kentbot

[kentbot]

Girl your dick x reader fic is literally GOLD! Immediate follow bookie 😽😽

omg thank you so much!! i so much fun writing for him

and im def planning on more long fics 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[kentbot]

clark kent u will always be famous

[kentbot]

Been Like This

nightwing|dick grayson x fem!reader

𝘈𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 - 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺

wc: 3.7K

c/w: nsfw, 18+ minors DNI, yelling/toxic relationship dynamics, angst w happy ending, lowk pwp, jason todd gets cucked (sorry jason!)

a/n: Thank you so much for 50 followers!!! here's a celebration one shot for my favorite batfam member ;]

It’s cold and gloomy in Bludhaven when you arrive on the roof of Dick’s apartment, rain pouring down in sheets and casting the city in a shade so grey it rivaled typical Gotham skies. The rain cascades down in rivulets, drowning out sirens and making the city smell like metal and exhaust.

You think the weather matches your mood, arms crossed as you wait impatiently for the boy wonder to arrive.

Always like Dick to be late, after you’d both agreed on a time to meet. You think he’s doing it just to spite you - as if he hadn’t done that enough already.

You feel his eyes on you before you actually see him. You think he’d been watching from the shadows the whole time, making you wait because he’s a dick - no pun intended.

“You’re not fucking slick, Richard, get your ass out here.”

He waits a few beats, taking his sweet time before jumping off the awning he was hidden behind. He’s clad in his Nightwing suit, batons crossed behind his back, like he’d just come back from patrol.

“Hope I didn’t keep you long”. He’s smirking as he pushes the hair plastered on his forehead back with his hands, black curls wet and unruly. The characteristic whites of his mask are boring into you, his tense shoulders betraying the casual air of nonchalance he attempts to project.

You don’t smile back, crossing your arms as you size him up, him doing the same to you. He looks the same since you’d seen him last, still handsome and most definitely still an arrogant prick.

“You didn’t", you bite back, hoping he hears the venom in your reply. You’d been waiting for thirty minutes, but he didn’t need to know that.

He smiles like he knows you’re lying. You think he’s about to call you out on it, but you interrupt him before he can speak.

“Are we doing this or not?”, anger obvious and unbridled in your tone.

He shrugs like he doesn’t care and heads towards the entrance inside the building-his apartment building.

As you follow him down the stairs, you’re immediately pulled back to the last time you’d seen him, your last fight; his apartment upended, throats both raw from yelling at each other. You’d broken up a few times over the course of the relationship, tumultuous as it was, but you’d resolved to make this breakup the last.

You’d been trying to get the things you’d left at his apartment for weeks, setting up a time together, and then having him cancel last minute, each excuse more vague and unbelievable than the last.

When he’d cited “team-bonding” as the reason for his fourth cancelation, you had cursed him out. It was only after you’d threatened to break into his apartment and get your stuff yourself that he’d relented, finally agreeing to find time to meet you.

That’s how you find yourself with him on his doorstep at midnight, using the dark as cover to prevent any civilians spotting you both in your vigilante suits.

He pauses at his door, hesitating, hand hovering near the lock. “It’s a bit of a mess in there, it’s gonna take me some time to find your stuff.”

You bristle a bit, already irritated that this venture was going to take even more time than you’d wanted it to.

“You knew I was coming, why didn’t you just put my shit together beforehand?” You grit out, his back turned to you as he fishes out his keys.

“Too busy fighting crime, babe. The life of a vigilante”. He unlocks the door and steps inside, not waiting for you to follow him, knowing you always do did.

“I'm a vigilante too, asshole”, you say, stepping through the doorway into the familiar smell of his apartment, pinewood and allspice, with a hint of lavender underneath- still a bit you.

He ignores you as he moves further into his apartment, dropping his keys and mask on the table in the entryway.

You knew Dick was loaded, being on Bruce’s payroll, and later with what he was set to inherit from Alfred, but he still insisted on getting an apartment in the rundown part of town like he wasn’t a superhero nepobaby. You suspected he did this to pretend he was more like the people he saved, like cosplaying a poor person would absolve him of the fact that he’d attended private schools his entire life.

You ignore the feelings being in his space again brings up, opting to sit on a stool by the kitchen counter. Sitting on the couch would’ve felt too casual for the kind of visit this was. You needed to be detached, deliberate, distant.

“Get my shit Grayson”, you say, arms crossed against your chest as a defense against whatever is stirring in your heart.

He laughs like something about the situation is funny.

No hey, hi, hello?” he says, turning to face you. “It’s been months.”

You bring your hand up to your face and drag it down, feeling your irritation dissipate slightly in the warmth of his apartment.

“Dick, please. I don’t have the time or energy for this, just get my stuff so we don’t spend more time together than we have to.”

At your statement, you feel him tense, his mask of indifference falling when he addresses you again, “Six-year-long relationship, and that’s all you have to say to me?”

You don’t take the bait, leveling him with a hard stare. “We were on-and-off the entire time.”

He doesn’t flinch at your coldness, no reply on his lips. He leaves you in his living room then, heading into his room to gather your stuff before he says something he regrets.

You wait, frustration rolling off you in waves at the situation evident in your posture. He’s in there a while, almost having half a mind to follow him into his room and start grabbing your stuff yourself. As if on cue, he exits his room, hair dried and pulled back. He’s changed into a t-shirt and black sweatpants, a small box full of your stuff in hand.

So that was what was taking him so long. You bite your tongue to hold your retort back, not wanting to argue with him again.

He hands it to you and you place it on the counter, uncharacteristically quiet as he watches you rifle through it, checking to make sure everything was there, making sure you wouldn’t have to come back to this man’s apartment ever again.

“Where’s my knife?” You ask, hands continuing to search through the box.

He blinks, “What knife? You have, like, twenty”

He sounds tired and checked out, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. You almost felt bad, if not for the fact that he was the singular reason this was taking so long.

“The reinforced steel one. leather handle”, you don’t look at him as you speak, willing the knife to be in the box so you can be done with this whole ordeal.

He purses his lips as recognition crosses his face, knowing you’re not going to like what he says next. “Ah shit.”

You look up then, eyes narrowing as they meet his guilty ones. “What. What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t have it.”

“Where the fuck is it then?”

He pauses for a moment, watching you watch him, arms crossed again.

“At the Cave”

You groan loudly at his words, head tipping back in frustration.

“You can’t be serious. Why the hell is it at Mount Justice?”

He looks at you like you asked a stupid question. “It’s a weapon Vel. I wasn’t going to just leave it in my apartment for anyone to find.“

You feel your heart stutter at the use of your nickname, Vel, a shortened form of your longer vigilante name Velatrix. You don’t know what frustrates you more, the missing knife or the implication that he was having people over at his apartment frequently enough for it to be a concern.

So you latch onto what you can, lacing your tone with venom and spite to conceal your hurt.

“Don’t call me that”, you snap, the name ‘Vel’ sounding too much like a person who still trusted him.

“What the fuck else am I supposed to call you?” You feel more than see the mask of nonchalance slipping again, irritation evident in tone.

You scoff at his gall, biting back furiously. “You lost the right to call me that when you fucked your ex.”

Energized by your anger, he sheds the exhaustion previously written all over his form, his hands shooting up in ire. “You can’t be serious. We were on a break!”

You laugh bitterly, the same argument you’d had all those months ago replaying in your head like a tape.

Your rage fuels you as you reply. “So you figured the next best thing to do was to jump into bed with Barbara?”

He flinches, eyes wide for a split second before narrowing.

“I was drunk and you hadn’t spoken to me in two weeks! What the fuck was I supposed to do?”. He’s yelling now, too angry to keep his voice level. He was never good at hiding his emotions, not when it came to you.

“ANYTHING. ANYTHING BUT THAT!”, you yell back, eyes boring into his.

He scoffs and paces back into his living room, you already hot on his heels, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, turning back to you with a sneer on his face.

“Don’t act like you’re completely innocent in this situation either.”

“What the fuck are you talking ab-”

“I know you’re fucking Todd, don’t even try to lie to me.”

You freeze — just for a second. It’s quick, a flicker. But he sees it: the way your mouth parts, the way your eyes flash wide before they narrow again, fury rushing in to cover the guilt.

“We were broken up”, you say, voice tight, like you’re trying to push the guilt away.

It had happened that night. The night you’d stormed out of this very apartment, heart still bleeding from the fight that ended everything. Jason had just been... there. Rougher, quieter, easier in a way Dick never was. You’d told yourself it was just to prove a point, a final fuck you to the boy who’d irreparably broken your heart. But then it happened again. And again.

“He’s my fucking brother V”. His voice has quieted now too, hurt obvious and raw across his face.

“We. weren’t. together.” Each punctuated syllable like a punch to the gut.

Voice rising again, he shakes his head in disappointment.

“You could’ve picked literally anyone. Anyone. Why’d it have to be Jason?”

Your face twists, ugly and mean, and he knows you’re about to say something cruel.

“Would you rather it have been Wally?”

“Wow.” The smile on his face holds no humor. “Real mature V, real fucking mature.”

He continues before you can get a word in, scoffing. “You know I can own up to the fact that I fucked up when I slept with Barb, but at least it only happened once”

Your mouth drops open, shock and rage written across your face.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to take the moral high-ground in this situation”, you seethe, finger jabbing at his chest. “You don’t get to play the fucking victim here, Dick”

His hand comes up to grab your wrist, not rough, but firm, almost instinctual, something softening in him the second he makes contact with your skin.

He sighs as he looks at you, all the fight leaving his face on the next exhale.

You turn your face away to avoid the look on his, trying weakly to pull away from him.

“Fuck you Dick, let me go”, you say, exhausted, no fire in your voice anymore.

He’s silent as he has his free hand to turn your face towards him, thumb wiping away tears you didn’t know were falling.

“I hate you”, you whisper, but it sounds like a lie.

“No,” he says softly. “You don’t.”

And then he moves. One hand slipping from your wrist to the small of your back, pulling you toward him like gravity’s decided on your behalf.

He’s angling his head towards yours slowly, waiting for you to tell him to stop or push him away.

But you don’t, because you’re weak, and you missed him more than you would ever admit to yourself.

When his lips finally reach yours, he breaks, kissing you with the fervor of a man starved.

You kiss him back with the same intensity, fingers tangling in his now dry hair.

The warmth of his body is stark against the cool of your suit, still wet from the rain.

You shiver now, his warm hands traveling up your body with practiced precision, the action of a man who knows your body.

Dick moves first, maneuvering you both towards the couch without breaking the kiss; sitting and pulling you to straddle him.

No words are exchanged, just want and desperation, evident in the hardness of him against your thigh and the slickness between your thighs.

His hand moves from your hips to the hidden zipper at the back of your suit, kissing your neck as he frees more and more of your skin.

“Fuck, I missed you so much”, he mutters against your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise and sending a pang of heat right down to your core.

You don’t reply to him, but the moan you try to muffle with your hand is answer enough for him, mouth leaving your neck to get the suit fully off the top half of your body.

He’s on you again quickly, his hot mouth reattaching to your clothed nipple, tongue laving over the fabric.

You try to muffle your moan again, hand coming up again, but he’s quicker than you anticipate, grabbing your hands and keeping them in place before sucking again.

“Fuck”, it’s broken, low, and desperate, and you might have been embarrassed if he wasn’t making you so fucking horny.

“Grayson, touch me, please.” You try to move, but your hands are still pinned behind your back by his, mouth already working on the other nipple.

He releases you with a pop, blue eyes blown with lust, peering up to stare into yours.

“Ah ah ah, say my name princess.”

You try moving to spite him, attempting to get some friction against your clothed cunt, but he moves you again, leaving you wet and burning.

“Fuck you Richard”, you breathe, trying, but failing to break out of his hold.

He brings his face closer like he wants to kiss you, pulling away at the last second to make you follow him again.

“You will. If you say my name”

“Dick, please”, you say, voice hitching at the last word.

“That’s my girl”. He’s on you again quicker than your register. Kissing you again, with one hand on your breast, and the other slipping into the bottom half of your suit.

You gasp at the return of his touch, hips lifting to grant him easier access.

He groans into your mouth when he feels your wetness against his hand, bare against the tightness of the suit. “No panties?”

You ignore him initially, too focused on grinding against his palm while trailing your hands on his bare chest under his shirt.

“Shut up”, but your words are undercut by your kisses and your hands moving up to finally take off your bra.

Once your breasts are free, you realize you want him shirtless too.

“Wait”, you say, hands finding his hair to pull firmly, stopping Dick’s unhampered exploration.

You step backwards off his lap slowly, letting him watch you as you stand and finally shed your suit, now completely bare to him as you take your time resettling in his lap.

You help him shed his shirt next, your arms returning to his broad chest, full of scars and reminders of your dangerous line of work, subconsciously tracing the line and ridges you’d come to know so well.

His hands are back on you again once his shirt is off, one hand moving to the back of your neck to bear your throat to him, while the other finds your cunt again, thumb beginning to massage your swollen clit.

“Dick, please, I-”. You’re at a loss for words, feeling the pleasure jolt up your spine from how much you missed this, how much you missed him.

“What is it princess? tell me.” His other hand at one breast, kneading the soft flesh, while his mouth was on the other, sucking with intent to leave marks.

“I want-”, you swallow, shame in your mind clouded by the heat coiling in your gut, “I need you inside me”

He doesn’t hesitate—two fingers push inside you while your hips grind harder against his palm

You both moan at the intrusion, easy with how wet and ready you are, melting in his hand like putty.

“Fuck baby.” He’s thrusting his fingers up shallowly now, teasing you, as you ground yourself with your hands on his shoulders. “All this for me?”

You don’t respond, pulling his face up by his hair to trap him in a violent kiss.

Again, he reads you like a book, too emotionally raw to say what you mean, instead using your actions as a confession.

If that’s all you give him, he’ll take it gratefully, angling his fingers to thrust harder as he starts to hit the spot that will have you undone.

You whine into his mouth, taking your pleasure from him with your hand still wrapped in hair, and the other snaking down to his waistband, where you begin to palm him through his sweatpants.

You start to feel the orgasm build in your gut as he assaults your g-spot, thumb unrelenting on your clit. He’s whispering filth into your ear, making you wetter, needier, and more desperate. Years of practice made him skilled, working your body like it’s his own.

“Dick, I’m close”, you say, hips moving faster against his hand, “I’m so close.”

“Yeah?” He brings his face up to look at yours, eyes already screwed shut in pleasure from the pressure, already reaching your peak.

His thumb pinches your clit, mouth returning to your nipple to suck hard

“Come for me princess.”

And you do, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, knowing you’re already damned. He fucks you through it gently, waiting for you to come down from the high.

He pulls his fingers out of you, as you hiss at the emptiness. Popping the digits in his mouth, he sucks your arousal clean off him before drawing you in for a kiss. You taste your arousal on his tongue, sighing as he grinds your cunt against his clothed dick.

“V.” You wait a bit, feeling your pride chip away when he looks at you, icy blues wide and earnest, heart on his sleeve. “Can I fuck you, please?”

Your answer comes in the form of you pushing down his sweatpants to free his dick, not even bothering with fully taking it off.

Hands on your hips, he positions you to glide his length through your slick, moaning every time his tip catches on your entrance. “You’re perfect, V.”

His lips are on your neck again, adding to the superbloom of marks that he’d left there earlier with his teeth and tongue.

“I’m never letting you go again.” He says it sacred, vows whispered into your skin like a promise he intends to keep. It scares you more than you can admit.

You almost tell him that this won’t happen again, that this is the last time he’ll ever get to see and touch you in this way, feel you in this way, but your mind goes blank, mouth falling open as he finally, finally, sinks into you.

The feeling of fullness is heady and immediate. You feel him everywhere, burning up with the desperate need to be close to him.

“See, you were made for me.” He’s moving now, your hands digging into his shoulders as you fall into synchrony with his movements.

You can’t help but agree, especially when he was fucking you this good. He was your first in every way that mattered. Six years of history between you both, culminating on his dingy couch in his run-down apartment.

The only things that fill the space are the sounds of skin hitting skin, panted breaths and whispered admissions, reminiscent of so many nights you would spend in this very same place.

It’s hard to string together words or coherent sentences, subject to his touch and his alone. He changed his pace frequently, slowing down to tease you, speeding up just to watch your eyes roll in your head.

You don’t even bother hiding your moans now, too gone to even consider how you looked and sounded. He was getting you closer and closer to your peak, legs struggling to keep up.

He takes over for you, hand on your hips directing you to meet his perfectly timed thrusts, while the other is rubbing your clit in fast circles.

Pressing his lips to your temple, he whispers the softest “I love you,” stopping you from responding by capturing your lips with a brash kiss.

You come like that, hands gripping his shoulders so hard you thought you would break skin. You collapse on his chest, him desperate for his release as he keeps moving, fucking you through your orgasm, your core spasming tightly around him.

Dick’s orgasm hits him like a freight train, painting your walls white with ropes and ropes of his come. You still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm with every aftermovement, core heightened and overstimulated.

His lips find yours again, kissing you softly as you both come down, bodies sweaty and still connected.

“I love you too’”, the admission is quiet, between the two of you, but you know it’s honest. He’s looking in your eyes again, hands drawing shapes on your back, nervous tick he could never get rid of.

“Stay.” He takes a few beats, letting the word sit, breaths still coming hard. “Please”

You forgo answering for the last time, instead reaching up with your hand to hold his jaw instead.

And when you press a soft kiss to his lips, he knows your answer is yes.

a/n: find me on a03 at the same user, all likes, comments, and reblogs appreciatedddd

[kentbot]

— kiss me like nobody else does

clark kent x fem!reader

summary; you and clark are paired during a night out in the field with the rest of your team at the daily planet and you find yourselves in a bit of a tight spot; not the best place to be stuck with your brick wall of a journalist colleague, but you digress.

warnings; making out, fem reader, corenswet!clark, very obviously unedited and rushed!

author's note; i read somewhere that corenswet!clark doesn’t wear his suit under his clothes and im choosing to ignore this for fic purposes. such is the dc way.

A few lights buzz dimly overhead in your office space at the Daily Planet, casting pale halos across your scattered piles of papers, empty coffee cups and reflecting off the glow of the computer screens right into your burning eyes. It’s way past the end of your shifts, but nobody is thinking of leaving the bullpen. Instead, the five of you are camped out like war correspondents minus the gunfire, add in the vending machine snacks.

“Okay,” Jimmy yawns, burying his face in his hands as he sinks further down his chair. “If I stare at these tax records any longer, I’m going to start dreaming in numbers and spreadsheets.”

Lois doesn’t even glance up from her position on the floor next to you and Clark, and her words come out slightly muffled around the pen balanced between her teeth. “Good. Maybe you’ll come up with the true meaning of ‘unreported foreign income’ in your sleep and save us all weeks of work.”

Cat is perched on the edge of her desk, her hair still maddeningly perfect and you self-consciously smooth down your own. “Could be worse. At least there’s a party to look forward to. Even if the host is a tax evading, corrupt politician.”

“A party that we’re all going to be falling asleep at tomorrow if we don’t head home now,” you say, sitting up and stretching hard enough to make a few cracking noises. “God, what’s the time?”

“2:15,” Clark mumbles, his eyes scanning over his notes. His hand lifts absently, as if to remove his glasses, but his fingers simply hover near the frames like he’s fighting muscle memory before they drop back to his side. You’re about to make a joke about how his optometrist isn’t here watching him, and that he can take his glasses off for a minute or two, but your eyes catch on his colourful flashcards.

“I better not see those tomorrow, Smallville. We don’t need a repeat of our last undercover assignment.”

Immediately, a blush dusts over his cheeks and you nearly catch yourself smiling in your sleep-deprived state. Despite the tips of his ears going red, he sounds indignant. “We’re not even undercover this time. We’re literally there with press access.”

“Technicalities,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “How many times do I need to remind you we’re going in as press and then hiding any evidence of the fact so we can snoop. That means you can’t trip over nothing and let your flashcards with the blueprints on them fall out of your pockets and all over the floor this time.”

The others immediately start cracking up and Clark sits up straight. “Okay, that was one time. And you’re leaving out the part where it provided a great distraction for Superman to come out the second they started pointing guns at us and everyone else in the warehouse.”

“True,” Jimmy pipes up. He couldn’t stop talking about that night for weeks after it happened. “He was pretty awesome.”

“Hey, you should get some stealth tips from your boyfriend to avoid things like this in the future,” you nudge him with your elbow and smile innocently at his blank expression.

“Really? Boyfriend?”

Cat snorts into her fist, but Lois schools her own expression and joins in the bit straight away. “Well, there has to be a reason he’s always giving you interviews, right? You’re the only guy in the world who says ‘golly’ unironically. That has to be a turn on for someone.”

“Hm,” you agree, picking up the cup of coffee nearest to you and fighting a grin. “Maybe his type is just 6’4, earnest, kind, dorky journalists with puppy dog eyes.”

You try not to choke on a laugh as you take a swig of lukewarm coffee, freezing mid-sip. “Oh my God,” you shudder, forcing yourself to swallow and immediately gagging afterwards. “Can we please get Lois her own cup with a neon warning sign so the rest of us can avoid multiple cavities?”

“My bad.” She winces, taking her cup back and drinking deeply without so much as a shudder.

Clark’s broad shoulders shake with barely contained laughter from beside you and you consider taking back the word ‘kind’ when he shrugs at your glaring face. “Can’t say you didn’t deserve that. Also, I’m only 6’1. Also, did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m just a good journalist?”

“Nope,” you deadpan, not missing a beat. “Also, I didn’t peg you for a liar,” you respond, mocking him with as much ire as you can.

He rolls his eyes, but it bugs you more than you let on.

You’ve noticed the way Clark tries to make himself look smaller with the way his posture is bad enough to rival your own. But there’s no way he’s any shorter than 6’4 and you’d bet good money on it. Call it good journalistic instinct or stalker tendencies, but he’s not exactly easy to miss. It’s not like you’ve been staring at him.

You’d also mention the fact that his slightly oversized clothes do nothing to hide his huge biceps every time he reaches over your desk to steal a pen, but at the risk of getting written up by HR, you refrain and keep it to yourself.

Cat hops off her desk and her heels make a loud clacking noise that has everyone grimacing in the otherwise silent office. “Okay, we’ve done as much as we can tonight,” she declares, picking up her bag with a sigh. “I’m going home and getting my much needed beauty sleep. I suggest the four of you do the same.”

“I’m right behind you,” Jimmy says, shoving his notes unceremoniously into his briefcase. Lois does the same and you reluctantly start packing your own things.

“Well, that’s my cue to leave too,” you mumble through a yawn and shrug on your jacket. “Don’t leave me alone with Boy Scout and his love for municipal law.”

Clark’s lips twitch. “I do enjoy a good public records database.”

The fact that he’s pretending not to be sincere about the fact is almost endearing. You can begrudgingly admit that to yourself. Outwardly, you scoff and ignore the fact that he’s following you out with a teasing grin, close behind.

“Everyone clear on what to do?” Lois asks, pointlessly — you’ve all gone through the plan five times in the past half hour. “Cat chats up the senator or anyone in his near vicinity, including the PR manager to get the event schedule. Jimmy takes candids for cover. I’m going to create a distraction for the guards—”

“And Clark and I sneak upstairs and break into the senator’s office,” you finish for her. “Go time?”

“Go time,” Cat rolls her shoulders like she’s about to square up before walking off with all the confidence in the world.

The others break away to do their respective jobs and you and Clark make your way to the alcove near the exit to await Lois’ confirmation text to slip upstairs. As soon as your phone dings, you tap Clark on the arm and begin walking away, all without looking up from your device as you put it on silent.

He follows you dutifully, glancing behind every now again to keep watch as you rush up the stairs. The upper floor is darker, quiet save the sound of your heels clicking too loud for your liking on the sleek marble floors.

You stop abruptly when you notice the ostentatious door standing out from the others and Clark clumsily bumps into your back, nearly knocking you over.

“Oh, shoot, sorry,” he whispers, steadying you by the waist, but you’re barely paying attention, reaching for your purse and digging around for any old loyalty card in your wallet. “Uh, what’s that for?”

“For Plan A,” you mutter, sliding it into the space between the door and the frame, right above the handle. You wiggle it around for a second, tilting and angling the card with no particular method, praying it works. “Please open, please open, please— Ha!”

The door opens miraculously and you fight the urge to do a victory dance as Clark watches with wide eyes. “Huh… What was Plan B?”

“Getting you to break the door down, obviously.”

You don’t wait for an answer as you barge into the room and head straight for the cabinets while Clark heads for the desk and starts scanning it with his eyes like he’s trying to look straight through the wood. By the time you’ve turned around properly, his glasses are back on and you find yourself wishing you’d looked a little earlier, suddenly wondering what his face looks like without the dark frames.

He seems to settle on one particular drawer, jimmying it open with a crack and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re wondering what kind of idiot senator has such lax security measures protecting his documents. Surely he could afford some stronger drawers.

“Look at this,” he says, voice low as he holds up a receipt stapled to a glossy invoice. “Private jet to a development site in Dubai. Paid for by the foundation tied to his campaign manager.”

“I’ve seen this account name somewhere else… This is good stuff, Kent.”

“I think this is all we need from here,” he decides, folding it up and taking your purse to neatly tuck it away. You let him, too busy looking at him like he’s gone crazy. “What? There’s probably not much else on paper.”

“What are the chances that we can get into his computer using ‘Password123’?”

Clark opens his mouth to reply before he abruptly cuts himself off. He grabs your arm, and steers you to the door. “Security’s on their way.”

”What? How do you—?”

Heavy boots clatter up the stairs along with the sound of voices, making you straighten up and practically run out the door.

Your stomach drops when you realise they’re coming from both sides of the hallway and without thinking too much about it, your eyes latch onto a door that reads ‘Supplies’ and you shove it open, dragging Clark in there with you and twisting the lock.

Immediately, you feel the lack of space as you’re surrounded by stacked boxes and shelves and trolleys and him. You press your back to the wall, but his body is inches from yours, warm and solid and tense like he’s painfully aware of the limited air between you.

“6’2, my ass,” you whisper, trying to angle your body so you’re not shoved completely against him. It does nothing and Clark sighs, gently holding you in place before letting go to raise his arms to steady himself against the wall above your head, giving you a little bit more space to move. “God, how are you so… large?”

“Maybe you’re just small,” he retorts, sounding like a petulant child.

“Good one, Clark,” you deadpan. “You should write that one down on one of your flashcards.”

Through the crack under the door, you see shadows moving near the office door and guards doing a sweep of the room inside and out. Voices murmur. “Nothing. Probably just noise from downstairs.”

“I think they’re leaving,” you whisper, straining to hear.

Clark stays staring at the door, quiet.

“I heard them go. They’re—”

“They haven’t left,” he says softly, furrowing his brows.

You freeze. “What?”

“I think they heard us in here. They’re faking it and waiting outside the door.”

“How the hell do you know that, Clark?” you whisper-yell, practically looking up at him. The second you hear some shuffling, you realise he’s right and your brain kicks into plan mode. “Shit. Okay. Don’t freak out, Smallville.”

You start to muss up his hair and tilt his glasses slightly so they sit crookedly on his face before you move to loosen his tie, using it to pull him down a little closer to your level. “Uh, okay. Freak out about what? And what are you… Oh—”

You try your best not to process the feeling of his entire body shuddering against you as you press a firm kiss to the side of his neck that’s in the line of sight to anyone entering the closet, leaving an obvious mark in the shade of your lipstick.

“I— I don’t… Wh—” he can barely stammer out a sentence and you wish you had the time to appreciate how much of a mess he’s become from a few pecks to the neck and cheek. Most of all, you wish you had the time to make fun of him from being such a Kansas farm-boy type. His eyes become glassy the second you slip the strap of your dress down your shoulder. “What a-are you doing?”

“Oh, relax,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “You never seen a bare shoulder before? Quick, lift me up onto the shelf, so I can reach.”

He obeys immediately, like it’s a reflex with the way his large hands automatically wrap around the sides of your waist and pick you up like you weigh nothing to settle you onto the uncomfortable metal rings. “Reach what?”

You sigh when his hands go respectfully back to his sides and so you pick them up and settle them right back onto your hips, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer than the already unforgiving distance. As soon as you do this, Clark lets out a shuddering breath like the wind has been knocked out of him and his eyes never once leave your hips. Exactly where his hands are firmly squeezing.

It’s professional, you tell yourself. Just… good, old-fashioned, professional journalism when you’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, eyes focused on his chest so you don’t get distracted by your lipstick marks on his milky white skin, or the way his blue eyes are as dark as you’ve ever seen them right now.

He isn’t exactly stopping you, and so you unbutton as far down as you can before a flash of blue and red lycra stops you in your tracks. “Oh my God,” you exhale, fingers frozen at his chest.

“What?” he murmurs, dazed as he glances up at your face. There’s no time for him to realise what you’re looking at because there’s a sudden rattling of the doorknob and you hastily button his shirt back up before threading your fingers in his hair and using your grip to pull him closer. He swallows hard.

“Make it look real, Kent,” you breathe out and as soon as the door breaks open, you’re pressing your lips against his and kissing him deeply.

It’s clumsy at first, considering the way you’ve practically attacked him, but the second your hand trails down to his jaw, it’s like he’s jumping into action with the way he slants his lips against your own. All for the job, you repeat in your head like a mantra in an attempt to justify the way you’re making little noises when he kisses you back like he’s getting graded.

“Hey,” a voice booms out through the now open door, but thankfully Clark follows your lead and acts like he doesn’t even notice them. “Hands up where we can— Ah, what in the hell is this?”

The way he’s kissing you is so Clark and it has you melting against him. Your hands slide down his chest to the sides of his arms where you grip his biceps that you absolutely knew would be as firm as they are, despite his ill-fitting suits.

The men outside of the closet are complaining under their breaths like they’re not getting paid enough to deal with this kind of thing, but you want to be as convincing as possible and so you ignore them completely. Instead, you kiss Clark even deeper, slipping your tongue into his mouth. Immediately, he allows you entry and lets out a low moan like you’re completely alone.

It takes you off guard and heat pools in your lower stomach, because damn, he’s convincing.

“Hey, break it up!”

Clark moves his lips against yours hungrily, his breath catching when your chest rises up to press against his front, your hips slotting perfectly between his own. The movement spurs him to lift one of your legs so it’s further settled up his waist and his hand stays at your upper thigh, pushing your dress up with the motion.

“NOW!”

The sound of a fist banging against the door makes you jump and you whip your head around and act like you only just noticed the two guards in your presence. Clark still has his eyes shut and his forehead rests against your temple as you’re turned away from him. He’s breathing even heavier than you.

“Oh my goodness,” you laugh, weakly, smoothing down your hair in faux embarrassment. “We are so, so sorry. We just needed some, uh, privacy.”

One of the guards looks at you incredulously. “You can’t be here, lady! Find it elsewhere.”

“Of course,” you exhale, smiling apologetically as you fix the strap of your dress and tug the fabric down your legs. You tap Clark’s forearm and he leans back slowly and lifts you by the waist again to set you down. “We’ll just be on our way. Uhm, sorry again.”

Grabbing Clark’s hand, you tug him behind you as you speed-walk down the hall and the staircase. The air cools you down a little and once your head clears, you shove Clark into yet another tight space in a little alcove beneath the stairs where you’re sure no one is listening.

You look up at him and your breath is nearly taken away when you notice his pupils are completely blown, there’s a flush going all the way down his neck and his lips are bitten and swollen. Worst of all, his eyes are glued to your mouth.

It takes a lot of self control to snap out of it, but you somehow manage to. “So. Are we going to talk about it?”

Clark blinks, eyes flickering back up to meet your own. Once your words register in his mind, he takes a deep sigh. “Yeah… yeah I guess we should.”

Tapping your foot against the marble, you cross your arms and raise an expectant brow. “Well?”

“Okay, here goes,” he murmurs, nodding like he’s trying to convince himself that speaking is a good idea. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And you kissing me like that was probably the worst thing you could have done, because I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to recover from it now. Like, seriously, it’s replaying in my mind as we speak and maybe kissing you back like that was wildly inappropriate, but you’re a really good kisser and I really like you—”

“Wait, what?” you cut him off, head spinning from his words. “I wasn’t talking about the kiss! I was talking about the fact that either it’s laundry day and you’re wearing a blue swimsuit to substitute your underwear, or…”

You trail off, looking pointedly at his chest and signaling in the shape of an ‘S’.

Clark’s jaw goes slack and he looks down like he’s making sure his shirt is buttoned up. It still is, thanks to your previous forethought, but it has you realising that he still doesn’t know that you know.

“Smallville,” you inhale, pinching your nose bridge. “Are you telling me you were so affected by a couple of pecks that you still haven’t realised that I know you’re— him?”

He’s silent for a second. “It’s entirely possible.”

“Oh my God, I knew it!” you say, fighting a derisive laugh. “Well, I mean… I heavily suspected. And doubted a lot. But the thought was there, so it counts!”

Clark winces, burying his face in his hands like he’s hiding. “You knew?”

“Come on, Clark,” you scoff. “You clearly don’t need glasses. You’re the only one who gets interviews with the guy — which, can I just say, is definitely toying with the boundaries of journalistic ethics. You’re built like a tank. You also mysteriously disappeared during that one shootout when Superman suddenly appeared and then you came back as soon as he left!”

“You noticed I went missing?”

“I—” Shaking your head, you come to another realisation tonight and think that it’s only fair to be as honest with him and he’s being with you. “Of course I noticed, Clark. Whether I choose to or not, I always notice you. God, it only makes sense that you’re Superman, I mean you’re just so good. As Clark, you’re always kind and polite and unwavering in your beliefs and… Yeah. I noticed.”

You finish the sentence off lamely, suddenly very aware of the silence between you both. You’ve never been one for long silences and eventually you decide you’ve had enough. “Are you going to say something?”

“I notice you too,” Clark whispers, looking at you in awe. The man from another planet, who could probably hang out amongst the stars any day he chooses, is looking at you like you’ve personally hung them all in the sky. A slow smile begins to grow on his face and your chest aches at how beautiful he is. “Sometimes, you’re all I notice.”

“I know,” you say teasingly, stepping closer to cup the side of his jaw with your hand. “It’s super creepy, Smallville.”

His grin only widens and you’re mesmerised with only one thought in mind.

“Can I?” you ask, gesturing at his glasses. He nods straight away, like he doesn’t even have to think about it and the trust he has in you makes you want to melt into a puddle there and then.

The second the specs leave his face, he’s just as beautiful. Just as striking. And so very Superman.

“There he is.”

[kentbot]

Thanks for being patient while I write guys, summer school is kicking my ass 😔

Hopefully planning to have 4th chapter out by end of this week

[kentbot]

needed this

you can see it with the lights out

clark kent x fem reader 5.5k

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

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

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

i. meant just for you

KANSAS, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD.

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

He makes it so hard to believe, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? He’s a good player!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sends a stab into your heart. 

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh softly at the reminder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You would let him crawl in. 

You would keep him warm. 

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

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

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

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

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

Just friends. 

ii. he says, "look up"

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

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

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

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

And you love him anyways. 

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

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

Clark Kent is not in love with you.) 

“I need to tell you something.” 

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

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

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

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

Just listening to his soft breaths is enough. 

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

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

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

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

Shame. You didn’t really mind it. 

“I’m Superman.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can prove it if you want me to.” 

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

— 

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

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

You miss Smallville. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some things never change. 

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

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

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

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

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

Metropolis is cold in the wintertime. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hope he’s not listening too closely. 

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

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

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

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

“I missed you.” 

— 

“It says here—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pinches his mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. 

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

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

“Knock yourself out, Prince Charming.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not.” 

“You’re about to.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark Kent is home, and you are in love. 

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

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

[kentbot]

LIKE HELLO

I've not seen such a sl*tty Clark with his Lois since Smallville.

[kentbot]

i need him so bad its concerning at this point

[kentbot]

Novelty

Superman | Clark Kent x Reader

Chapter 3

a/n: reader is formally introduced FINALLY, and chapters are getting longer :}

word count: 2k

previous | next

It was only Tuesday, but Clark Kent was already having a shitty week.

The buzz and chatter of the Daily Planet only serve to worsen the growing headache that his work and “extracurricular” activities were providing him.

For the past two days, Clark had spent the better part of them trying to prevent villains from wrecking Metropolis. Every time he took a threat down, he felt like the next one popped up even stronger and harder to subdue.

In just the past three weeks, he’d already taken down more bad guys than he had in his year as Superman, yet public tension was still escalating regarding his “recklessness” with public property. Last night the Galaxy Broadcasting Station called him a “super-powered bowling ball”, and videos had already begun circulating Twitter of him getting knocked into a Metropolis skyscraper with the hashtag “superfail”. It wasn’t as bad as some of the other ones, but it still stung.

On top of all that, Clark needed to have an article submission by Perry’s desk by the end of the day, already behind because of the constant distractions outside of work.

He was so distracted by his work that he barely noticed the Chief rounding on the office, introducing the new journalist who wrote the article about Superman’s epic failures in public property protection.

“OK, Everyone, this is the new hire joining the journalism team. She’ll primarily be focusing on meta-human affairs with a specialization in private and government intervention.”

Tuning Perry out as he makes the final edits to his article, only acknowledging your presence when you step up to introduce yourself to his corner of the office.

Recognition sparks in his memory, watching as the beautiful sharp-tongued reporter from last week introduces herself as the newest addition to the Daily Planet's journalist roster. When Perry moves aside, you step up to say your first and last name, Clark subconsciously letting an accusatory “You!” fall from his lips.

His outburst catches your attention, your practiced gaze turning to him as you cock your head thoughtfully. “Have we met?” You ask, careful and calculating.

Clark's lips thin, trying his best to school his face into one of indifference. “You’re the one who wrote the Superman article that’s being published soon,” he states, no question in his tone.

Recognition alights in your memory then, blank face morphing into a cheshire smile as Clark waits for your answer. “Ah yes, you must be Clark Kent then, big blue’s fanboy at the Planet”.

At your comment, Lois snorts into her coffee, Jimmy’s mouth dropping to his chin, turning his chair to neglect the photospread he was working on.

“AHA”, Perry laughs at the dig, patting your back as he wipes a tear from his eye, “I like her already!”

Clark is not so amused, watching in quiet frustration as Perry assigns you a desk right across from Lois, and directly in his line of sight.

Chief uses his final moments with the staff to antagonize Clark more as he walks away. “I needed that article on my desk yesterday for review, Clark. Get on it.”

Coworkers begin to crowd you as you settle into your station, as Clark reluctantly returns to his work, the incessant chatter of the office now rising because of your arrival, made ten times worse by his superhuman hearing.

“Hello beautiful”, Jimmy leans on the corner of your desk in a way you could only faux-sav, grinning at you as you attempt to fix up your desk. “The name’s James Olsen, but all my friends call me Jimmy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, James ”, replying smoothly as you place your “Gotham Gazette” coffee mug on the desk

“Ouch,” Lois laughs, pushing past Jimmy to extend her hand for a formal greeting.

“Lois Lane, glad to have you on the team.”

You smile back at her, taking her hand in a firm handshake, “Lois, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m a big fan of your work.”

She beams at you, letting her hand drop as she finds a spot to settle near your desk.

Everyone takes turns introducing themselves, except one, Cat Grant almost bowling you over when she captures you in a tight hug.

“Clark, get over here and introduce yourself”, Jimmy calls, oblivious to the tension between the pair of you.

Clark’s shoulders hunch before he looks up from his work, content to have stayed out of the conversation.

Steeling himself in an attempt to establish some sort of civility in your professional relationship, Clark stands up to walk over to your desk.

“Lois was right about what she said earlier, we’re lucky to have you at the Daily Planet.” He gives a small smile before continuing, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

You watch him carefully with unrelenting eyes, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being earnest with his words.

You return the smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, “Thanks. I’m sure we’ll be working together a lot since we cover the same topics”.

“I’ll be looking forward to it”, Clark says, seeing the challenge in your eyes and refusing to back down.

So much for workplace civility.

─────────────────────

The next time Clark is late to work, it’s because he’s getting slammed by into the Zesty Cola skycraper by a large fire-breathing kaiju - the second one in two weeks.

God, Perry is going to kill him. At least he was on his lunch this time.

The previous kaiju attack had taken out half of Centennial Park and had taken him and the Justice Gang two hours to subdue. Now he was going to deal with the media reporting on the damage to the headquarters of one of the most beloved cola brands in Metropolis.

Thankfully, this kaiju only took him thirty minutes to handle, but he was sure the Centennial Park upheaval and fallen skyscraper would come up somehow in the article you’ll write this week.

He’d read some of the work you’d done at the Gotham Gazette, and while you were a damn good journalist, it’s clear you had some sort of agenda against superheroes. He’d cringed particularly hard at a fringe piece you’d written on a Batman-Joker skirmish that left a whole block of Arkham decimated, just toeing the line between a proper journal article and professional hate mail.

(He lowkey thought that bats deserved it, but he’d never admit that you)

Always at the scene of the crime, you show up with your notepad, pen, and recorder, always ready to criticize anything about his actions. 

He almost wanted to fly away after turning the Kaiju over to the MHCA, but you’d probably say something about that in your article, too.

The second his feet touch the ground, you’re already writing something on your notepad, watching him from a distance.

He takes the initiative this time and approaches you after making his rounds, saying your last name with a tight-lipped smile.

“I didn’t think you would know my name”, you say, giving him that same coy look he’d become familiar with over the weeks of your reporting on him.

Clark chuckles without humor, leveling you with a straight look. “No shot I wouldn’t know the name of the journalist at the Daily Planet that’s been dragging my name through the mud.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, cocky smile never leaving your face, “I didn’t think the Superman, savior of Metropolis, would be offended by honest reporting.”

He scoffs as you continue, “I don’t pull my punches, Superman, and I refuse to apologize for not coddling you like other reporters love to do.”

You don’t mention any names, but Clark still bristles at your insinuation of him coddling himself.

“This isn’t about journalism. It’s about adding fuel to the flames of an already dangerous fire”. Clark crosses his arms as he faces you, trying to get you to understand his point.

“Civilians have been apprehensive since this new wave of public safety attacks, and writing inflammatory articles about Superman, regardless of your intention, only makes the situation worse.”

You school your face to impassiveness, letting him continue. “I see your passion for journalism, and I respect your desire to keep heroes accountable, especially when they deserve it, but I can say with absolute certainty that now is not the time.”

You let the silence stretch taut between you both, caught a bit off guard by the turn of the conversation. You’d half-expected him to approach you with more defenses for his actions this week, but had been surprised by his earnestness regarding public hysteria about the constant danger plaguing Metropolis for the past two months.

“Ok, Superman, I’ll bite.” You state, turning your recorder on and pointing it at his face, ”Do you have any speculations as to what may be causing the rise in villain attacks all over the country? It seems that Metropolis is not the only city that’s been through the ringer these past few months.”

Now it’s his turn to be taken off guard, surprised by your line of questioning. Almost unbelieving that you hadn’t tried to get him in some verbal-trap or write in an angle that would most certainly make his week worse. He knew Arkham and Star City were also facing the same problems and had been in talks with Batman and the Flash about arranging a classified meeting.

He feels like a fish taking your bait when he answers, “I don’t have any solid leads yet, but I assure you that my colleagues and I at the Justice League are working our hardest to find answers for the sudden surge in attacks.”

“Do you think there’s any foul play involved, or are you hoping that these threats may just be one large coincidence?”

“I can’t say for sure, but it doesn’t seem that any of the attacks are coordinated, so for now we’re ruling out any connection between attacks on different cities. However, we’re still keeping our options open and investigating as thoroughly as possible.

You click your microphone off then, placing the device in your bag as you look up at him.

“Thanks Superman. That’s all I needed.” You give him a wry smile, repeating the phrase from your first encounter.

You can still see the skepticism on his face, the unwillingness to trust your proverbial token of goodwill.

Without any warning, you pull your notepad out of your bag, ripping off the most recent page and showing it to him before shredding it into pieces in front of him.

You grin at the shock on his face, extending out a hand for him to shake.

“It’s a show of good faith. I just ripped up all my previous notes, and I’ll only use the conversation I recorded for my next article. I promise”

He’s slow to take your outstretched hand, but when he does, his grip is firm, your hand dwarfed by his much larger one.

“How do I know you’re not gonna twist my words again?” He asks, your hand still warm in his.

You smile at him one more time, this one a little more honest than your previous ones.

“Guess you’ll have to read it when it comes out, " you say, pulling away from him as you start to walk away.

Despite himself, Clark finds himself smiling back, curious about what you’ll publish next week.

That smile is quickly wiped off his face, though when he realizes he’s going to be twenty minutes late for lunch again.

“Shit,” he muttered, checking his watch. Another lunch break ruined by a kaiju — and maybe, an even scarier reporter.

─────────────────────

a/n: as always, pls follow and comment to be added to taglist :], all comments and reblogs are appreciated!!

taglist: @diasnohibng, @secretkittydreamland, @insideoutjulie, @just-pure-trash, @or-was-it-just-a-dream,

[kentbot]

just started reading, i love it already

Kansas (Remembers Me Now) | Clark Kent (prologue)

SUMMARY: Something happened. Maybe not catastrophic, but enough to rattle him. A moment where he faltered. Chose wrong. Or didn't move fast enough. Didn't save the person he meant to. Something that cracked the myth of Superman from the inside.

Or when: Clark didn't come back for the headline. He came back to steady his hands. To remember who he was before the cape. To find the one person who believed in him. To find you.

PAIRING: David!Superman x f!reader (childhood friend)

WORD COUNT: 2.5K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, slow burn vibes, fluff/tension-filled old friends to lovers, honestly not much, setting the scene for more slow burn things, Clark in Kansas, mentions of church and small town vibes, etc.

A/N: I blacked out writing this one too fr. Again, was never a superman/clark kent girlie, but damn...really enjoyed this movie. This may be turned into a series that's just straight fluff and slow-burn. Comments HEAVILY encouraged, it makes writers' hearts full and encourages me to continue writing. Enjoy.

The front door of the library never stopped squealing—shrieking.

You’d asked the county to fix it three times last summer, even offered to pay for the part yourself, but they never did. Instead, they called it ‘charming,” like a relic. 

They said it gave the place character, like everything else in this town; the cracks in the sidewalks, the neon still buzzing faintly in the window of a diner no one ate at, the peeling paint on the water tower, trying to spell out Home of the Crows when the H had long since flaked into nothing.

You didn’t look up at first, just reached for the return slot where someone had dumped a crumbling stack of National Geographics from 1983 and kept thumbing the corner of your return cart.

However, something about the silence that followed the doorbell made you pause. The regulars always coughed, shuffled, greeted or grunted, or dropped a backpack too loud against the table near the back. This silence was paused—too quiet, like a held breath.

You looked up and there he was.

Clark Kent. 

He was framed in the old wood of the library doorway like a photograph you didn’t know you’d kept. His hair was shorter than you remembered, shoulders broader, but still in the same kind of soft button-down that used to wrinkle against your car’s passenger seat when you were eighteen and driving around looking for places to feel infinite. 

Yet, he was older now, pulled tighter, like the fabric had to work harder to contain whatever he’d become. That alone didn’t allow you to stand or smile, only hold his gaze and wait for who would break first. 

“Hey.” He smiled, unsure. A hand lifted in a half-wave.

You set the return cart aside. “Hey.”

It came out steadier than you felt.

There were a thousand other things you could’ve said.

Didn’t think I’d see you here again. You look different. What broke you enough to come home?

Instead, you continued with soft wit, “If you’re here for the Wi-Fi, I should warn you—it cuts out when the trains pass. Still.”

“Good to know some things don’t change.” Clark huffed a quiet laugh.

“Shelving still leans, HVAC still grumbles, and the genealogy shelf hasn’t moved since it was put in.” You shifted your weight, then nodded toward the back wall. 

“I built that shelf.” Clark’s smile softened.

 “I know.” You copied his smile, just a little.

Taking a few steps in, Clark moved slowly, afraid to spook the air. His footsteps didn’t echo; there was too much carpet and too many stories stuffed into the walls to capture him. 

“You rearranged…” 

“Never—you just forgot the shape of the place.”

“I guess I did.” He smiled. Not the Superman one, the Clark one. Quiet at the corners, unsure of whether it was allowed.

You caught yourself staring as he took it all in; the mismatched lamps, the yellowing bulletin board with the town’s blood drive flyer two months out of date, the old globe with Kansas rubbed nearly bare under years of small, curious fingers, it all remained the same.

Some dust kicked up near his shoes, his leather, well-kept, city shoes. You hated how easily you noticed the small details, how his presence felt too large for the space already. You couldn’t help but think he looked like someone returning to a childhood home and realizing the ceilings were lower than he remembered.

“So…what brings you back?” You could only keep the obvious question at bay for so long. “Don’t tell me The Daily Planet suddenly cares about corn festivals and town hall squabbles.” 

Clark scratched at his jaw, and you saw it; the tell. That little shift in his expression he used to get when he was working his way toward a half-truth. You used to catch him in it and he never liked that.

“I-I’m writing a piece. Something long-form.” Clark walked toward the counter now, slow, careful, like he thought you might bolt. You never did. “The Planet wants a feature on the Midwest; how it’s changed, what it means now, you know, big themes they want to call it ‘roots.’”

“Didn’t think they cared too much for us out here.” You arched a brow.

“They usually don’t.” Clark spoke kindly, as if trying to soften the blow.  “But I made the case. Told them it’s a part of the country people think they understand, but don’t. Told them there’s more to it than silos and silence.”

“And they believed you?”

“They said, ‘fine—since you’re from there.’” He glanced toward the windows. “I need help with the history. The texture of it all. So,I figured…” He paused politely. “...if anyone still knew this town better than I do, it’d be you.”

“I’m not sure I know it anymore.” Your throat felt tight and you weren’t sure why. “Not the way you want.”

He looked at you, really looked. “I don’t want the version everyone else remembers. I want yours.”

For a long moment you paused, eyes looking between his for anything less than respect. Then, you reached down, unhooked the brass key from your belt loop, and held it between your fingers. The ribbon, the same red one Clark tied on during a summer shelving project, was still fraying at the edge.

“You can look…” You offered. “...but it’s all dust and ghosts back there.”

“Might be what I need right now…” Clark’s voice came quieter this time. Almost reverent.

You unlocked the door, and it swung inward with a sigh that startled the silence between you and Clark. You clicked the light on and it flickered once before settling into a faint yellow hum, casting everything in a warm, nostalgic glow. Dust hung in the air like something sacred and unspoken.

You didn’t have to tell Clark where to go. He moved like he remembered the layout with his body; the old shelves, the wobble in the floor near the county plats, and the patch of afternoon sun that used to pool across the back wall like a second window to somewhere else.

You sat at the desktop and woke the system. The familiar whir of the old computer fan kicked up, and the screen bloomed into life. 

Behind you, Clark shifted his weight. You could hear the creak of his boots on the laminate wood and feel the stillness in his breath. He hadn’t said anything in the last minute, which was strange because Clark had always filled space without trying. 

It was always in the way he stood, in the way he laughed, in the way he looked at things like they mattered, but now… He was too quiet. You glanced back over your shoulder. He was leaning against the desk, arms folded, eyes flicking across the shelves like they were saying something only he could hear. Which, you supposed, they might be.

“You’ll want the township records first.” You kept your voice light. Professional. “The post-recession census drop, changes in farmland use, abandoned buildings. It all skews the shape of the place.”

He stepped in closer. You could feel the warmth of him at your back, the brush of his coat when he leaned a little to one side, just enough to scan what you were pulling up.

“I forgot how organized you are.” 

You could feel his breath now, low and steady, and something in your chest tightened in that old, traitorous way.

You huffed. “This is what I stayed for, remember?”

Clark didn’t answer. Just stood there, too still for someone so alive. You shifted in your chair, shoulders brushing his thigh before you realized how close he’d come. 

The proximity made something tick in your chest, not panic, exactly, but awareness—old awareness. The kind that once made you shift toward him on long drives without thinking. The kind that made your skin feel like a held breath.

He didn’t move away.

Instead, one hand braced lightly on the back of your chair, and the other found the edge of the desk, boxing you in,  not on purpose, not assertive—steady, like a habit that hadn’t faded with time.

Clark leaned in closer, squinting at the screen, and you could feel the shift of his coat against your back. You cleared your throat and kept scrolling, pretending not to notice how he smelled: clean and something warm beneath it. You stayed still. On purpose, maybe. Just to see if he’d realize. Just to see if he’d flinch.

“You always sat too close…” You muttered, half under your breath.

“You never minded.” Clark smiled behind you. You could hear it, feel it, could even imagine the dimples poking out.

“You don’t know what I mind.” You hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharp. 

“No.” He agreed. You glanced back at him over your shoulder. He wasn’t defensive. Not hurt. Just honest accountability.  “...guess I don’t.”

Clark’s presence behind you felt warmer now. He hadn’t moved despite it all, the weight of him there, the way he used to just be beside you, without needing permission. It could never be simple anymore.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” You added after a beat in the form of an almost apology. You turned back to the screen, but the lines blurred for a second. “It’s just…It's been a long time.”

“I know.”

The screen blinked as a file loaded: 2008; Property Reallocation and Post-Closure ReportsYou didn’t need to read the label to know what it held. Long before digitization caught up, you’d memorized these records like scripture,  not out of duty, but because it gave your hands something to do when the nights stretched too long and the silence got too thick.

Back then, it was a kind of game: see what had been buried, what had been forgotten, what the system pretended not to remember. 

“This is a good place to start.” You gestured vaguely, already confident in the choice. 

“Remember you’d write in the margins of something like this?” Clark said suddenly, the question rhetorical. “In those notebooks of yours—you always left little notes for yourself. They were better than the article half the time…”

“You read them?” Your fingers paused over the mouse.

“Every time.” There was never hesitation with Clark, always confident even when exposing himself. The hum of the overhead bulb seemed louder in the silence that followed. “I kept one—I mean—I-I don’t know where it is now, probably in a box, but I did…back then.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything. You just kept scrolling, but the room felt smaller now. Closer. Not in a claustrophobic way, more like gravity, folding inward.

The silence sat between you like a third presence. Warm. Watchful. Threaded with something neither of you could name without undoing it. It made Clark pull back, but you still felt the outline of him, somehow. As if proximity had left a shadow on your skin.

He was leaning against a forgotten desk now, arms folded, eyes flicking across the shelves like they were saying something only he could hear. Which, you supposed, they might be. 

“I know I haven’t rearranged much…” You turned your attention back to him, finding him easily distracted by his surroundings. “...but you’re acting like the room’s trying to tell you a secret.”

“It kind of is.”

“You always did get weird when you were thinking—

—I’m not thinking so much as... listening.” Clark’s lips quirked, but his voice was low.

“To what?” You watched him carefully. He was blushing. Barely. Just at the edges of his ears, the kind of heat that came from embarrassment, or shyness. 

“Your pulse just shifted when I walked in.” His eyes didn’t quite meet yours when he answered.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. I forget sometimes. It’s not something I turn off easily.” Clark smiled sheepishly, like someone caught in the middle of a thought he hadn’t meant to say out loud. 

“So what, you can just hear people... being nervous?” You scoffed. 

“Not just that. The way you breathed when I leaned over you.” He shrugged a shoulder. “The way your heart started racing when I said I kept one of your notes.”

 “Jesus, Clark.”

“I know. I’m sorry—”

—No.” You had cut in, shaking your head with a half-laugh. “I just forgot how weird you are.”

That earned a crooked smile from him. You turned away quickly, eyes scanning the document like it mattered. It didn’t yet. Not compared to the warmth crawling up your neck.

“You used to just stare at the floor when you got flustered.” You added, deflecting with expertise. “Now you narrate my heart rate. Big upgrade.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You never do.” You voiced lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”

He fell quiet, but you could feel the weight of his admiration on you. 

“And for the record? My heart races when I’m annoyed, too.” You clicked into the next file, trying to ignore the prickle at the base of your neck. 

“Is that what this is?” 

Clark’s voice came teasing. It’d reflected his growth. Not the wide-eyed Kansas boy anymore. Not exactly. But the softness was still there, just tempered now, quieter. You didn’t rise to the bait, just let the corners of your mouth twitch like you might’ve smiled if this were another lifetime.

“You tell me…” You countered. “You’re the one with the super-senses.”

He didn’t answer. Not out loud, anyway. You could hear the way he exhaled through his nose, that amused little breath he used to make when you caught him off-guard. A gentle crack in his composure, like you were the only one who ever saw the fault lines.

You scrolled a little slower, finally letting your eyes focus on the screen. Rows of dates, intake numbers, handwritten notations scanned in like afterthoughts. You reached for your pen and tapped the screen with the end of it. 

“Here…” You said, a shift in your voice, practical again.

“Here’s good.” Clark nodded. “...but I think I need more than articles and records. Something real. Something recent.”

You tilted your head, trying to ground yourself in your work. “Well—there's the church picnic this weekend. Everyone’ll be there. Town history in motion and all that…”

You meant it as a lead. A professional suggestion. A chance to observe the town in its natural habitat, not an invitation.

However, Clark’s expression shifted. His posture softened, like something had lit up just beneath the surface. “Ma and Pa still go, don’t they?”

“Still bring two pies and pretend they didn’t plan to.”

That earned a real smile. The kind that cut through everything else. Warm, worn-in, and just a little stunned by its own existence.

“Yeah.” He said, almost to himself. “That’d be good. I should go.”

“You sure?” You studied him for a moment.

The question hung there, more than just about pies and picnics.He glanced sideways at you. 

“Why not? Small town, homemade food, and the same old women pinching my cheeks like I’m still sixteen.” 

What's the worst that could happen?

[kentbot]

srb!

Novelty

Superman | Clark Kent x Reader

Chapter 3

a/n: reader is formally introduced FINALLY, and chapters are getting longer :}

word count: 2k

previous | next

It was only Tuesday, but Clark Kent was already having a shitty week.

The buzz and chatter of the Daily Planet only serve to worsen the growing headache that his work and “extracurricular” activities were providing him.

For the past two days, Clark had spent the better part of them trying to prevent villains from wrecking Metropolis. Every time he took a threat down, he felt like the next one popped up even stronger and harder to subdue.

In just the past three weeks, he’d already taken down more bad guys than he had in his year as Superman, yet public tension was still escalating regarding his “recklessness” with public property. Last night the Galaxy Broadcasting Station called him a “super-powered bowling ball”, and videos had already begun circulating Twitter of him getting knocked into a Metropolis skyscraper with the hashtag “superfail”. It wasn’t as bad as some of the other ones, but it still stung.

On top of all that, Clark needed to have an article submission by Perry’s desk by the end of the day, already behind because of the constant distractions outside of work.

He was so distracted by his work that he barely noticed the Chief rounding on the office, introducing the new journalist who wrote the article about Superman’s epic failures in public property protection.

“OK, Everyone, this is the new hire joining the journalism team. She’ll primarily be focusing on meta-human affairs with a specialization in private and government intervention.”

Tuning Perry out as he makes the final edits to his article, only acknowledging your presence when you step up to introduce yourself to his corner of the office.

Recognition sparks in his memory, watching as the beautiful sharp-tongued reporter from last week introduces herself as the newest addition to the Daily Planet's journalist roster. When Perry moves aside, you step up to say your first and last name, Clark subconsciously letting an accusatory “You!” fall from his lips.

His outburst catches your attention, your practiced gaze turning to him as you cock your head thoughtfully. “Have we met?” You ask, careful and calculating.

Clark's lips thin, trying his best to school his face into one of indifference. “You’re the one who wrote the Superman article that’s being published soon,” he states, no question in his tone.

Recognition alights in your memory then, blank face morphing into a cheshire smile as Clark waits for your answer. “Ah yes, you must be Clark Kent then, big blue’s fanboy at the Planet”.

At your comment, Lois snorts into her coffee, Jimmy’s mouth dropping to his chin, turning his chair to neglect the photospread he was working on.

“AHA”, Perry laughs at the dig, patting your back as he wipes a tear from his eye, “I like her already!”

Clark is not so amused, watching in quiet frustration as Perry assigns you a desk right across from Lois, and directly in his line of sight.

Chief uses his final moments with the staff to antagonize Clark more as he walks away. “I needed that article on my desk yesterday for review, Clark. Get on it.”

Coworkers begin to crowd you as you settle into your station, as Clark reluctantly returns to his work, the incessant chatter of the office now rising because of your arrival, made ten times worse by his superhuman hearing.

“Hello beautiful”, Jimmy leans on the corner of your desk in a way you could only faux-sav, grinning at you as you attempt to fix up your desk. “The name’s James Olsen, but all my friends call me Jimmy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, James ”, replying smoothly as you place your “Gotham Gazette” coffee mug on the desk

“Ouch,” Lois laughs, pushing past Jimmy to extend her hand for a formal greeting.

“Lois Lane, glad to have you on the team.”

You smile back at her, taking her hand in a firm handshake, “Lois, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m a big fan of your work.”

She beams at you, letting her hand drop as she finds a spot to settle near your desk.

Everyone takes turns introducing themselves, except one, Cat Grant almost bowling you over when she captures you in a tight hug.

“Clark, get over here and introduce yourself”, Jimmy calls, oblivious to the tension between the pair of you.

Clark’s shoulders hunch before he looks up from his work, content to have stayed out of the conversation.

Steeling himself in an attempt to establish some sort of civility in your professional relationship, Clark stands up to walk over to your desk.

“Lois was right about what she said earlier, we’re lucky to have you at the Daily Planet.” He gives a small smile before continuing, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

You watch him carefully with unrelenting eyes, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being earnest with his words.

You return the smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, “Thanks. I’m sure we’ll be working together a lot since we cover the same topics”.

“I’ll be looking forward to it”, Clark says, seeing the challenge in your eyes and refusing to back down.

So much for workplace civility.

─────────────────────

The next time Clark is late to work, it’s because he’s getting slammed by into the Zesty Cola skycraper by a large fire-breathing kaiju - the second one in two weeks.

God, Perry is going to kill him. At least he was on his lunch this time.

The previous kaiju attack had taken out half of Centennial Park and had taken him and the Justice Gang two hours to subdue. Now he was going to deal with the media reporting on the damage to the headquarters of one of the most beloved cola brands in Metropolis.

Thankfully, this kaiju only took him thirty minutes to handle, but he was sure the Centennial Park upheaval and fallen skyscraper would come up somehow in the article you’ll write this week.

He’d read some of the work you’d done at the Gotham Gazette, and while you were a damn good journalist, it’s clear you had some sort of agenda against superheroes. He’d cringed particularly hard at a fringe piece you’d written on a Batman-Joker skirmish that left a whole block of Arkham decimated, just toeing the line between a proper journal article and professional hate mail.

(He lowkey thought that bats deserved it, but he’d never admit that you)

Always at the scene of the crime, you show up with your notepad, pen, and recorder, always ready to criticize anything about his actions. 

He almost wanted to fly away after turning the Kaiju over to the MHCA, but you’d probably say something about that in your article, too.

The second his feet touch the ground, you’re already writing something on your notepad, watching him from a distance.

He takes the initiative this time and approaches you after making his rounds, saying your last name with a tight-lipped smile.

“I didn’t think you would know my name”, you say, giving him that same coy look he’d become familiar with over the weeks of your reporting on him.

Clark chuckles without humor, leveling you with a straight look. “No shot I wouldn’t know the name of the journalist at the Daily Planet that’s been dragging my name through the mud.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, cocky smile never leaving your face, “I didn’t think the Superman, savior of Metropolis, would be offended by honest reporting.”

He scoffs as you continue, “I don’t pull my punches, Superman, and I refuse to apologize for not coddling you like other reporters love to do.”

You don’t mention any names, but Clark still bristles at your insinuation of him coddling himself.

“This isn’t about journalism. It’s about adding fuel to the flames of an already dangerous fire”. Clark crosses his arms as he faces you, trying to get you to understand his point.

“Civilians have been apprehensive since this new wave of public safety attacks, and writing inflammatory articles about Superman, regardless of your intention, only makes the situation worse.”

You school your face to impassiveness, letting him continue. “I see your passion for journalism, and I respect your desire to keep heroes accountable, especially when they deserve it, but I can say with absolute certainty that now is not the time.”

You let the silence stretch taut between you both, caught a bit off guard by the turn of the conversation. You’d half-expected him to approach you with more defenses for his actions this week, but had been surprised by his earnestness regarding public hysteria about the constant danger plaguing Metropolis for the past two months.

“Ok, Superman, I’ll bite.” You state, turning your recorder on and pointing it at his face, ”Do you have any speculations as to what may be causing the rise in villain attacks all over the country? It seems that Metropolis is not the only city that’s been through the ringer these past few months.”

Now it’s his turn to be taken off guard, surprised by your line of questioning. Almost unbelieving that you hadn’t tried to get him in some verbal-trap or write in an angle that would most certainly make his week worse. He knew Arkham and Star City were also facing the same problems and had been in talks with Batman and the Flash about arranging a classified meeting.

He feels like a fish taking your bait when he answers, “I don’t have any solid leads yet, but I assure you that my colleagues and I at the Justice League are working our hardest to find answers for the sudden surge in attacks.”

“Do you think there’s any foul play involved, or are you hoping that these threats may just be one large coincidence?”

“I can’t say for sure, but it doesn’t seem that any of the attacks are coordinated, so for now we’re ruling out any connection between attacks on different cities. However, we’re still keeping our options open and investigating as thoroughly as possible.

You click your microphone off then, placing the device in your bag as you look up at him.

“Thanks Superman. That’s all I needed.” You give him a wry smile, repeating the phrase from your first encounter.

You can still see the skepticism on his face, the unwillingness to trust your proverbial token of goodwill.

Without any warning, you pull your notepad out of your bag, ripping off the most recent page and showing it to him before shredding it into pieces in front of him.

You grin at the shock on his face, extending out a hand for him to shake.

“It’s a show of good faith. I just ripped up all my previous notes, and I’ll only use the conversation I recorded for my next article. I promise”

He’s slow to take your outstretched hand, but when he does, his grip is firm, your hand dwarfed by his much larger one.

“How do I know you’re not gonna twist my words again?” He asks, your hand still warm in his.

You smile at him one more time, this one a little more honest than your previous ones.

“Guess you’ll have to read it when it comes out, " you say, pulling away from him as you start to walk away.

Despite himself, Clark finds himself smiling back, curious about what you’ll publish next week.

That smile is quickly wiped off his face, though when he realizes he’s going to be twenty minutes late for lunch again.

“Shit,” he muttered, checking his watch. Another lunch break ruined by a kaiju — and maybe, an even scarier reporter.

─────────────────────

a/n: as always, pls follow and comment to be added to taglist :], all comments and reblogs are appreciated!!

taglist: @diasnohibng, @secretkittydreamland, @insideoutjulie, @just-pure-trash, @or-was-it-just-a-dream,

[kentbot]

Every single bad review of the movie has seen has had its comments flooded with the Lex Luthor monkeys it’s sooo funny

Superman 2025 is the perfect movie because if some loser incel like Ben Shapiro calls it bad you can just reply with a gif of Lex Luthor malding, and if someone else tries to review bolb it you can just post a gif of Lex’s luthors monkeys making twitter posts.

Truly I have never seen a film which came prepackaged with its own defenses against bad faith critics.

[kentbot]

Novelty

superman | clark kent x fem!reader

Chapter 3

a/n: reader is formally introduced FINALLY, and chapters are getting longer :}

word count: 2k

previous | next

It was only Tuesday, but Clark Kent was already having a shitty week.

The buzz and chatter of the Daily Planet only serve to worsen the growing headache that his work and “extracurricular” activities were providing him.

For the past two days, Clark had spent the better part of them trying to prevent villains from wrecking Metropolis. Every time he took a threat down, he felt like the next one popped up even stronger and harder to subdue.

In just the past three weeks, he’d already taken down more bad guys than he had in his year as Superman, yet public tension was still escalating regarding his “recklessness” with public property. Last night the Galaxy Broadcasting Station called him a “super-powered bowling ball”, and videos had already begun circulating Twitter of him getting knocked into a Metropolis skyscraper with the hashtag “superfail”. It wasn’t as bad as some of the other ones, but it still stung.

On top of all that, Clark needed to have an article submission by Perry’s desk by the end of the day, already behind because of the constant distractions outside of work.

He was so distracted by his work that he barely noticed the Chief rounding on the office, introducing the new journalist who wrote the article about Superman’s epic failures in public property protection.

“OK, Everyone, this is the new hire joining the journalism team. She’ll primarily be focusing on meta-human affairs with a specialization in private and government intervention.”

Tuning Perry out as he makes the final edits to his article, only acknowledging your presence when you step up to introduce yourself to his corner of the office.

Recognition sparks in his memory, watching as the beautiful sharp-tongued reporter from last week introduces herself as the newest addition to the Daily Planet's journalist roster. When Perry moves aside, you step up to say your first and last name, Clark subconsciously letting an accusatory “You!” fall from his lips.

His outburst catches your attention, your practiced gaze turning to him as you cock your head thoughtfully. “Have we met?” You ask, careful and calculating.

Clark's lips thin, trying his best to school his face into one of indifference. “You’re the one who wrote the Superman article that’s being published soon,” he states, no question in his tone.

Recognition alights in your memory then, blank face morphing into a cheshire smile as Clark waits for your answer. “Ah yes, you must be Clark Kent then, big blue’s fanboy at the Planet”.

At your comment, Lois snorts into her coffee, Jimmy’s mouth dropping to his chin, turning his chair to neglect the photospread he was working on.

“AHA”, Perry laughs at the dig, patting your back as he wipes a tear from his eye, “I like her already!”

Clark is not so amused, watching in quiet frustration as Perry assigns you a desk right across from Lois, and directly in his line of sight.

Chief uses his final moments with the staff to antagonize Clark more as he walks away. “I needed that article on my desk yesterday for review, Clark. Get on it.”

Coworkers begin to crowd you as you settle into your station, as Clark reluctantly returns to his work, the incessant chatter of the office now rising because of your arrival, made ten times worse by his superhuman hearing.

“Hello beautiful”, Jimmy leans on the corner of your desk in a way you could only faux-sav, grinning at you as you attempt to fix up your desk. “The name’s James Olsen, but all my friends call me Jimmy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, James ”, replying smoothly as you place your “Gotham Gazette” coffee mug on the desk

“Ouch,” Lois laughs, pushing past Jimmy to extend her hand for a formal greeting.

“Lois Lane, glad to have you on the team.”

You smile back at her, taking her hand in a firm handshake, “Lois, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m a big fan of your work.”

She beams at you, letting her hand drop as she finds a spot to settle near your desk.

Everyone takes turns introducing themselves, except one, Cat Grant almost bowling you over when she captures you in a tight hug.

“Clark, get over here and introduce yourself”, Jimmy calls, oblivious to the tension between the pair of you.

Clark’s shoulders hunch before he looks up from his work, content to have stayed out of the conversation.

Steeling himself in an attempt to establish some sort of civility in your professional relationship, Clark stands up to walk over to your desk.

“Lois was right about what she said earlier, we’re lucky to have you at the Daily Planet.” He gives a small smile before continuing, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

You watch him carefully with unrelenting eyes, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being earnest with his words.

You return the smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, “Thanks. I’m sure we’ll be working together a lot since we cover the same topics”.

“I’ll be looking forward to it”, Clark says, seeing the challenge in your eyes and refusing to back down.

So much for workplace civility.

─────────────────────

The next time Clark is late to work, it’s because he’s getting slammed by into the Zesty Cola skycraper by a large fire-breathing kaiju - the second one in two weeks.

God, Perry is going to kill him. At least he was on his lunch this time.

The previous kaiju attack had taken out half of Centennial Park and had taken him and the Justice Gang two hours to subdue. Now he was going to deal with the media reporting on the damage to the headquarters of one of the most beloved cola brands in Metropolis.

Thankfully, this kaiju only took him thirty minutes to handle, but he was sure the Centennial Park upheaval and fallen skyscraper would come up somehow in the article you’ll write this week.

He’d read some of the work you’d done at the Gotham Gazette, and while you were a damn good journalist, it’s clear you had some sort of agenda against superheroes. He’d cringed particularly hard at a fringe piece you’d written on a Batman-Joker skirmish that left a whole block of Arkham decimated, just toeing the line between a proper journal article and professional hate mail.

(He lowkey thought that bats deserved it, but he’d never admit that you)

Always at the scene of the crime, you show up with your notepad, pen, and recorder, always ready to criticize anything about his actions. 

He almost wanted to fly away after turning the Kaiju over to the MHCA, but you’d probably say something about that in your article, too.

The second his feet touch the ground, you’re already writing something on your notepad, watching him from a distance.

He takes the initiative this time and approaches you after making his rounds, saying your last name with a tight-lipped smile.

“I didn’t think you would know my name”, you say, giving him that same coy look he’d become familiar with over the weeks of your reporting on him.

Clark chuckles without humor, leveling you with a straight look. “No shot I wouldn’t know the name of the journalist at the Daily Planet that’s been dragging my name through the mud.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, cocky smile never leaving your face, “I didn’t think the Superman, savior of Metropolis, would be offended by honest reporting.”

He scoffs as you continue, “I don’t pull my punches, Superman, and I refuse to apologize for not coddling you like other reporters love to do.”

You don’t mention any names, but Clark still bristles at your insinuation of him coddling himself.

“This isn’t about journalism. It’s about adding fuel to the flames of an already dangerous fire”. Clark crosses his arms as he faces you, trying to get you to understand his point.

“Civilians have been apprehensive since this new wave of public safety attacks, and writing inflammatory articles about Superman, regardless of your intention, only makes the situation worse.”

You school your face to impassiveness, letting him continue. “I see your passion for journalism, and I respect your desire to keep heroes accountable, especially when they deserve it, but I can say with absolute certainty that now is not the time.”

You let the silence stretch taut between you both, caught a bit off guard by the turn of the conversation. You’d half-expected him to approach you with more defenses for his actions this week, but had been surprised by his earnestness regarding public hysteria about the constant danger plaguing Metropolis for the past two months.

“Ok, Superman, I’ll bite.” You state, turning your recorder on and pointing it at his face, ”Do you have any speculations as to what may be causing the rise in villain attacks all over the country? It seems that Metropolis is not the only city that’s been through the ringer these past few months.”

Now it’s his turn to be taken off guard, surprised by your line of questioning. Almost unbelieving that you hadn’t tried to get him in some verbal-trap or write in an angle that would most certainly make his week worse. He knew Arkham and Star City were also facing the same problems and had been in talks with Batman and the Flash about arranging a classified meeting.

He feels like a fish taking your bait when he answers, “I don’t have any solid leads yet, but I assure you that my colleagues and I at the Justice League are working our hardest to find answers for the sudden surge in attacks.”

“Do you think there’s any foul play involved, or are you hoping that these threats may just be one large coincidence?”

“I can’t say for sure, but it doesn’t seem that any of the attacks are coordinated, so for now we’re ruling out any connection between attacks on different cities. However, we’re still keeping our options open and investigating as thoroughly as possible.

You click your microphone off then, placing the device in your bag as you look up at him.

“Thanks Superman. That’s all I needed.” You give him a wry smile, repeating the phrase from your first encounter.

You can still see the skepticism on his face, the unwillingness to trust your proverbial token of goodwill.

Without any warning, you pull your notepad out of your bag, ripping off the most recent page and showing it to him before shredding it into pieces in front of him.

You grin at the shock on his face, extending out a hand for him to shake.

“It’s a show of good faith. I just ripped up all my previous notes, and I’ll only use the conversation I recorded for my next article. I promise”

He’s slow to take your outstretched hand, but when he does, his grip is firm, your hand dwarfed by his much larger one.

“How do I know you’re not gonna twist my words again?” He asks, your hand still warm in his.

You smile at him one more time, this one a little more honest than your previous ones.

“Guess you’ll have to read it when it comes out, " you say, pulling away from him as you start to walk away.

Despite himself, Clark finds himself smiling back, curious about what you’ll publish next week.

That smile is quickly wiped off his face, though when he realizes he’s going to be twenty minutes late for lunch again.

“Shit,” he muttered, checking his watch. Another lunch break ruined by a kaiju — and maybe, an even scarier reporter.

─────────────────────

a/n: as always, pls follow and comment to be added to taglist :], all comments and reblogs are appreciated!!

taglist: @diasnohibng, @secretkittydreamland, @insideoutjulie, @just-pure-trash, @or-was-it-just-a-dream,

[kentbot]

Weight of the World (Clark Kent/Superman x fem reader)

✨ fluff ✨ comfort ✨ sfw ✨ no use of y/n

You are spiraling. Clark brings you down to Earth.

Intro & Masterlist

"It’s just so fucked up."

You felt numb, now on your third hour of doom scrolling through Instagram. Even though you were surrounded by plush blankets and scented candles in the comfort of your own home, the images of war, inevitable climate disaster, human cruelty, etc. etc. etc. made it difficult to appreciate the serenity of your own environment. In fact, it made it worse. How could you be happy and peaceful when so many others were suffering?

"What’s just so...messed up?" Clark chimed from his spot in an armchair across the room. You had been trying to get him to start cussing, perhaps to make you feel a bit better about your own foul mouth, but he was failing miserably. It was rather endearing.

"Everything," you sighed, throwing your feet up on the arm of the couch. While you had been scrolling, Clark had immersed himself in a book. That's what you should have been doing, filling your brain instead of falling prey to the terrors of social media, but you couldn't help it. There was so much to stay informed about, and especially now that you were dating a literal international superhero, you wanted to make sure you were keeping up with the news. Shame that the news was so overwhelmingly depressing. "There is just so much evil in the world," you continued. "Every time I see one of these videos, I wish I could do something to stop it. Maybe I could donate some money, or volunteer, or even just share the post. But then I scroll and there's another and another and another. Its never-ending. One person can't fix all of that."

You glanced up at him, finally throwing down your phone. That made you feel a bit better at least. The afternoon sunlight reflected off his shiny black curls. He was breathtakingly handsome and he was all yours. Sometimes, it felt unreal.

He smiled, showing off his pearly whites and deep dimples. God, he was perfect.

"Good thing you don't have to do it all yourself then," he said, winking at you.

That was the problem. You had just watched your boyfriend nearly lose his life in his last fight. You knew that if anyone could make a big difference in the world, it was him, but at what cost?

"Neither can you," you replied, a tinge of sadness creeping into your voice.

"Hey," he said, eyes flooding with concern. He set his book down and walked over to you, picking you up in a fireman's carry.

You squealed, then clung on tightly as he turned and sat back down on the couch, shuffling you until you sat on his lap. He moved you like you were a feather, not even breaking a sweat. You curled into his chest and traced the veins that ran down his arms, following them around mountains of muscle. It had become a habitual motion, comforting you.

"I don't have to do it all by myself either," he went on. "Look at all the friends we have, each wanting to make the world a better place to live in. It might not happen overnight, but little by little, we will get there."

"But what if we don't? How can we fight against so much evil?" You were starting to feel whiny, but Clark offered a safe harbor for your honesty. There would always be a bad guy for him to fight and that scared you. How would the two of you ever find peace?

Clark seemed to know where you were thinking. You were typically a bit brash, and you could definitely hold your own in a fight. But Clark appreciated that you let your walls down around him. He valued your humanity.

"I will always come back to you, my love," he said, taking your chin between his fingers. He pulled your face up and you were met with warm blue eyes. "I thought I was sent here to help save Earth. And I still think that's true. I will always fight for what’s right, but" - he kissed you now, and you melted like butter. His lips were soft and safe, a salve to your worrying - "I've been thinking lately that maybe I was sent here for another purpose. Maybe I was sent here to find you."

He pulled you close, stroking your hair. You closed your eyes, breathed in his scent. With his strong arms around you, your anxiety disappeared.

"It's like you like me or something," you teased.

He laughed and it was a beautiful sound. For a moment you thought that maybe he could save the whole world with just his laughter. It emanated from deep in his chest, vibrating through you.

He covered you in kisses, placing his smooches across your face, your neck, even your chest in a way that made your stomach swirl. You shrieked, trying to push him off you, which of course was like trying to move a boulder. You were both quaking with laughter when he brought his lips to yours once again. This time he lingered, your lips parting to receive him. His hands stroked up and down your back.

"Just know that you don't need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders,' he said when he finally broke the kiss. "Let me bear some of the burden."

You nodded, but your brows furrowed.

"You shoulder so much of the burden already though."

"Well, good thing my shoulders are so big and strong," he teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "My point is that we have to live our lives. I wonder if maybe the most revolutionary thing we can do is be happy despite all the pain. You," -he tapped you on the nose- "make me happy. So, I think loving you is step one to being Superman."

He was your yellow sun. If you brought him joy, then he brought you solace.

"Now, let me make you pancakes," he said, picking you up once again and walking to the kitchen.

"Clark, it is four-o-clock in the afternoon."

"Well, breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he quipped. "And we'll need all the nourishment we can get if we're going to take down so many bad guys."

He set you down on the counter and you felt peace rush through you as you watched Clark busy himself with dinner.

Maybe he was right. Maybe love was most potent solution to the world's aches.

[kentbot]

me after the tape of superman’s evil alien parents telling him to take many wives and form a harem leaks

[kentbot]

The only thing unrealistic about the new Superman movie was that the civilians of Metropolis fled to Gotham out of all places to not be in danger 😭

[kentbot]

reblogging for more visibility!!! all rebogs appreciated :]

Novelty

Superman | Clark Kent x Reader

Chapter 2

a/n: Hiiii! Thank you so much for reading! I wasn't expecting all the love, but it means so much that you guys want to read my silly story! Here's chapter 2 with the iconic trioooo and no reader-chan :[ But she will be showing up next chapter, promise

word count: 1.5k

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“I can’t believe Perry’s not gonna give me the front page spread for the magazine coming out on Monday,” Jimmy moans, as he drunkenly drops his head on the bar, almost knocking over the two half-pint Coronas he’d already downed

“There there, Jimmy you’ll get 'em next time”. Lois says, trying her best attempt at soothing back rubs

“Don’t patronize him Lois, that’s mean.” Clark scolds lightly, smiling into his club soda as he also attempts to comfort his friend, “ They were great pictures Jimmy, I’m sure they’ll do great on the third page”

Jimmy turns his head to scowl at Clark, as the melodic sounds of cool jazz continues to set the mood at Bacchus, the street-side wine bar the three had settled at for the evening. The warm amber glow from the vintage Edison bulbs cast dancing shadows across the mahogany bar top, while the distant hum of Metropolis traffic mixed with the gentle clinking of glasses and muted conversations from other patrons.

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?” Jimmy retorts, turning to face Clark, lips drawn in a thin line. “You’re only saying that because you’re guaranteed at least second page with every article you write about Superman, golden boy”.

Lois laughs quietly, shooting Clark a knowing look while sipping on her merlot. This was the dynamic of their friendship, the duo in the trio, where only Clark and Lois knew of Clark’s very important, incredibly valuable secret, while Jimmy stayed thankfully oblivious.

If it had been up to Clark, Lois would’ve never known he was Superman, but the perceptiveness that makes her an incredible journalist also makes her an incredible snoop too. And when your coworkers constantly disappears on his lunch break while one of the world’s most powerful superheroes is handling a supervillain or giant fire-breathing monster, it doesn’t take much to put two and two together (after a shit-ton of intense probing, of course).

As if on cue, the bar TV begins playing scenes from his takedown of Gevaltron, finally releasing him to the MHCA (Meta-human Containment Agency) for proper containment. The public has mixed opinions, most of it positive, with some pushback from controversial figures. The city’s become on edge from the recent waves of villain attacks; frustration slowly bleeding into mainstream news.

“Speaking of Superman, he’s had quite the week, hasn’t he?” Lois transitions smoothly, watching Clark with keen eyes.

“Oh man, this is the worst week ever. Superman can’t keep a villain from wrecking the city without 5 billion dollars of property damage, AND I can’t even get first page in a magazine spread I deserved. Mercury has to be in retrograde or something”, Jimmy moans again. 

“It was actually 1 million dollars of damage,” Clark counters, adjusting his clunky, dark rimmed glasses, “and i think people are overreacting quite a bit. I mean, shouldn’t we be happy that Superman’s priority is civilians”

“Yes Clark, civilians' safety should be the main priority, but property damage has to be a priority too”, Lois replies, staring Clark down for emphasis. “If y-Superman continues like this, he’s gonna keep getting scathing critiques from public opinion.”

“Scathing critiques?” Clark questions, blue eyes leaving the glass in his hand to follow Lois’ tense movements

“Perry let me read the submission from the new journalist before we left for drinks,, she says cautiously, fiddling with her wine glass, “it was extremely well written and honest. I see why we’re stealing her from the Gazette.”

She takes another sip, steeling herself to deliver the final blow to Clark’s ego. “Frankly, she didn’t have many good things to say about our favorite Superhero. She mentioned other supes too, but it was mostly focused on Superman and her professionally disguised vitriol.”

“Yeah, man, it was pretty bad, it’s gonna be a hoot if the Chief lets her release it next week”, Jimmy adds, unknowingly adding salt to the open wound. 

“Perry let you read it too?” Feeling a bit betrayed, Clark sinks into the seat a little more, the chair creaking with his weight

“Yeah, right before he told me I was being demoted to the third page”, Jimmy says sadly, quickly downing the rest of his third Corona.

Clark scoffs, running a hand through his unruly curls and ignoring Jimmy’s comment, “Journalists are always going to have some opinion about Superman and his choices. He’s never going to make everyone happy.”

“Yeah, but if the trend of increased attacks continues like we’ve seen these past few weeks, there’s gonna be a lot more destruction.”, Jimmy remarks astutely. “Gevaltron, Amazo, Livewire.” He lists a few names, trying to shake himself from his alcohol induced stupor, “especially if Superman doesn’t clean up his act.”

Clark's face scrunches, “I’m taking my encouragement from earlier back”, mostly joking as he leans back in his bar chair.

Jimmy laughs a bit, turning to look at his friend, “Why do you even care so much, Clark? It’s not like they’re criticizing you.”

“I don’t,” Clark says quickly, crossing his large arms defensively, “I just…” Clark fumbles for a bit, trying to find the words, “….care a lot about journalistic integrity”

Lois snorts, finishing off her wine glass, “Ok, Clark, just don’t kill the new hire when Perry introduces next week.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, Lo,”. Clark smiles, digging out his wallet to pay for the soda.

“I hope she’s hot, Clark, do you think she’ll be hot?” Jimmy says as he drapes himself dramatically over Clark, almost sending himself tumbling out of his chair.

“Okay, big guy, let's get you home”, Clark recovers, looping Jimmy’s arm around his neck to support him.

Lois sighs as she moves to grab her purse and Jimmy’s phone, slipping the device into the inebriated man’s back pocket as they walk out of the bar. “You’re definitely gonna regret this tomorrow ,Olsen.”

Jimmy looks back on Clark’s shoulder, sending his friend a drunken grin and wiggling his bushy eyebrows. “Thank God it’s Friday then.”

Clark laughs softly, repeating Jimmy’s “Thank God it’s Friday”, grateful for the reprieve of work and a (hopeful) break from the constant onslaught of villain attacks.

Lois shakes her head in mirth, enjoying the crisp fall evening breeze as the two men in front of her chant "TGIF" in step down Bakerline Avenue. The neon signs of late-night diners and 24-hour newsstands cast colorful reflections on the wet pavement, while the familiar silhouette of the Daily Planet building loomed in the distance, its iconic globe barely visible through the Metropolis skyline.

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There are only two things Lex Luthor hates more than the dank stench of the LexCorp basement laboratory: poor people and Superman. In that order, specifically, though he definitely hates the latter a little bit more.

The hum of the machines usually tended to put Lex at ease, but now it was just grating on his already frayed nerves. 

Gevaltron had finally been put into MCHA custody by that demon in a cape, forcing him to enact the next stage of his project, as he begins to hire stronger, more well-known villains for Phase 3 of Project Genesis.

No matter, he was here for one thing and one thing only, and if he didn’t get it, then the sniveling excuse of a man that he considered his head scientist would be quickly disposed of and replaced.

Lex walks into his lab confidently, a man on a mission. He stalks behind the older man, who is sitting at the main console, scaring him half out of his wits.

“Have you recovered the specimen?”.

“Yes Sir!” the scientist stumbles out, unwilling to piss off his boss more than he already had in the past week.

The air stunk of failure and setback, but Lex had no plans of stopping Genesis when he was so close to the apex of success. He could taste it on his tongue, the breakthrough that would allow him to finally achieve his life’s purpose.

He’d sunk billions into the project already- orchestrating constant villain attacks, and drawing outrage to distract from his underlying purpose- only to lose months of progress to an avoidable tech malfunction. He’d wanted to kill the old geezer right where he stood, but settled for killing the useless lab techs instead.

It wasn’t his first time manufacturing outrage to spite the super-powered brute, but this time it was different. This plan was concrete and airtight. It had to work.

“There can be no more mistakes”. Lex says, eyes boring into the glass holding chamber, contents obscured by murky green liquid. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, sir”. The man scurries off quickly, taking the sample obtained from today’s attack to be broken down and resequenced.

At the rate things were going, the project was set to be completed within the next three months, just in time for Christmas. He just hoped Luthor wouldn't get sick of him and kill him before then.

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a/n: RAHHH find me on ao3 at the same user :) and follow and comment to be added to taglist :)

taglist: @diasnohibng, @secretkittydreamland