?

"this isn't some kind of joke, right? like, clark didn't put you up to this or anything?" he watches with a furrowed brow as you look over your shoulder for any sign of clark.

"um, no?" jimmy is lost, totally and utterly lost. why would clark put him up to this?

"this isn't, like, practice for them?" you point to the interns who have been watching the entire interaction with rapt attention.

"no, i'm pretty sure i'm asking you out."

your confusion melts back into a small, embarrassed smile. he grins back at you. "oh, then, yeah, i'd like that."

"great, i'll pick you up on saturday?"

"sounds great, jimmy." you mirror his wide grin.

he drums his hands on his legs and spins his chair back to his own desk. his heart his racing in his chest, and he can't tamp down his own smile—even when perry calls jimmy into his office to interrogate him about deadlines and photo ops.

when he sees clark laughing with you later and spots the wide-eyed look he gets when you catch him watching, something in his chest flutters. and maybe he's a little embarrassed when clark laughs even harder.

[theshiniestgemstone]

hard to get- fem!reader x jimmy olsen

eeeee brain go brrrr over jimmy olsen

You and Jimmy had gotten along great from day one.

You started working at The Daily Planet around the same time, two fresh faces in a newsroom already packed with egos and legends. During orientation, you'd caught each other’s eye during Perry White’s long-winded speech about journalistic integrity. He'd grinned, you'd smirked, and that was that. An unspoken understanding that you were going to be close. Kindred spirits. Partners in crime, at least in the breakroom.

Your beat wasn’t glamorous. There were no Pulitzer-worthy exposés or exclusive interviews with Metropolis’s most elusive hero. You were out in the thick of it, usually reporting on traffic pileups and commuter chaos, calling in voice notes from your phone while dodging cabs. But it was honest work, and it kept you moving. Jimmy, for all his antics and charm, respected that. While he was out snapping photos and chasing stories with Lois, he'd always find time to check in, often meeting you halfway between assignments with coffee or something greasy wrapped in paper.

You knew Jimmy’s reputation. Everyone did. There were pictures on his desk that rotated like the headlines. There were blondes, brunettes, girls with short hair, and girls with curls. And more than enough half-whispered stories were floating around the bullpen to piece together a very clear pattern. Jimmy Olsen was a heartbreaker. But he was different with you.

He didn’t push. He didn’t press. He played the field, sure, but always circled back, orbiting close like he was just waiting for the right signal. Like he was waiting at a red light that never turned green, but he never dared to run it.

Tonight had been good. Better than good. The newsroom had cleared out hours ago, but you stayed behind, not quite ready to head home to your silent apartment and half-eaten leftover takeout. You were hunched over your desk, trying to look busy, when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“You hungry?” Jimmy asked, holding out a familiar grease-stained paper bag from the burger joint a few blocks down. The one you both liked, conveniently located between your buildings.

You didn’t ask how he knew you hadn’t eaten. You just took the bag, sat down across from him in the conference room, and started splitting fries like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d gotten your order just right. No tomato, extra grilled onions, even remembered the dipping sauce you liked. That tiny detail caught you off guard more than you wanted to admit.

It was easy, effortless, until you caught him watching you a little too closely.

You arched a brow as you finished your burger, balling up the wrapper. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Jimmy’s face contorted in confusion, his jaw slack as he searched for words.

“Exactly.” You hummed lightly, grabbing your purse and keys from the floor beside you. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun with… what’s her name this week?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Eve.”

“Eve,” you repeated, nodding. “Cute name. Don’t break her heart.”

You gave him a playful wink before turning on your heel, leaving him alone under the flickering buzz of the breakroom light with a bag of fries half-eaten, and a look on his face like maybe you’d just scooped the air out of his lungs with your words.

+++

The next day is like normal. Jimmy flirts with you, grinning like the night before never ended, and you flirt back, but only just. He lingers a little closer than usual when he hands off a slip of paper with a story lead, fingers brushing yours, eyes catching and holding.

“Got something for you,” he murmurs, voice low like it’s just between you two.

You glance at the paper, then at him. “You always bring me the juicy ones?”

“Only the best,” he says, mouth curving. “Figured you’d want first crack.”

His fingers don’t move, still touching yours. You raise a brow, then pat his arm lightly. “Careful, Jimmy. You’re starting to sound sweet.”

He leans in, just a breath. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You step back with a small, amused smile, heels clicking as you walk away. “I say that like you’ve got a girlfriend.”

Behind you, the hum of the newsroom swallows whatever response he doesn’t say.

You ignore the stares from the girls in the mailroom. You’ve seen them watching, whispering behind glossy nails and plastic name tags. They don’t like you much. Not since Jimmy started saving the last of the donuts for you and always seemed to know where you were, even when you didn’t check in.

Clark’s the only one who says anything out loud. He’s standing by the coat rack, sipping from his thermos, when you wrestle your arms into your raincoat and secure the hood over your head.

“Ten-car pileup on the bridge,” you say, lifting your press badge and pinning it inside of the waterproof pocket. “Should be back before five, unless someone spontaneously combusts.”

Clark smiles, tilting his head like he’s debating saying more, and then he does. “You should stop playing with him.”

You blink. “Excuse me?” You bend over to shove your foot into your rainboot.

“Jimmy,” he clarifies, almost sheepish. “He actually means it.”

You laugh, dry and low. “Clark, he meant it last week. He’ll mean it again next week. It’ll happen when it’s meant to.” You give a casual shrug, turning toward the elevator. “Besides, he’s got Eve.”

Clark just hums, unconvinced. You don’t look back.

You hear whispers about him and Eve all week. She calls him constantly, hours at a time, and he answers with that tired voice you recognize full of heavy sighs and half-hearted chuckles. You catch glimpses of him in passing, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He doesn’t bring her up to you, not once.

Wednesday, you see him out front of the building during your lunch break, standing stiff under the awning without an umbrella. He’s staring at his phone as if it had personally offended him. You pass without a word.

By Friday, the office is buzzing.

You’d been circling the city all morning, dodging potholes and honking horns, chasing down some minor lead about a tow truck scandal. You’re soaked to the knees, half-listening to your voicemail in the stairwell when the elevator doors open to chatter from the mailroom girls.

“She came in here,” someone whispers as you pass. “Like into the meeting room.”

“I heard she threw her drink at him.”

“No, not just threw. Launched. A venti caramel latte with three extra espresso shots."

"Angela read the label?"

"She said he broke her heart. Loud enough to stop a meeting next door.”

You glance across the bullpen and spot Jimmy wiping his face with a handful of napkins, coffee stains blooming across his button-down. His sweater vest is gone, sleeves rolled, and for the first time all week, he looks like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

He glances up, catches your eye.

You don’t stop walking, but you do toss him the extra towel from your bag as you pass, hitting him square in the chest without a word.

Another thing you’d heard about Jimmy Olsen, besides his appetite for danger and inability to keep a houseplant alive, was Tuesdays.

Tuesdays were his nights. Date night. Every week, without fail. Like clockwork. Always a different girl, always somewhere with mood lighting and overpriced cocktails, the kind of places you only went to when you wanted to forget the newsroom and pretend you were someone else for a few hours.

You’d overheard the girls in the mailroom talking about it again that morning, giggling behind their clipboards.

“He wears cologne,” one of them whispered. “You can tell the second he walks in on Tuesdays. Full spray, not the little spritz he does for interviews. It's so hot."

“He’s got a reservation at that rooftop place tonight,” the other replied. “The one that needs a waitlist and a blood sacrifice.”

But you knew better. There was no reservation tonight.

Eve had made sure of that when she chucked a latte at his face and called him every name under the sun in front of half the floor. Jimmy hadn’t left his desk since. He hadn’t flirted once all weekend, hadn’t even smiled for real. His camera stayed slung over the back of his chair, untouched, like it was sulking with him.

He was bent over a printout now, red pen in hand, the tip hovering over the paper but not moving. He hadn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.

You approached quietly, leaning one elbow on his desk and waiting until he noticed you.

“Where are we going tonight?” you asked.

Jimmy looked up, blinking like you’d pulled him out of a trance. “What?”

You nodded toward the stack of papers and then the clock. “It’s Tuesday. You usually go on a date. So…” You folded your arms, keeping your tone light. “Where are we going?”

His brows furrowed, lips parting like he couldn’t quite find the joke you were making. “Are you messing with me right now?”

“Nope.” You smiled, just a little. “I’m asking what time you’re picking me up.”

He stared for a long second, trying to read your face like it was a lead he hadn’t cracked yet. You laughed, no longer able to hold it back. His eyes flickered with something unspoken. Surprise, maybe. Hope. Maybe even a little fear.

“I’ve got rain boots in my car and a dry change of clothes in my locker,” you replied, tapping his desk lightly. “Pick something. Nothing with reservations. Nothing with candles. And if you try to pay, I’m ordering the lobster.”

He grinned. “I hate lobster.”

“Perfect,” you said. “More for me.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked at you like you’d just flipped the whole board on a game he thought he’d been winning.

You pushed away from his desk, already reaching for your coat. “Six-thirty, my place. And don’t wear that cologne. Smells like a gas station cashier’s dream.”

He pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “You wound me.”

“You’ll survive,” you said, already walking away. "Don't be late!"

[ma-ie]

me showing up at jimmy olsen’s doorstep begging him to let me sit on his face

[gigiohvanna]

flirt protocol ! — c k

summary — you, hr’s primary nightmare, counteract all of lex luthor‘s bitterness with excessive infatuation for superman, though you may swoon for clark kent just a bit harder

diva!fem!reader , warning by itself ! more

monthly visits to perry’s office were routine for you, but hows that your fault, really? if lex luthor was bitterness refined into steel, then you were its counterweight; shamelessly flirty, too infatuated to take seriously, except you were serious, and everyone was aware of it.

you once told perry that if the city was ever on fire, you’d be looking for a red and blue streak in the sky before a neon green exit sign. but it wasn’t superman that got your stomach twisted, not really. though he was an exciting fantasy.

in contrary, it was clark who had you all breathless and smitten.

the chief storms out of his office, evidently stressed. you’re supposed to be editing, however, clark’s adorably geeky manner of pushing his thick rimmed glasses upwards as he read seemed much more appealing.

“where’s that damn headline? i need olsen’s photos, i need kent’s copy, and you —” he levels a weathered, ink-stained finger directly at you, voice rising into that gravelly shout that usually precedes a fireable offense, “— need to stop treating the bullpen like a strip club.”

you pause, blinking once, then you frown, theatrically offended, “excuse you, i’ve been shockingly tame today.”

jimmy doesn’t even glance up from his camera, adjusting a lens calmly, „you purred at clark.”

a gasp leaves your glossy lips, manicured fingernails to chest, mock-scandal radiating off you like your expensive perfume. “it was a low whisper of admiration,” you tilt your head, eyes glittering, “very subtle, deeply respectful.”

behind her ridiculously sugar filled coffee mug, lois exhales, not blinking. “you called him midwestern daddy ten minutes ago.” she speaks exhaustedly, victim to your menacing ways for too long.

the silence that follows is loud, though clark’s chair creaked slightly.

said journalist stiffens, shoulders drawing up. he doesn’t look at you but you can see the pink hue spread across the tip of his ears, glasses blurring faintly at the edges. clark’s mouth opens, speechless. there’s something preciously boyish in the way his hand fiddles nervously.

you watch the motion like it’s a ticking clock, like if you stare long enough, maybe you’ll unravel the rhythm of his thoughts.

he exhales through his nose, steadying himself. there’s a flush creeping down his throat now, staining the collar of his deliciously fitting suit, and it hits you with quiet satisfaction how undone he looks from nothing but your affection.

you lean back in your chair, unbothered, heels-clad feet crossed sensually. your coworkers snicker knowingly, observing the tension.

“you’re going to cause a workplace incident.” lois speaks smugly.

“if he files a complaint, it better be formatted in ap style,” you reply sweetly.

behind his glasses, clark shoots you a look. quick. pink around the edges. it lands and disappears almost instantly, like he regrets it the second it leaves him. but not before you see it, just the flicker of something too sharp to be harmless.

you’ve built your whole career off catching what people don’t say.

clark shifts awkwardly, so him. “i—” his voice is hoarse, chest-deep, then quieter, “i have a meeting.”

a beat passed, everyone waiting for his next reaction. soon enough, it came. “with perry.” he stands too fast for the size of his body, chair scraping loudly against the floor, like it’s also trying to flee with him.

“you know,” jimmy murmurs, fiddling with his camera settings again, “one day you’re gonna push him too far and he’s actually gonna ridiculously fall to his knees right by your feet.”

you shrug, unapologetic. “i’m counting on it.”

you don’t see him again for an hour, not that you’re counting.

you definitely are.

but only because he fled like a man personally threatened by the concept of being admired for too long, and perhaps you’d leaned back in your chair after he left, a little smug, though you shouldn’t have.

because now you’re trapped in a mandatory safety meeting.

and he’s back but not exactly clark.

superman. glowing on the screen at the front of the bullpen like a gift you didn’t deserve but would never return. voice calm, steady in a heroic authority.

and you’ve never been good at behaving.

your fantasy personified speaks serene and unbothered in a pre-recorded safety hazard video, „remain calm and exit through the designated stairwells. do not —”

“— run unless you’re running toward me, babe.” you mumble, seemingly hypnotized.

perry slams his pen down like it personally offended him. “for the love of god, l/n, can we get through one meeting without this torture?”

lois snorts, jimmy full-body winces into his sleeve, someone two rows over mutters your name like a prayer and a warning.

you just sip your iced coffee, eyes still glued to the screen. “respectfully,” you start, calm as ever, “i’m a better listener when the instructions come from a man built like justice and righteousness.”

superman, onscreen, pulls a lever to activate a mock sprinkler system. expression stern, focused and dangerously, to you, competent.

“look at those forearms, suddenly, i care deeply about protocol.”

clark, three chairs down, doesn’t look up. doesn’t speak.

but his neck is pink, flushed in that telltale way, knuckles white and spine rigid, shoulders drawn back with that exacting control he thinks makes him unreadable, yet you see it; the way he sits too still, as if he relaxes even an inch, you’ll catch him thinking something unforgivable.

lois leans toward you without looking away from the screen. “so what happens if the safety video’s starring clark instead?”

you glance at her casually. “then i’d evacuate straight into cardiac arrest.” a beat passed, “he is the emergency.”

clark’s breath hitches subtly, but you catch it with the proximity of your bodies.

you smile delightfully.

[allhailbuckybarnes]

Long day, Kent?

Clark Kent (Superman) x Journalist!Fem!Reader pt. 1/2

Like, reblogs and comments are so so appreciated

boarders by @cursed-carmine ⭐️🗞️🇺🇸

Clark Kent and you used to be friends. You used to build each other up, used to edit each other’s articles, rooting for them to make the front page. Actually, you used to have a serious crush on the man. But that was a lifetime ago, now, you’d each woken up. You were the floors main reporters for The Daily Planet. Everything between you two that was friendly, had turned sour with tension. Your LexCorp scandals and his luck-of-the-draw interviews with Superman fought for the front page every-time. The teasing, the flirting, the arguments, it was making each of you simmer.

Enter a bad date into the mix. Ensuing jealous Clark. Leading to the big fight. It leaves you both sure of your hatred for each other. So what happens when you finally make contact with Superman?

Clark can’t bring himself to kill, unless it’s for you.

Warnings: SMUT (minors dni), Unprotected P in V Sex, Fem receiving Oral, Lying, Sexual Tension, Teasing, Reader doesn’t know Clark is Superman, Workplace Drama, Soft dom Clark Kent, Fingering, Praise Kink, Tender Sex, Gentle Fucking, Clark Kent is a Munch, Size Kink bc Obviously, Newspaper Article Drama, Rivalry, Mention of Sexual Assault, Jealousy, Protective Clark, The Fine Line Between Love and Hate, Superman to the Rescue, Reader still likes Clark, It's mutual, Clueless Clark Kent, You are Clark's Kryptonite

Word Count: (7.1k) geez girl

It was never supposed to get this deep. The rivalry, the teasing remarks. The fight for every front-page story. You were starting to get into it. Or better yet, Clark Kent was beginning to get under your skin again.

The man was relentless; his interviews with Superman, who fought your LexCorp scandals for the front page of The Daily Planet, had become a personal vendetta. The two of you, who used to get each other coffee in the morning, used to ask each other for tips, ways to get your boss, Perry White, to hear your voices, were now workplace enemies.

Every day you stepped foot into the building, Lois met you with another annoying thing Clark had done to weasel an interview out of the Krypton, people's heads turned. They knew not to get in your way, and they avoided any further questions. You and Clark were the primary reporters, your desks adjacent to each other, caddy-cornered with Lois and Jimmy.

Today wasn’t any different; you’d locked up your apartment and headed to the subway, vanilla frappe in hand. The ride had been approximately 12 minutes, as always, you’d stood near the front, impatiently awaiting your turn to step off the filthy transport.

Forgetting the events of last night, you pulled out a notepad and wrote down several notes to remember for editing. You’d strutted in, adorning your blood red Prada heels, a clutch rather than a briefcase.

Lois met you by the printers, a pen balanced between her straight teeth. She’d hissed another shitty excuse that Clark had bragged to Jimmy about his friendship with Superman. She hugged you in comfort, asking you if you were sure that you were okay after last night.

Ah, yes, last night.

Last night, the night you’d finally gone out with Dean Marcus, the man you’d been flirting with since you’d met him in a bar. He was cute, tall, and lean; he reminded you of Clark. That was what you liked about him. The date sucked. Dean slid the check your way, ‘since you’re the big time reporter after all.’

He’d gripped your ass, shocking you, and making you silently confirm the promise to knee him in the balls once you got back to your place. He’d walked you home, taken you by surprise, and slammed you against your door, “I know you like it rough.” You’d quickly kicked him off, kneeing him as promised, and sent him away.

Slamming your door, you leaned against it, heart beating wildly. You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering over Clark’s contact. You considered the damage of calling him, and chose not to.

You snap out of your thoughts when Lois calls, “Y/n?”

“Don’t worry, Lo, he’ll be toast this morning. Once he sees my review on LexCorp’s new technology for global warming, displayed on the front page. It’ll shut his sorry ass up. Those dimples will disappear into sad little lines.” Lois laughed sharply at that, smacking your shoulder, “You’re so bad, Y/n, the poor guy can’t take it. I think he’s seriously gonna combust if you flirt with him anymore.”

You feign offense, “Me? Flirting with Clark Kent? Please.” Your best friend, Lois, and Jimmy (Clark’s best friend), who you were sure were hooking up behind your backs, had their own bets on you and Clark.

You had to admit, you couldn’t blame them; the rivalry always had a tint of want between the lines. But it was all fun and games to you. Clark got on your nerves far too much for you to want him. His slutty little glasses didn’t help, though.

Lois pulled you towards your desk, earning a groan from your glossed lips. The sight of Clark leaning over the desk, far too small for his huge frame, made your head pound with predictable intensity. He made no effort to greet you, no sly comments as you announced your presence with the click-click-click of the heels he hated so desperately.

They supposedly ‘altered his focus’ when he wrote, regardless of the fact that his pieces were embarrassingly vague, the man had a source with Superman, of all people. He wrote with a tone that felt cautious, like he was afraid to give too much information. It had always caught your attention, whereas everyone else on the floor was madly impressed with his relationship to the super.

Just another thing about Clark Kent that had irked you.

His unfair advantage. Men, am I right?

You sigh dramatically at the lack of attention, causing Jimmy to laugh, “What, Y/n, is lover boy not giving you enough attention this morning?” You glare at him, “Can it, Jimmy, I just want to see the look on Kent’s face when he reads the front page this morning.” You smile at the back of Clark’s head, and he pays you no mind, scribbling away at a notepad. His breathing, however, pauses, and he takes a sharp inhale of disgust at you tapping your heel against the marble floor.

“Something wrong, super-boy?” You grin, and his head whips around in panic. “What did you just say, Cherry?” You laugh at his flustered remark. He frowns with disdain, his eyes still and searching yours, the nickname he gave you for your signature color rolls off his tongue with a snicker.

“What? I figure by now you’re Superman’s little apprentice in training…” You gasp, “Maybe he’ll give you an outfit to match him and the mutt he keeps around!” Clark tightens his jaw, physically holding back another snide comment, he shakes his head and laughs sarcastically, “Alright, Cherry, for someone who talks about LexCorp so much, you’d think he was your ex or something. Not getting enough dick? At least my articles remain relevant; everyone knows Lex is a snake. He’s just a neutral evil.”

Clark tasted the words as they left his mouth. Ma would slap him silly if she'd heard him. Why had he said that? God. You brought the worst out of him.

You narrow your eyes, “It’s Y/n asshole, and god forbid I write about someone who needs taking down. I couldn’t even catch an interview with Superman, lord knows he’d turn me down with some sorry excuse about his gay lover at The Planet!” Clark straightens his glasses on his nose and fumes at you. Before he can fire back, Jimmy tries to diffuse the situation: “Hey, Clark, dude, want to catch a beer after work?” Poor, poor Jimmy. He’d just been caught in the crossfire.

Clark turns his face to his friend, smiling with his innocent pearly whites, the trenches of his dimples shining from the light of the golden sun, “Sure, Jimmy, why don’t we bring Lois along too, maybe she’ll tell us why Y/n woke up on the wrong side of the bed again.” Jimmy’s eyes widen, and he nervously watches you burn holes into the muscles of Clark’s back.

“Sorry boys, girl code, can’t tell you two any of Y/n’s business without her consent. Consider it all off the record.” Lois commented from her desk, not bothering to join in on the discussion. It doesn’t stop Clark from speaking, “Alright, I guess we can just fantasize about Cherry’s date last night that went South when the guy realized she was too busy looking at herself in the little mirror she keeps in her clutch to listen to him.” Jimmy laughs, but quickly quiets when Lois shoots him a betrayed glance.

You, however, turn to Kent and curse, “Fine, Clark, my date went South, but we have work to do. I need to get back to my job; not all of us get to have play dates with supers. Some of us actually work.”

You gesture to yourself, Lois, and Jimmy. Clark smiles, satisfied with his effect on you, and winks, “Fine, Y/n, let me know if you need any more tips to get on the front page.” You frown and poke several holes into the foam of the coffee cup, now empty from your thirst. Clark heaves and turns back to his work, letting his eyes be the last to fall from yours.

Something about Clark calling your name like that burned a fire deep within your stomach. You used to recognize it as pure hatred and put it off, but it had become a blurry picture of lust and fury over time. Wrapped up in a bow of past feeling. Yes, you could admit, there was a time when you saw something with him, back in the days of friendship. The days when he’d greet you with a hug that held too long, and the smile that used to cause a flutter in your chest.

That Clark was everything you wanted, but as soon as you fought over the front page, instead of your feelings for each other, the friendship had soured. You both were far too stubborn to admit that all you wanted from the start was the appreciation of each other’s praise.

You return to your article, adding the finishing touches and sending it off to the boss. You sigh and collapse back into your chair. The ding of the sent notification rings between the editors' desks. Clark tilts his head your way, frowning. “What’re you playing at, Cherry?” You grin to yourself, taking a sip from the new coffee Jimmy fetched you in apology for laughing at Clark’s joke.

“Nothing you shouldn’t already be used to, Kent.”

His lips draw into a tight line, and he shifts uncomfortably in his rolling chair. He watches as Lois’s face lights up at the notification on her screen. “Y/n! Perry sent it right through to us, you know what that means!” She giggles and pulls out her wallet, tossing you a 20. “You deserve it, girl.” You smile at your best friend affectionately and turn to Clark. He’s been watching you with fire beneath his clear blue irises.

“What? Are you afraid to open your email? Face it, Clark, Superman is old news. He’s the same old innocent hero, shaking hands and patting children’s heads. He doesn’t deserve the front page just because he’s different. LexCorp needs to be brought into the light. I’m doing some good work, it just took Perry some time to see it.” You ramble excitedly, and Clark sits and watches you passionately defend your work before he can comment. Your eyes are wild, and your hands flair with the familiar intent of offending him.

“Relax, Y/n, it’s a good article. Front page? We’ll see.” He snickers, and he tosses you a recorder, “Here, listen to what I got from Superman the other day.” You catch it without a second thought, your grip tight and calculated. “Y’know, I could just break this… Right?” He glares at you, leaning in and crossing the wooden barrier between your desks, “You wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

Lois and Jimmy shoot each other looks as they watch Clark get in your face. Jimmy slips her a note, and she leans down, slapping a hand over her mouth in shock and amusement. It read:

If she makes front page he owes me 50 bucks and I can text her anything off his phone, I was gonna let you do it, because I figure you’d make him sound just as love sick as he really is

Lois grins and squeezes her boyfriend’s arm, watching as you hover the recorder over your cup of coffee. Clark snaps out and catches your wrist, his hand gripping it tightly. He slowly pulls it to his own hand, giving you a ‘drop it’ look. You do so, eyes wide at his dominant stance, the feeling of his fingers on your skin burning deep inside. He sustains eye contact, lips pulling into a sweet grin, as he takes the recorder back into his grip.

He leans to your ear, his breath teasing the shell of it, “Good girl, finally listening to me for once.” You gasp silently, a stunned expression on your face. You pull your wrist from his grip and stand.

“Go to hell, Clark Kent,” you stammer and rush to your boss's office to talk to him about the article. He watches you leave, concern shining on his face. Did he do something wrong?

Lois shoots him an angered glance, “Don’t put your hands on her, asshole. Don’t you know what happened?” Clark straightens up, “What are you talking about, Lois?” Jimmy shifts in discomfort as Lois shoots him a look. “You were supposed to tell him to not be an ass today, Jimmy.”

“What happened?” Clark barks, his voice breaking with stress. Lois raises a hand to her forehead, rubbing the space between her brows with concentrated fury. “Her date went bad, not because of her, Clark. The guy was a total dick, he made her pay, he grabbed her ass in public, and he walked her home just to threaten date rape.” She grunts, looking at Jimmy as he rubs her arm in comfort. Clark’s eyes widen. “What the fuck?!”

“Nobody riles her up like you, Clark, but today? I wouldn’t.” Jimmy offers cautiously.

Clark’s fists tighten. “Who? Who did this?” He stares down at his desk, willing his eyes to not sear through the wood. Lois shrugs, “Some guy she met at a bar. A real gentleman.” She sneered. Clark growls, slamming a hand down on the desk. He stands, following where you went. Whoever touched you would pay for it. Why hadn’t you told him? He’d find out.

Clark set off to find you, beelining for Perry’s office, but he didn’t see you anywhere. He knocked on the door to encounter a very busy Perry White, who covered the microphone on his cell and mouthed, ‘What do you want, Kent?’

“Where’s Y/n?” Clark asks, rubbing at his temple as his foot anxiously taps against the floor. Perry directs him towards the filing room with a waved hand, ushering Clark out of his office and slamming the door hurriedly. He sees you, cowering behind a filing cabinet, several papers in hand. So unlike you. You always held yourself with a stubborn pride, leaving any trace of insecurity beneath layers of fake confidence.

When Clark walks up, you turn away quickly, but he steps forward regardless, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. It molds familiarly around your collarbone. You shiver. “Y/n, they told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Cherry.” Clark softens, aching to see your face as he reaches for your jaw. You pull from his grip, shaking, “It’s fine, Clark, I’m fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. That guy deserves to go to jail.” Clark mutters, “He deserves more than that. Please, Y/n... look at me.” You whip around, angrily, “Why do you care, Clark? It wouldn’t surprise me if you high-fived the guy.” You stung him with your words, all the sweet honey of your feelings towards him disappearing.

Clark’s mouth drops in pain, and his eyebrows draw together. A beat passes, and everything unsaid between the two of you hangs in the air. “Y/n.” He finally speaks, quietly, “That’s not true.” He reaches out for you, and you flinch away, giving him a wounded look.

“Oh, it isn’t? So every time you leave me in the dust and spit in my face, you’re just playing around?” You argue, pointing a finger at his chest boldly. “It’s all about who makes the front page nowadays. What happened to us? To the nights at the bar? Why do you hate me now?”

Clark scoffs, furiously twisting his head, “No, you don’t get to turn that on me. We both got cocky, Y/n. That’s not just my fault. You’re just as stubborn as I am. That’s why we never would’ve worked.” He shouts, fists drawn tight to his sides in frustration.

You pause, searching his eyes to clarify that he really meant that, and you sigh, defeated. Your shoulders droop like they do when you need to hide away and cry. Clark notices.

“I can’t do this, not with you, Clark. After everything, don’t pretend to be the hero now. If we didn’t work, why do you care?”

And with that, you rush off, leaving Clark to try and decipher what to say. He stands still, helpless and flustered. His heart beats quick and hard. He didn’t mean that. Why had he said that? He still loved you. You just didn’t know, and now you were hurt, both by him and some dickhead who never deserved you. Whoever had done this to you would pay.

After a workday full of avoiding Clark, you head to the corner store by your apartment. All that’s on your mind is a glass of wine and a face mask. You strut inside, mindlessly weaving through each aisle and picking out your favorite junk food. The events of the day race through your mind tirelessly, and you groan to yourself in frustration. Why can’t you just get Clark out of your head? Why didn’t you tell him? He would’ve been there.

You knew he would’ve put every single argument aside and been by your side in lightning speed. You were just afraid. Afraid to let someone in, to let him in. If you opened that door, you would never be able to close it, not to Clark. He meant so much to you, more than he knew.

The day you first started at The Planet, desk empty and waiting to be filled with ideas and inspiration, you’d met him. He was wide-eyed, beautiful, with goofy glasses drooping over gorgeous ocean eyes. His black, messy hair flopped on his forehead, indicating that he didn’t brush it that morning. Clark was shy, fidgeting with his pen and keyboard as he introduced himself quickly. You’d smiled sweetly and told him your name.

You didn’t know just how pretty he thought you were. It debilitated him, causing him to spill his coffee on his shirt. A moment you endlessly teased him about for being clumsy. You’d learned his habits, his favorite coffee: a caramel macchiato. You’d brought him one after a week of being desk mates, and you swore his eyes burned red when he’d found it on his desk with a sticky note attached.

After weeks of getting to know each other, you went to the bar with Lois, your new friend, and his best friend Jimmy. The night was full of joy, drunken karaoke, and truth or dare. Clark let loose for once, showing you his wild side. You were officially smitten. Watching him loosen his collar and unbutton the top of his shirt, dancing around with a beer in hand, was enough to make you sweat.

You’d gone home that night with your fingers twitching for release, the thoughts of Clark undoing you, fueling your movements as you came in your bed. You know he’d talk you through it, sweet and slow. God, you wanted him.

So you told Lois, who squealed enthusiastically. She immediately turned work into an intervention, pushing you and Clark together just as much as possible, not that you minded, of course. But it was quite obvious after she purposely made Jimmy cancel last minute with her on your weekly outings as a group.

It left you and Clark to talk, and boy, did you. Every night was filled with endless stories of his childhood with Ma and Pa Kent in Kansas, followed by your rough upbringing in Gotham. How you’d made a life for yourself that was worth living. His hand was always on your collarbone, lightly pressing, grounding you. It inched between your neck and chest, stinging deep into the tips of his fingers.

Clark promised to bring you with him on a trip back home, stating that Ma would be tickled to pieces. He didn’t know how much it made your heart flutter to imagine the possibility of being the first girl he brought home, lover or not.

The problem was always what you each left unsaid. He was constantly your first call after a bad day, arriving at your apartment with your ice cream and a new juicy magazine. In between every head you laid on his chest, him stroking your hair, was need. The kind that went without saying. Every comforting word, every “That’s it, let it out, sweetheart,” as you’d puke from the alcohol. There was something there, but you two were just too afraid to ruin it.

So you each lingered, a little longer than before. You buried yourself in articles, work, anything to get your mind off of his dimples, off of the sweat on his brow when he’d show up at dinner, god knows what he’d been up to. And Clark had taken it out on his opponents, giving them the frustrations that he felt when it came to the need to kiss you.

He wanted to so badly, it just had to be the right time.

So, the press gala for The Planet was his attempt at said right timing. You’d walked in, a cherry red gown hugging every curve of your body deliciously. Clark shouldn’t have waited. Because you’d been called up, clapped on the back for your debut on the front page.

Where did he really mess up, though?

Clark hadn’t congratulated you. He took one look at the editor on your arm, hugging you around the waist and kissing your cheek in congratulatory fashion, and he’d let himself out. He hesitated, and it came across as jealousy. You were hurt, really hurt.

All you wanted was his approval.

So you’d cut him off, no more coffee, no more tips. You’d become cold to him, afraid to be cut by his sharp jawline and quick tongue. You’d hardened over and become a real reporter.

He regretted it every day. And you did too. You missed him. He missed you. But not now. Now you were both sure of your feelings. Whatever was there, it was gone.

You walk to the register, handing the man your groceries, and you begin to pay. A large blast of fire hits the window, and it knocks you to the ground. Fuck.

Just another day in Metropolis.

You duck underneath a halfway burned counter and shake from the intensity of the blast. A strong hand hoists the wooden piece up, and you cower, just ready to beg for your life.

Instead, you are met with the beckoning gaze of Superman, in all his Red and Blue glory. He anxiously looks you up and down, faltering in some twisted recognition, and clears his throat. "Um, ma'am, are you alright? Here." You cough from the flames and nod breathlessly as he grabs your waist and seamlessly lifts you from the trashed floor, gently carrying you to the pavement outside. He was absolutely stunning, and he watched you with hooded, worried blue eyes. They reminded you of Clark.

He set you down carefully, with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. "Please stay out of trouble," He whispered to you, glancing up at the 'Justice Gang,' who seemed to have taken over whatever that thing was in the sky.

"We can't have all the pretty reporters in Metropolis getting burnt alive." Superman continued, making you blush an embarrassing crimson. He smiled, glancing down at your lips and swallowing hard.

Wait, how did he know you were a reporter? Before you could ask, Superman had already flown off to help the others. Wait.

Clark. Duh, what a jerk. At least this gorgeous super thought you were pretty.

You watched him effortlessly beat the creature, slowing its path to the ground and steering it out of trouble. Whipping out a recorder and cheering to yourself, you approach Superman, head searching for Clark in the gathering crowd. This is my chance.

He recognizes you immediately and quickly rushes over to your aid, doing a once-over and sighing in relief when he sees that you are unharmed. "Are you alright, miss? Do you need me to walk you home?" Superman offers, disregarding all the flashing of cameras and microphones being shoved into his face. You each stand for a moment, taking each other in. Clark sighs in his mind at the irony when he sees the recorder in your hand. You gulp at the pure hunk in front of you.

"Superman, could I bother you for an interview? Oh! Of course, yes, please do!" You stutter, remembering his offer. He nods, amused, and begins to follow you.

You just fought with Clark Kent about this man, and now he was walking you home. What a day.

You take the long route, avoiding the subway for any weird interactions. Although several people still give you looks. You don't pay them any mind as you rattle off questions for Superman, who answers clearly, as if he has been prepared for them all his life. He pats kids' heads as they pass, their mouths to the floor at the sight of him.

You laugh, holding your stomach, "God, it is true, you really do pat their heads." Superman mocks offense, bringing a hand to his chest, "Alright, little lady, just because the kids love me." He smiles cheekily, flirty. You blush.

When you reach your building, you wrap up the endless interrogation, thanking him for all his comments. You ensure him that your writing will be true to his statements, to which he comments, "I know, I've read your articles on LexCorp, they're really good."

You slap his arm, "Stop, you haven't. I'm nothing special. Barely make the front page these days because of you." Clark watches you undermine your own skill, and it kills him inside not to say something. So he does, cautiously.

"Y'know, that guy, Kent? He talks about you." Superman offers with a shrug on his shoulders. You scoff, "I'm sure, how much shit has he talked about my writing?" Superman interjects, "No shit. Seriously! He always gets the most he can out of me. I'm pretty sure he's just trying to impress you, ma'am." He states plainly, laughing at your skepticism.

"Well, I guess that's sweet." You reply, unlocking your door with the twist of the key. "Keep an eye on him for me, Superman. The guy is too stubborn and selfish to let some of us care for him. Y'know, he's going to kill me for this." You laugh, a strained breath, and sigh. Clark notes the pain beneath your breath.

"He won't. I'll make sure of it, sweetheart."

Your eyes narrow at the familiarity of his tone of voice, and Superman fidgets with his hand nervously. That was weird.

"Um... well, this has been real, Superman, thank you for saving the day again," You awkwardly remark, and tap your fingers against your crossed forearms. He takes the hint, "Erm- anytime, ma'am." With that, he rushes off, leaving you confused and thinking.

You shake off the weird timbre of his voice that reminded you so much of Clark, and you grin. Oh, this was gonna be good.

You strut into The Planet, passing the coffee bar on your way to your desk. You don't bother to make yourself a cup, for you are far too jazzed about your interview with Superman.

When you launch yourself into your seat, abandoning your clutch to the floor, Clark whips around to see you. He notices the bruise forming on your wrist, probably from where you tried to catch yourself yesterday. You wince as you twist it to write. He fakes his ignorance, "Your wrist okay, Cherry?" You answer him, "Just fine, Clark." Your voice is sweet and sharp with a cheery demeanor he isn't used to.

He nods, hair flopping with his movement, "Whatcha writing?"

Your fingers pause on the keys, and you smile up at him sweetly, "Met your buddy yesterday. He saved me and was nice enough to give me an interview."

Clark's jaw drops in the satisfying way you'd imagined it late last night. Next to him, Jimmy stammers, "You met Superman?!" You nod, earning you an excited squeal from Lois and a high-five from Olsen.

"He was very sweet, and oh god, not to mention, total verified hottie." You laugh and point towards Clark, "He even gives your slutty little glasses look a run for its money." Clark gulps long and hard. You thought he was hot. His cock jumps in his dress pants. Fuck.

"Oh yeah, Y/n?" Lois asks from beside you, wiggling her eyebrows and making you nod quickly, "Oh, one hundred percent would let him hit." Clark groans, slapping a hand to his face in sexual frustration. The three of you whip around to see him panic, "W-what?! That's my friend you're talking about."

"Sure, super-boy, hey, do you have his number?" You ask, leaning across the wood of your desk to beg Clark with your little puppy dog eyes. Your shirt droops just enough for him to glance a look at the top of your breasts and heave. "God! Y/n! He's not a piece of meat!" Clark cracks, wiping a hand across his forehead in despair. You giggle and lean back, "Sorry, Kent, I just know how to spot big dick energy, if you know what I mean." You wink and begin to type again.

Clark lets out a wearying breath and sits back into his seat. You were going to be the death of him.

You go about the rest of the work day, typing away at your computer, being sweet to Clark. He wonders if you’re just in a daze, or if you hit your head too hard. He doesn’t care, at least you were attracted to him the whole time, even if you didn’t know it.

When he overhears you gossip to Lois about all the things you’d let Superman do to you, he sighs, pinching his leg and willing himself to breath. The things he would do to you if you’d let him.

The group celebrates your front page article for the first time in a while together, and Clark hugs you, drawing a slow and tense breath from your lungs as you hold him back. You each shudder.

Clark silently promises to make the night of the gala up to you, and he conjures a plan up. He needed to fix this, he needed to tell you how he felt, and for the first time since childhood. He was going to tell someone his identity. God, he was whipped.

When you leave for the day, winking at Clark and telling him to say hi to Superman for you, Clark smiles like an idiot, he nods, “Get home safe, Cherry.” His heart continues to beat wildly in his chest as he watches you saunter away, happy.

He quickly gets to work.

You lie on your couch, sipping a celebratory bottle of wine, and giggle to yourself. Clark had hugged you; he had been proud of you. You were getting everything you wanted. You still cared about him, you knew it. Your emotions had run high the day before, causing you to speak some harmful words.

It made you cringe at what you'd said. But Clark didn't seem upset today. You needed to tell him how you felt. Putting the glass of wine on your table, you pull out your phone and click on your messages. You didn't know if it was the alcohol that gave you the courage, but you stood, pacing.

Maybe going to his place would be better? Yeah.

You quickly slip on some shoes, hardly noticing the fact that you hadn't taken off your face mask, and that you were only in a robe. Yep, definitely the alcohol.

You reach for the handle of your door, but a knock rings out, making you gasp in fright and clutch your chest. "Y/n? It's Clark!" His voice muffled through the door, you stood for a moment, frozen in the doorway, before you reached a hand down and opened the door.

There, Clark Joseph Kent stood in all his glory, a gift bag in hand, and a ridiculous look on his face at the sight of you. He immediately burst into laughter, and you fumed, "What?!" He struggled to speak between his fits of giggles and weakly pointed to your face. You reach a hand up to brush some crumbs off, when you feel the gooey substance of your face mask, and your jaw drops wide.

You quickly rip the sheet mask off your face and exclaim, "Eat shit, Kent!" You begin to laugh along with him. You let him in as he calms himself, a nervous and timid posture taking over the giddy one as his huge body makes its way to your couch. He sits in his favorite corner of it, glancing at the wine and making an 'ah-ha' look.

You take in the sight of him back on your couch, and your heart skips a beat. "What's the cause of your visit, Clark?" You ask, wiping the remainder of your mask off with a kitchen towel. He sighs, "Um... I just wanted to talk to you, and y'know, it's on the way."

"Yeah?" You ask, watching his eyes as they search yours. You sit on the coffee table across from him, meeting his gaze with your own, "Well, here I am."

"Here you are,'" Clark repeats, breathless and quiet, before clearing his throat and picking up the gift bag by his feet.

"I-I-uh, well. I got this for you. Hey wait! Before you open it..." He says, reaching for the bag and getting it out of your range as you go for it. You loved presents, he knew.

"...I'm sorry, Y/n, for being a dick, a total, utter dick to you. I should've, well, there are a lot of things I should've done." He starts, lowering his head in an ashamed posture. You watch, and reach a hand to his cheek, raising his jaw to meet your gaze.

"There are a lot of things I regret, too, Clark." You admit, eyebrows drawn together in worry, "It's not all your fault, it's mine too." He sighs, "We're idiots, and we should've talked it out from the start."

You smile, nodding, and he brings a hand to rest over the one on his cheek, thumb mindlessly rubbing at your skin. You breathe in quickly. Clark glances at your lips, "I should've told you how damn proud I was of you at that gala, sweetheart. I saw that guy, and I panicked. I was jealous." He whispered, giving you his best 'kicked puppy' look.

You gasp, "You were jealous? Clark, be serious. You had no competition." He smiles, matching the grin on your lips. "I'm not sure about that now, I hear Superman has a little crush on you," Clark sighs, leaning in defeat. Little do you know, he's going to milk this so well.

"Clark, be serious, in what world would a super fall in love with a journalist like me? And besides, I lied, slutty glasses are much more preferred." You giggle cheekily and boop his nose, knocking his glasses to the ground. "Oh, shit, sorry."

Clark smiles as he watches your small frame duck and retrieve his glasses from the floor, 'That's alright, ma'am." You gasp at the recognition of his deeper voice. You shoot up, glasses in hand. You take in the sight of Clark without his glasses, and you begin to understand. If he had his hair combed, maybe tighter clothes... oh god.

"Oh... my god." You stammer, eyes wide and taking in the sight. Clark Kent, your friend, your rival, wasn't Superman's best friend.

Clark Kent was Superman.

He takes a deep breath and reaches out, cupping your jaw and closing your mouth, which had hung open, "I know, sweetheart. I know."

You immediately burst into questions, to which he states, "Later, no, you can't tell anyone, yes, yes, no, hey! Calm down, Y/n." He tightens his grip on your jaw enough to make you pause. "I was terrified when I saw you on the floor of that corner store, sweetheart. I knew right then and there I had to fix things, that I had to tell you."

You nod, "Of course! It all makes sense now." He laughs and brushes a piece of your wild hair behind your ear. "I want you to open your gift now, honey. Can you do that for me?"

You agree after seeing his look, and pull the paper from the bag, grabbing the frame inside. Your eyes tear up at the gift. It's a framed copy of your first front-page article. You smile and hug it to your chest, looking up at Clark with glassy eyes. "Clark... I don't know what to say," He shushes you, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "This is what you deserved that night, Y/n. Not my jealousy. That night was about you, and I was selfish."

"I didn't make it any easier on you, Clark, I thought... thought that if I hid away from you, maybe you couldn't hurt me again, I'm sorry." You sniffle as you meet his eyes. He smiles softly, curling his finger under your chin and pulling it towards him.

"You can't hide from me, baby." He whispers, lips inches from yours. "Now, can I please give you the congratulatory kiss you so deserve?"

You nod, a tear streaking down your cheek as you finally kiss him softly and slowly. His lips meet yours like waves on the sand, natural, comforting, right. He smiles, teeth raking as he deepens it, pulling the frame from your hands and placing it down on the table with ease. His hands took their place on your chest.

One hand wraps around your back, crushing your frame against his own as he lifts you up and into his lap with zero effort. The other sneaks its way to your neck, gripping it with a soft intensity that makes you gasp into his mouth.

He uses it to touch his tongue to yours, finally tasting you. He groans, and his hand on your neck curls around the back, tangling into the strands of hair there. Clark pulls away to stare into your lust-blown eyes, "I love you." He whispers, heart racing, as he rests his forehead against your own.

You smile in disbelief, "I love you too, super-boy." Clark growls and smashes his mouth to yours. Your hands search his chest for the buttons, and you fidget, popping one open.

He breaks away again, looking down at your hands making quick work of his shirt and he pants. "I need you, Clark." You whisper, and his head whips up to look at you. "Course you do, baby. I'm here, I'm not leaving."

You moan at his confidence and kiss him again. Clark stands, you in his arms as he backs you into the hallway. He crashes you against the wall as a hand finds your breast. He squeezes it softly, groaning at the feel of it beneath his palm. "Bed..." You whimper, and he nods, throwing open the door and throwing you onto the mattress.

He kisses down your neck, his breath hot and heavy, and he leaves plenty of marks. 'Mine..." Clark whispers to himself, licking the vein on your right side, and continuing south. He helps you sit up, tearing the robe from your chest and unclipping your bra with zero hesitation.

When Clark's lips wrap around your nipple, you whimper, legs crashing around his middle and squeezing him closer. He chuckles, raising his head to peck your lips, "I know... I know, sweet girl. Feels good, yeah?" You whimper his name and groan, helpless as he attacks your chest with kisses.

"Gonna... make you... mine." He growls into your skin as he nips his way down your tummy, giving it quick attention, but not stopping. His breath fans over your panties, and he tongues the cotton. "Got one more way of celebrating, you baby, you gonna let me taste you?" He asks, looking up at you, as he drags his tongue over the fabric, barely rubbing your swollen clit. His eyes scream sin and sweetness.

You howl out an agreement, and he drags down your panties without another word, attacking your pussy with his mouth. His tongue feels like fire as it licks from the bottom to the top, and he moans into your pussy.

"You taste real good, Cherry." He growls as he licks around your folds, making an obscene mess of the area. His saliva drips down his chin, and he watches you twitch beneath his tongue. You squirm, legs tightening around his face, causing him to bring a hand to one thigh, pressing it towards your stomach, "Keep your legs up for me, baby, c'mon now. Let me enjoy my pussy." You moan and nod breathlessly, bringing one hand to hold your legs up for him, the other buried in his messy jet black hair.

He holds you down to the bed with his hands on your ass, squeezing as he devours you whole. His tongue licks up, making tedious circles on your clit, sucking and spitting. The sounds drive you wild, moans spilling out of your lips, "Clark! Oh- fuck. Oh god, Clark!" It only spurs him on, making him bring a finger to your hole, teasing around it, and finally burying it to the hilt.

You cry out, and he shushes you, arousal dripping from his chin, "I know, baby, it's big, but we've got to start somewhere. God, look at you, pretty thing. You're so good for me." He coos, letting his thumb make lazy strokes on your clit, and he comes up to kiss you.

You cry out for him, "Mmm... Clark! I lo-love you." He smiles, kissing you deeply and fucking you nice and slow with his middle finger, curling it until you see stars. "That's it, baby, you're mine." You babble, nodding and panting, "Yours, Clark... Y-yours."

He growls, "good girl," and picks up the pace on his hand as he fucks your pussy harder. Clark returns to your clit with his tongue, sloppily sucking and licking it like a madman.

"Want you to cum for me, Cherry girl, all over my mouth and hand. Can you do that f'me?" He muffles against your folds and adds his index finger, hoisting your waist up and hitting a new angle.

You see white and cum almost immediately, gushing into his mouth as he groans, sucking it all up. He fucks you through it, holding down your spasming legs and licking from bottom to top, adding one last peck on your clit. He lifts you into his arms, sucking off his fingers, and brushes your hair off your face. "So, so good for me, baby." You smile, fucked out, and tuck your head into his neck.

Clark sighs, "I love you, Cherry girl."

THANK YOU FOR READINGGGGGG! I've been so horny for this man y'all... Okay, anyways. Bye now!!

Reblogs and Comments save authors' livezzz

Pt. 2 out soon!

[vitoriadior]

SHE EATS ICE CREAM! (Part 2)

Clark Kent x Model!Reader

Where Clark Kent might be maybe a little jealous of that rumor of yours about you dating a movie star

Where Superman visits your balcony as a really pretty surprise, because he's definitely not jealous!

Part one here! Model!Reader series here

You could imagine Clark Kent in so many scenarios. Stopping robbers about to rob a bank like Superman, writing an article about the latest and most dangerous threat at his job at the Daily Planet, or even just going about everyday activities like any other adult: going for a morning run, trying to train his cousin's dog, reading a fashion magazine—of course, not just because you're in it.

But you definitely wouldn't dream of seeing him arguing with Cat about celebrity gossip. Of course, there was a big exception if the gossip was about you. About you dating a movie star.

"It's so fake and silly! you can't publish an article about false information! No—it's not ethical!" Clark followed Cat while he hurriedly adjusted his glasses, trying to convince the girl writing the gossip column that your rumor was a lie. A joke in very bad taste if you asked him.

"What's fake?"  Jimmy appeared next to Clark as Cat took a seat at her desk, ignoring the conversation between the two men. "Oh, the model and the movie star?" Clark nodded, his expression that of an indignant man asking for support from his best friend. "It's just gossip, right? They've been on everyone's mouth lately."

"Personally, I think they look great together! She's a very pretty girl, and he's very handsome. Apparently attractive people attract each other." Cat rolled her eyes at Clark's expression, deciding to ignore him. She sighed, thinking about the movie star you were rumored to be dating: tall, handsome, charismatic, and with a smile that made any girl's knees weak.

Clark Kent was in denial.

He was in his apartment, his eyes glued to his laptop, his brow furrowed, his nose wrinkled, growing more serious with each post he scrolled about people fangirling over your supposed relationship with that actor.

"He's not even that handsome," Clark grumbled to himself as he looked at a photo of you and the man at a movie premiere. Obviously, the man didn't know you well; it was clear just by the way he held your waist: roughly. Clark's blood boiled when he saw how he didn't treat you the way you deserved; he definitely wouldn't treat you like that. He knew you didn't like rough gestures; he would have gently held your waist, after asking your permission, like a true gentleman.

It was that and many more other publications. Clark was sure they were all gossip and rumors. Because Clark knew you: and he knew you'd never date a person like that actor.

Still, he couldn't help but feel jealous of seeing you smile at him.

His hand had unconsciously formed into a fist as he watched a clip of the actor making a flirtatious joke with you and you giggling back. What if maybe you were dating him? What if that special connection he felt with you was just his silly imagination?

Clark had already made several appearances in your life, of course under the Superman cape. Okay, not to be possessive or territorial, but you had admitted in an interview that you had a crush on Superman, and that you thought he was handsome, and kind, and sweet. (It's not like he has your words burned into his memory like you could carve them into stone.)

Superman 01—Movie Star 00.

Still, seeing you dedicate your time and attention to another man did something to him. He didn't want your voice to soften for any other man, nor for you to smile at him the way you smiled at him when he saved you from someone else. He wanted your attention for himself, he wanted your praise all for himself.

Clark felt childish.

And despite that, he quickly took off his glasses, transformed from Clark Kent to Superman, and flew out the apartment window almost in a hurry. He knew the address of your apartment: you had given it to him the day of the jewelry opening robbery, when he had graciously offered to drive you there. You lived in a nice area; no surprise that it was uptown. Your apartment had a balcony, which made everything much more convenient for Clark.

The balcony screamed yours. It had a beautiful view of Metropolis, and right there you had your flowers and plants so they could enjoy the sun.  Clark took three deep breaths when he reached the balcony of your apartment. You can do this, Clark. She likes you. She likes you more than that dumb actor.

Clark was about to fly over the balcony to touch the sliding glass door that led to the interior of your apartment: if it weren't for the curtains, anyone could see inside your home before you stepped out, wrapped in a half-open silk robe that gave a great view of your legs. The super man blushed immediately.

"Superman!" You said almost with the excitement of a little girl, covering your mouth with your hand once you realized you might have spoken too loudly. "What are you doing here?" You hurried to comb your hair, slightly embarrassed.

Your smile made Clark want to stay prostrate on your balcony forever. And by forever, he meant this life and all the others a man in love could have. And the way you were fixing your slightly disheveled hair, as if you wanted to look good for him!

"I—I wanted..." Clark searches for an excuse: but really, what could he possibly think of, when you were looking at him with those eyes that lately were driving him crazier than usual?  He wanted those eyes to always see him and only him. "I wanted... To make sure you weren't—you weren't in danger. You know, since you work for all those brands—maybe someone wants to hurt you."

"Of course, I wouldn't let that happen," Clark said after clearing his throat and returning to his confident demeanor.

"I wouldn't let anyone ever hurt you."

After a few more minutes of shy words between the two of you, you invited him in, taking his arm, Clark letting you direct and command him with more pleasure than he could admit. "Shall I get you something to drink?" Clark asked you for a glass of water before taking a seat on your couch, his eyes darting around your apartment. It was so much you that it didn't surprise him; in fact, a part of him loved it.

 A couple of magazines and a very pretty vase full of flowers on the coffee table in front of your couch caught Superman's eye: the one on top of them all was a celebrity gossip magazine with you and him (super movie ass star) on the cover. Clark grimaced in disgust, like a little kid who hates veggies.

"What's wrong?"  You took a seat next to him, placing the glass of water on the coffee table next to the magazines.

"It's nothing," Clark lied shamelessly, his nose still wrinkled before nodding at the magazine. "Everyone's been talking about it lately, haven't they? You and him." He did his best not to make another childish face when he said "him."

"Oh," you stared at the magazine for a few seconds and shrugged. "People like to talk, as usual. And the truth is, he really likes the attention media gives us." You let out a chuckle, which lightened Clark's mood at least a little, before noticing that the flowers on your coffee table had a dedication.

Him. Clark suddenly felt as if the combination of those flowers and the magazine cover were kryptonite in disguise. He felt weak.

"You're not dating him, are you?"  Clark wished that had come out less quickly than it actually did, he wished he hadn't sounded like a pathetic teenager. Still, his eyes were like a puppy's, waiting to hear your answer.

You shook your head as if you'd already been asked the same question six times in one day. "No, no. It's just stupid gossip." Your words felt like a personal victory. Of course you weren't dating him; Clark knew that from the start.

"So why—well, why the flowers?" Clark gestured to the flowers, trying not to sound like a possessive boyfriend or something. He wasn't supposed to have the right to ask you such things, wasn't supposed to have the right to be there, in your apartment, alone with you, suppressing that urge to kiss you senseless right there.

You shrugged as if dismissing it.  "I'm telling you, he loves attention." You stood up to move the vase somewhere where it wouldn't make you feel slightly embarrassed. "It's kind of his way of marking his territory."

Marking his territory.

Well, that was a game Superman could play, too.

"Hey," Jimmy greeted Clark as he passed by his desk. Clark's smile was contagious. "Cat's article is doing really well, and I haven't seen you complaining about it. Were you brainwashed?"

"Nope," Clark shook his head, smiling. "Nobody brainwashed me. Actually, that's not how it works, you know? Brainwashing was first mentioned by a journalist in 1950; it's the practice believed to be used by the government of always repeating and repeating—"

"You're such a nerd," Jimmy let out one last laugh before returning to his desk, leaving Clark alone with his goofy grin again. Why so happy anyway? Well, maybe he, under the Superman signature, placed an order for a flower arrangement to be delivered to your house this morning.

One flower arrangement. Or, well, maybe two. Or three. He doesn't even remember how many he ordered. The point is, he knew you'd love them, because who else but him knew all your favorite types of flowers? He had even spent a few minutes thinking about what to put on the card, it had to be especially perfect for you.

"Don't forget that you have someone who will always remember your favorite flowers. You deserve to be listen, and I always love to listen to you. Always yours—

Superman"

While Clark was working inside the Daily Planet building, not far from him, you were sitting in your apartment, surrounded by several large bouquets of all kinds. All your favorites, of course. It didn't go unnoticed, of course. The news that the most famous fashion model had recently received a bunch of flower arrangements at her apartment quickly spread through the gossip magazines. Did she have a secret boyfriend? Who was he? Does it have anything to do with the hero Superman visiting her balcony recently? Neighbors confirm it in an exclusive interview! Does Superman have a model girlfriend?

"So, these arrangements confirm your relationship with the movie star of the moment?"  Clark raised an eyebrow at the interviewer's question, feeling indignant from the comfort of his couch with the TV on in front of him.

"What? No, no!" You shook your head instantly, still smiling. "All those flowers were sent to me by someone else. Someone much more special to me. Someone more romantic, more tender." The entire audience burst into applause at your words. Clark blushed slightly, still smiling from his seat.

"May I happen to know who this romantic gentleman is?" To Clark's relief, you shook your head. "You know, some people say they've seen Superman outside your balcony, with a certainly charming smile."

"I'm so sorry. All I'll say is, if that romantic gentleman is watching me right now..." the camera focused on your face. "...I hope he knows he's made me feel like the luckiest woman in the whole city."  The audience let out a standing ovation that made the interviewer laugh.

"Okay, blow a kiss to your romantic gentleman, girl" Laughing, you blew a kiss to the camera focused on your face, continuing the interview with another topic, something about fashion week and heaven knows what else.

Clark was on cloud nine.

Now everyone knew you definitely weren't dating a movie star. And maybe, you only had eyes for Superman.

That you had someone special willing to give you all the flowers in the world as long as you smiled at him. Of course, nothing territorial or possessive

I honestly had no hope for the past part of this—I thought no one would like it! I was really happy to see that some people were even able to make it through part two, so here it is. It's not the best, but I promise to improve! 💓

To add u to my permanent Taglist 💗

Tag list: @officialcaptain @chamorunsmiles @elitesanjisimp @ohnaurshayla @starincarnated @yondiii @tickerbo @preciselyshifts