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she looks so pretty ✨

trying to finish reading my tbr and she’ll be released

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where do we go now? ( clark kent )

cause now i'm half of myself here without you. you're the best in my life and i lost you. it was one-sided hate how i hurt you. (by gracie abrams!) you don't know where he disappears to- there's always excuses: he's caught up at work, stuck in traffic, some stupid alien attack cut him up on his commute. but now more than ever when you need him to show up at a family dinner where you planned to introduce him to your parents, he still comes in pieces and enough is enough.

pairing: clark kent x fem reader (no use of yn)

themes: angst, break up, no happy ending

he's not coming.

you smile sheepishly at your mother who sends you a small smile and she begins to start serving the mains. you've made it past appertisers, skipped out on the drinks and small talk, catching them up on work and laughing over memories- now you're entering dangerous uncertain territory and all you could do is sit and stare at the clock as the minutes passed by.

fourty three minutes have passed by.

your father tried not to shoot you a disapproving glance- it had taken so much work to warm him up to clark. don't trust those journalists, he said with that gruff tone in the same way he had told you to keep playing a sport even after graduating university or when he had changed the tires on your car- you don't blame him for worrying. you've never brought a guy home before so the bar was low.

lower than fourty three minutes late.

"i'm sure, he just got caught up late with work," you try though the words feel stale and your mother reaches out to place a hand on yours in comfort. its eight pm, you think. should the offices be closed by now? you have no idea.

"you are more than welcome to take some back for him," and your heart soars at the kind offer. though a thank you might cement the fact that he's stood you up on your own family dinner.

"he's coming, i'm sure. in fact, i'll just ring and see where he is," you stand shakily, embarrassment creeping up on your neck as you make your way to the stairs. and just as you suspect, he does not answer like he hadn't the past four times. a sigh escapes you and you know that after tonight, you won't have to keep feeling this way.

you and clark have been dating for six months- he occupies the apartment opposite yours and that's how you met. through laundry days and dinner dates, the two of you had started something slow and sweet at the beginning. it was like having sleepovers every single night and when you'd fall asleep in his big strong arms, nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. you probably spend more time in his than you do your own.

then the lies started to creep in; it started as an offhanded excuse for traffic, then he started "forgetting" date nights- being caught up at work. you knew nothing about the journalism world so gave him the grace he needed and it was so easy to fall back into routine, the small comfortable world you built when you weren't pushing an arguement. and the thing with clark was- he never played nasty, never said things he didn't mean in the heat of the moment. he was thoughtful, patient, let you get it all out then apologises- promising you're the centre of his attention, a sad cycle you've trapped yourself in.

the phone is warm in your hand, like a subtle burn to let you know its still there and you close your eyes. this dinner was important to you- its not often you visit your parents and tell them about the supposed love of your life to which they actually return interest. tonight they were supposed to be getting to know him, to love him the same way you had. if only he could show up.

the door knocks with heavy taps you'd know in any lifetime and you open it wearily.

"hey," comes his breathless greeting, a grin laced on his features, stretching his cheeks as he takes a step forward. he lands a kiss on your cheek sloppily and you don't find yourself leaning into it anymore. it comes and it goes as quickly as it did.

"hey," he loops a finger under your chin to bring your gaze to his. "i am so sorry, this alien attack thing redirected my route like four times- i tried to get here as soon as possible," the words come out in a hurried breath and you furrow your brows, wondering if he's rehearsed this on the way here.

"doesn't matter, thank you for coming," you speak though theres no bite or tone in your voice, just weariness and fatigue of someone who's been let down too many times.

"wait, honey," and you don't grace him an actual reply, just a faint "not here," before tugging his hand in yours as you make your way to the dining room. you've hardly interlocked his fingers in yours, emptily holding his palm and letting go of it as soo as you meet your parents again.

your parents are mid laughter when they stop and spot clark, instantly rising to their feets to greet him. clark's bigger than most humans, instantly filling up the room with his body and his heart and he charms the pants off your parents.

he talks politics with your father, plays into your mothers gossip, tells jokes like all the times he's ran away it's to play stand up comedian and you hate how it just feels so perfect. "wow" your mother mouths across the room, sending you and exaggerated swoony smile and it does make you laugh softly. as if on reaction, clark's ears perk up at the sound, sending you a gentle smile and wrapping his hand under the table around yours.

you lean into his shoulder after the meal, needing to balance the weight before deciding to help your mother clear the table. the dishes you carry are swiped clear, clark clearly a fan of your mother's voice and when you land them in the sink with a gentle thud, you feel your mother's hands at your shoulders from behind you.

"darling," she murmurs and its ever so gentle that you can feel the tears gloss over your eyes. "i don't mean to judge but he seems incredible and all but," and you knew the but was coming, "what good can come from a man who loves you in pieces," her whisper cracks open your heart and lays it bare bloodied and bruised.

"mom," you whimper softly in her hold and she's instantly shushing you gently, rocking you back and forth in hug that holds you together firmly. it's not something you didn't know, it's just the first time someone has said it aloud to you and it hurts all the same

"i love him," you breathe, "and i know he loves me," you try.

"and sometimes it's not enough," she strokes your back in comfort and you look up to the ceiling, trying to force those tears back down.

"i know," you clear your throat and she lets you stay like that a little longer. when you return to the living room to find clark's heavy eyes on your figure and dinner wrapped up, you don't meet his gaze.

you kiss your mother and father on the cheek as clark shakes their hand firmly, wrapping your mother in a hug. they wave goodbye to you from the doorstep and watch you get into his car as clark shuts the door behind you.

the engine starts with a soft purr before he pulls out and starts the drive home. the quiet of the night entering your car as you both work your way around the elephant in the room.

he tells you about work to which you reply with nods and one liners and clark senses the shift like it's in the air suffocating him. he parks up on the side and you look around in confusion- this isn't the way home. you look over at him and for once in your life you don't actually know what to think about him.

"do you wanna tell me whats on your mind?" he speaks softly. too softly that it blurs the edges of the cuts he's left on you before and you almost faulter.

"nothing," you get out, because you don't actually know where to start.

"its not nothing if it's got you upset like this, baby," and when he sees you flinch at the pet name you used to adore his heart stills, missing a beat thundering in moment.

"it's you," and the beats stop entirely as he's stuck to the seat. you watch his expression, eyes begging him to just anything but he's stunned into a careful silence.

"it's me?" he asks slowly and you nod, the lump in your throat tightening your voice.

"i can't do this anymore, clark," and the first teardrop glistens in the dark as it falls. "there's only so much i can do, i've tried to hard to be patient- i, i, ah," you groan feel the rush of emotions overwhelm you, "i stretch myself to new limite to make room for all your lies and secrets and i'm breaking clark."

you look up from your lap, years wetting your lashes to face him honestly- he needs to know the damage he's done, "you don't even know what you do to me and it's unfair clark, it hurts," you try and wipe away the tears that fall but a new fresh batch that form and drop and before you know it, the mascara streaks a messy river down your face and you can't stop this.

he doesn't say anything for a moment, focusing on the heavy rise and fall of his chest. he should've known that he was breaking you apart, that he hadn't given you the trust that this relationship needs to work but he's harbouring a secret that could put you in so much more danger if you knew.

but still he tries, "honey, we can fix this," comes an honest admission of stern determination and you pull back, recoiling in anger.

"there is no we, clark," you jab a finger at his chest, "we haven't been on the same team for a while, you've left me on a one vs one each time you disappear with some lame excuse and i have to convince myself that you're not lying or hiding that it's all okay- we," you repeat back to him in a scoff, "i've tried to fix this so don't demean me and dog me down with a 'we'." there's no room for clark to carry on before you're ranting again.

"you were late to family dinner," your voice lowers an octave in defeat- letting him know that tonight was the final straw. "you know how important this was to me, you're the first guy i've brought home and you made me look stupid- then you play happy home pretend like it's nothing and you make me feel stupid too- what kind of asshole does that?" you ask him. he gave you a glimpse of what the future could've looked like if he just let you all the way in and you hate him immensely for it.

"i'll cut back on work, we can spend more time together- i can fix this," he pleads but you shake your head softly.

"i'm done, clark. i think it's time we call it," you nod to yourself more than anything.

his reply comes as quick as it is stubborn, laced with firmness and the fear of letting the best thing happen to him go, "i dont want to."

"i need to." comes your desperate whine.

"but i love you-" and you wince because on any other night it's what would've made smile, laugh and melt into his embrace. now it stands outside the cage you're trapped in, molted into the key that's so close within your grip.

"and its not enough," you counteract, "not when its also determined through actions- when it doesnt come whole- when i get bits of you when you decide to show up like youre superman saving the day," you list off your fingers and clark momentarily stumbles at your comparison. you use it ironically and it being the cause of his relationship failing pricks at his heart, he can feel the migraine coming in already- the you sized hole he's unable to fill.

"relationships arent perfect they dont-" he stumbles and its clearly the wrong thing to say when you cackle loudly in irony.

"oh god i know! ours is far from perfect!" your voice grows a little quieter and settles an air of finality, "love isnt always easy clark, but it shouldnt have to be so fucking hard."

"im calling it now, before we lose more time to this and we wake up so miserable one day suddenly i don't know ten years down the line tethering ourselves to a feeling we thought was enough and i hate both you and me for staying. i'm not happy clark and i cant live like that- i refuse to live like that," you beg and he sighs in defeat.

"im sorry," he murmurs, unsure of what he could say. nothing can change your mind. he's fucked this up and there's no way out of this for him.

"thats nice to hear," you accept, unwilling to forgive him just right now when the feelings are still raw, fresh and tug at the seams of your mind. your fingers find your temples to massage the growing aches and you face the window- looking anywhere other than your doomed lover, "please take me home."

no words are spoken for the remainder of the journey back to your apartment complex. the faint murmurs of billy joel's "piano man" hum alongside the engine and for once it feels like the universe is on your side- there's no traffic for miles, green lights ahead and you get home within minutes. clark however, still gets out the car at lightning speed before you, almost knocking you over to open your door and walks a few steps behind your pace to make sure you get up to the level of your apartments okay.

the final nail in his coffin is when you turn the key to your own apartment door instead of his like you would usually do almost every night and shut it without so much as a look behind. he stands there, pressing his forehead to the cool wooden panel of your door and breathes in heavily.

"fuck," he sighs, the feelings of tonight weighing his body down that he stays there for a couple of minutes before heaving himself up and heading into his own. he however does take one look back behind him only to find nothing changed- the door still shut on him and the sounds of light switches clicking off.

he doesn't blame you one ounce for ending things- you're stronger than he is by miles but that doesn't mean he isn't going to miss you any less.

note: REDEEMING MYSELF AFTER THE LAST ONE GUYS ‼️ this one goes out to @velovicy here's a real break up / unhappy ending - no grovelling however because i do fear this one may be unfixable but i love me a bad ending sometimes and hope you liked it too - let me know what you all think! 💘 i love hearing what you guys have to say x

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the sound of my voice (will haunt you)

i am SICK to my stomach,,, give me clark kent angst that will make me sob uncontrollably into my pillow...

clark kent x reader drabble warnings: unrequited love, clark x lois, hurt/no comfort, childhood bestfriend!reader, memory erasure

you had known clark kent long before you knew what love was. he was a constant -- the constant -- in your life, the sound of his giggles, his laughter, his arms around you, lifting you up to the skies, his hand holding yours in a firm grip as he pulled you up a tree branch.

the way he says your name.

so when you both became budding teenagers, the realization that you had grown to love clark kent in a way that was more than just platonic, more than a childhood crush, it felt...natural. like it was the natural progression of things -- of course it was meant to happen.

you thought it was the same for him. one day, soon, clark will realize his feelings for you too, and you will both be on the same page as to where your relationship stands.

that was what you kept holding on to, even as you uprooted your life in smallville and followed clark to metropolis, because that was what friends do.

and one day he starts going on and on about his new coworker, lois, about how she was just beautiful and perfect and smart and fearless and...

every word felt like a knife stabbed into your heart.

suddenly, it was like the music stopped. whatever fantasy you had in your head just...shattered...and it was like you were seeing clark for the first time. he was smiling at you, beaming, in anticipation.

"well?" he asked. you blinked multiple times, trying to remember what he had just been talking about like your entire world just hadn't collapsed right under your feet.

"i think you should do it," you told clark with a terse smile. "i think you should ask lois out."

his smile had gotten wider, and he nodded to himself, like your permission/opinion was the last piece of reassurance he needed. and when he planted a kiss on your forehead, your felt yourself die a little.

"thank you, love. you're the best."

-

you don't know how you came across this metahuman. all you knew, from exhaustive research (looking at obscure internet blogs of broken hearted people experiencing unrequited love) was that their powers worked. it can work on you, or the person you were in love with.

"what is your choice?"

do you choose to forget clark? all the memories of have of him, so entangled with your life that you couldn't even imagine a sliver of memory without him in it.

no, perhaps not.

but perhaps...he can forget you. painful as it may seem, but the idea of clark kent forgetting a small, insignificant bit of his past, is a small price to pay for your peace...and his future. you also think, more to yourself, that it would keep his identity safe, the less people who (he thinks) knows his identity, the better.

"take away his memories," you tell the metahuman.

-

now, all the memories of clark kent and his childhood friend reside only in your head. carefully hidden, preserved, and never to be touched. never to be hurt.

-

only...

maybe you weren't as insignificant to clark as you thought you were. that maybe your life was as entangled to his.

it started when clark was walking home to his apartment, watching as a moving truck was leaving the complex. his landlord casually mentioning a newly-vacated apartment across his.

then at night, a scent. reminding him so much of smallville, of home, of broken branches and hay bales, and the grass and fields he used to run on.

then, a voice.

a child's. giggles and cries, and shouts of his name.

"pick me up again, clark!"

older now.

"i will follow you anywhere, clark, you know that. i love you."

he jolts up from bed, heart racing. clark brings his hand up to his chest, grasping, clawing at the empty space of where something--someone--used to be. there's no one there anymore.

but he can hear you. your voice. he can never get away from it.

the sound of your voice haunts him.

A/N: YOU'LL NEVER GET AWAY FROM THE SOUND OF THE WOMAN THAT LOVES YOU

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how would clark react to shy!reader wearing cute panties around him for the first time? 

cw: mildly suggestive, fem In the privacy of his own home (and mind), Clark calls you his sweet girl. It’s the perfect way to describe you, and while others may find it saccharine or infantilising, he knows you appreciate it for what it is. A sweet girl given some tenderness back. 

You’re sitting on the arm of his sofa with your socked feet brushing against the floor, in pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that cloaks the shape of you. He’s making you a cold lemonade in the kitchen, and if his senses weren’t as sharp as they are he’d have tipped half of it onto the cool tile below. He can’t stop watching you. 

You laugh at the TV. “Clark, you’re missing the best part,” you say. 

He could knock you back onto the couch and kiss you dizzy when you laugh like that, only he’d never be so rough with you.

“I’m coming,” he promises. “No patience at all. You could’ve paused it for me.”

“I’ll rewind it, if you want.” 

Clark couldn’t care less about the movie. What he wants is to be sitting with you again, to pull you into his lap before the sun starts to go down. He needs to get his hours in. They’re owed! 

Clark presses the lemonade into your hand, a kiss to your head, catching the click of your jaw from a poorly hidden yawn. 

“Oh, honey, are you tired?” he asks. He’d had no idea. 

“No, I’m fine.”

“Sure. Okay, but we could finish the movie in bed, right?” 

You take a sip of lemonade. Grin at him like he’s perfect when you swallow. “I’m really not that tired.” 

“Humour me?” 

And oh, don’t you let him take you to bed. He guards your shoulder unnecessarily, pulls the sheets back to help you in while you grumble about being spoiled. Clark puts your movie on and slips into the bed next to you, deciding this is better than the spooning he’d planned on the couch. It would’ve taken ages to convince you that he doesn’t mind your weight. Here in bed, he can lie right beside you without preamble. 

You drink your lemonade, nothing so endearing to him as your sips and the way you wipe the condensation from your glass each time rather than let it wet the bed. Clark turns into you, in part due to low self-control, but more because you’re warm and soft to the touch. He puts his forehead on your shoulder and his hand to the hip furthest him. Under the blankets together, you are perfectly cocooned. 

Which makes it harder for him when you insist on getting up. 

“Where you going?” he asks. 

“Just to the bathroom. Gonna freshen up.” 

To freshen up, he thinks, and not to brush your teeth. Is he going to presume himself a lucky man from turn of phrase alone? No. But does he sit in bed waiting anxiously for you to return? Yes. Clark wouldn’t say it’s hard to get you out of your clothes, euphemism or otherwise; you aren’t uncomfortable around him anymore, just your tentativeness remains. He has to be gentle with you, and he doesn’t mind. 

He isn’t surprised to find you fully dressed when you return, smelling noticeably of lotion and something else he can’t name aptly as you stop at your side of the bed. His stomach flickers with heat as you switch off the bedside lamp, leaving the TV as the only light source. 

“Okay?” you ask softly. 

“Perfect, sweet girl,” he says, matching your tone, almost lost under the sounds of the movie. 

You nod. 

His breath catches and stills as you reach for the edge of your shirt and pull it off. 

Then you slip your shorts down your hips and Clark’s mind takes time to catch up. Like, a ridiculous amount of time. 

You’re not not cute, he wants that cemented in the record forever. You are a darling. In whatever plain white panties you deign to show him, in your simple t-shirt bras and especially out of them, you’re a wonder. Clark can’t believe you’re of earth, sometimes, until he thinks of course you are. You are charmingly, broadly human. 

Right now, you’re wearing the cutest matching set he’s ever seen, his mouth immediately cottoned with longing.

They aren’t ‘sexy’, objectively, a fake satin that looks perfectly comfortable to sleep in. The panties have a lettuce hemming, pink fabric, and his entire body has started to fill with a telling heat following the lines of you. “Are those strawberries?” he asks. 

You pull the sheets back and set yourself down beside him. Your little ankle socks stay on. Fuck, his blood is practically boiling in his veins. 

“Honey, you’re gonna have to let me see,” he says lightly. 

“No, ‘cos you looked at me too long. You’re done.”

You’re serious and teasing at once. 

“How was I supposed to not look?”

“Practice your restraint,” you say, really joking now. If Clark concentrates he can hear the patter of your heart picking up. Anticipation sends a flush over your skin. 

“Let me see you again,” he says, warming your thigh through the sheets. “Please.” 

You lay further down in the bed and breathe deeply. “Kiss me first,” you say, and there, he can hear the thread of your nerves, how much courage it actually took you to stand there and shimmy out of your clothes, knowing it was a big change.  

“Yeah, I will,” he promises, raising a hand to your cheek. “You– I don’t know how to say it. You’re–” He takes a calming breath as you had. He could be far more gentlemanly about the situation if he tried. “Fuck,” he groans instead, tapping his nose against yours, hovering for a kiss. Sweet girl.

You laugh, self-satisfaction new and wholly delightful on you as you tip your chin up to meet his lips. 

Clark pictures the feeling of satin under his fingers and presses eagerly into your mouth.

[midniqhtt]

Couldn't Make It Any Harder

summary: when you're known around school for being avoidant, clark wonders if theres any truth to the rumors and challenges himself to break down your walls and get to know the real you warnings: fem!reader, douchebag ex boyfriends, bullying, yelling, slapping, cursing, lowkey avoidant reader, angry reader (rightfully so), patient clark, ooc clark, mentions of nudity A/N: hiii, this is inspired by sabrina's "Couldn't Make it Any Harder" for my fellow avoidant girlies. I know what it's like to have a hard time letting people in, so I hope you like it!! (5k words)

You didn’t always used to be this way – cold, calculated, cautious. But you were a product of your environment and no one could blame you for that, no matter how much people tried. You knew the names people would call you – they were like warnings to those who were interested in you to not even bother. Maybe that's why you were so surprised when Clark Kent came walking over to you one day in the middle of the library, with that bright country boy smile, and enough charm that could knock down a horse.

“Hey, I was wondering if you had a spare pencil?” he asks nervously, his hands resting in his pockets awkwardly. He had missed the bus today – again – giving him no other choice than to run there, conveniently causing him to forget his school supplies in the process. You were sitting alone at a table in the far back, focusing on some calculus homework when he interrupted you. 

You look up at him before looking around curiously, wondering internally if this was some joke the guys on the football team were playing on you. After deciding you were in the clear, you stay silent as you rummage through your tote bag, pulling out a freshly sharpened pencil and handing it to him. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, a small smile on his face as he looks at you with quirked brows. You look up at him lazily, confused as to why he was making an effort to talk to you. "Yes, why?” you murmur as you take in his demeanor – it’s kinda humorous actually, here's this 6’4 guy with a coy smile, talking to you, the resident bitch, as you’ve been so sweetly dubbed. 

“You just aren’t very talkative, that’s all.” he muses, causing you to suppress a small smile “well I don't really have much to say.” you chuckle softly, shaking your head as you go back to solving some obscure math problem on your notebook.

You hear the chair across from you drag against the old business carpet as he takes a seat at your table, a small smile on his face. “This seat taken?” he asks coyly, and you just huff out a laugh before shaking your head, “It’s all yours.” you murmur, not looking up. “But I expect my pencil back,” you hum, rolling your eyes playfully. “I think I can manage that.” he laughs as you two fall into comfortable silence.

Well, that's until Whitney and a few of the guys on the football team walk by the table, stopping in their tracks once they see you – a sadistic grin on their faces. “I didn’t take you as a glutton for pain, Kent.” Whitney scoffs, his head gesturing to where you sit, causing Clark to look up confusedly. “Just saying, there’s plenty of tables around that here are bitch-less” he laughs, and you glare up at him. “Well I’m sure you’re an expert on that Whitney, we all know how good your track record is with women.” you smile sarcastically as he bites the inside of his cheek, making his way over to you with a menacing look in his eyes. 

Clark can practically feel the tension as he stands up, putting his hand against Whitney's chest as a silent order to back off. Another boy from Whitneys left – you think his name is John or something – pipes in “Yeah, well, you don’t see any of us eating lunch alone, now do you do? Guess that's the price we pay for actually being, y’know, likeable.” he laughs, high fiving some other douchebag to his right. 

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” you smile with faux sweetness, "you're never alone. I mean, who would choose peace and quiet when they can have a slew of underage freshman girls following them around. What? Can't find someone your own age?” you mock, slamming your notebook closed and grabbing your bag, walking off in the opposite direction – but not without giving them the finger as you exit. 

As you push open the school's front doors, you’re hit with a cool breeze across your face as you take a deep breath. You hated them. You’re so lost in your frustration that you don't even notice Clark walking up behind you, having followed you out of the library after giving Whitney and his friends a small shove on the way out. “Hey, are you alright?” he murmurs, and you jump in shock “Jesus, you need a bell or something.” you bite out, before a wave of guilt washes over you. He was just being nice. “Sorry.” he murmurs, hands up in surrender as he looks at you curiously. “No, I just- I’m sorry. I’m just tired” you mutter “I have to get to class.” you whisper, pushing past him and making your way to your world history class.

Oh what I’d give to be meeting you as the glass-half-full version of me

The next time you see Clark is a few days later when you’re sitting on the bleachers, getting some last-minute reading done before class. He came here to run some early drills because he knew it would be empty – what he didn’t expect was to find you here, of all places. He jogs up the stairs, a small smile on his face as he reaches you “Hey, didn’t expect to find you out here.” he laughs, and you look up, shock evident in your eyes. “Well, where would you expect to find me?” you scoff, rolling your eyes as you direct your attention back onto the book you were reading. 

Clark fights back a small smile, looking down at your book, “The Scarlet Letter?” he murmurs, and you look at him blankly. “yeah.” you mutter as he takes a seat next to you, pulling out the same book from his backpack. “Let me guess, Mrs. Psych’s lit class?” he laughs, and you stifle a smile. “Considering we have the same class, that isn’t a shock.” you hum as you roll your eyes playfully, and he feels his cheeks heat up.

“I uh, didn’t know that.” he laughs in embarrassment, and you set your book down, looking over at him. “I sit in the back.” you hum, not bothering to explain that it’s not by choice – the truth was that it was necessary if you wanted to avoid the football guys and their crude comments.

“I almost forgot,” he murmurs, reaching into his bag and pulling out your pencil "didn't have a chance to return it the last time I saw you. I hope that's alright.” he laughs, and you tap your chin contemplatively before a smile makes it way onto your face “I’ll allow it.” you muse. 

You two sit there and continue to talk for over an hour before the familiar ring of the school bell assaults your ears, causing you to get up and put your stuff back into your bag. You two are walking down the bleachers, still lost in conversation, when Clark begins to speak “Would you want to work on the English paper together? We could go to the Talon, maybe get some coffee?” he asks, hands in his pockets as he looks at you, a sliver of hope in his eyes. You stop in your tracks as you look up at him, scanning his eyes for something that indicates this is all some sick joke. When you finally decide he’s being genuine and are ready to say yes, a chorus of laughter rings out from the tunnel next to you as Whitney and his lackeys emerge, slapping Clark on the back. “good one, Kent” they muse, eyeing you up and down humorously, and you feel your blood run cold. 

Clark – bless him – looks around in shock, fully aware of how bad this looks as he stutters out apologies, but you refuse to hear them. “You can shove your coffee up your ass, Kent” you hiss as you rush out of the field, tears prickling at your eyes as you make your way to chemistry. Of course it was a joke, how could you believe it could be anything different. 

Clark just stares as you walk away, whipping around to shove Whitney’s hand off of him “Whitney, what the hell?” he mutters, looking at him angrily as their laughter dies down. “Oh shit- you weren't kidding, were you?” Whitney asks, and the guys next to him stifle laugh “Trust me, Clark, you don’t wanna be around her – she’s a sour bitch.” he laughs before he turns to the rest of the guys, beginning to talk about drills for the upcoming game.

During practice Clark does his best to ignore their digs and jabs, and after it’s finished he tries his best to go on with the rest of his day – making it his personal mission to find you. Unfortunately for him, it fails miserably, well, until he catches you walking over to your parked car at the end of the day. He rushes over, calling out your name, which only prompts you to get into your car faster.

Right as he reaches your door, you slam it shut and put the keys in the ignition. “Listen, I’m so sorry about earlier. I know how it looked, but I promise I had no idea they were there-” “if you don't get out of my way, I will hit you with my car, Kent.” you hiss, cutting him off. He frowns, but doesn't move. You press the gas as a warning, causing him to jump out of the way as you take the opportunity to speed off, leaving him to stand there in his guilt. 

But I couldn't make it any harder to love me

The next few days go by, and you manage to avoid Clark for the most part – well, until one morning when you’re pulling into the school parking lot and see Clark waiting next to your designated parking spot, a bouquet of wildflowers in hand as he smiles nervously. 

You bite the inside of your cheek as you exit your car, slamming the door shut as you don’t even look his way, choosing to straight shoot for the school's front doors. Unfortunately, he intercepts you quickly, walking backwards as he faces you. “I got these for you.” he offers “as an apology. I know how bad it looked, but-” you stop in your tracks, glaring up at him “I already told you to leave me alone.” you hiss, and he stifles a smile, “actually, you just threatened to hit me with your car.” he points out.

You roll your eyes as you continue walking, Clark hot on your heels as he follows you. You feel his hand clasp itself on your shoulder as you stop at your locker. “Please, just hear me out.” he asks softly, and you can't deny that your heart aches when you look at him, his eyes looking at you pleadingly. “Talk.” is all you mutter as you stash your books away in your locker.

“I swear to you, I had no idea that Whitney and the guys were there.” he promises and you look up at him cautiously. You fiddle with your nails nervously as you contemplate what to say. Sure, he seems honest – but so did a lot of guys who screwed you over. You look over at the bouquet in his hands, the yellow and orange wildflowers making your heart soften slightly. You slam your locker shut “I can do this Saturday at the Talon. Three o’clock.” you mutter, and a smile breaks out across his face.

“I will see you there.” he smiles, handing you the bouquet, and you swear you feel sparks across your fingers as your hands meet. You nod softly, admiring the flowers, and caressing the soft petals before looking up at him. “Yeah, see you there.” you smile softly, hoping that maybe this time will be different.  

Your arms are reaching, and your eager heart is throbbing

The last time you went on a date was three years ago, when you were some starry eyed freshman who really thought that a senior guy was into her – well, at least for something other than your body and naivety. Jackson was the epitome of the small town, peaked in high school trope – but to you, he was everything.

He made you feel special, like you were the only girl in the world – you suppose he made a lot of girls feel that way. He was the first, and only, guy you opened up to. and at the ripe age of fifteen, you finally felt like you found your person. You still remember the string of events that lead to the entire thing crumbling down. 

You were lying on your bed, your parents once again away on some business trip, leaving you to your own devices. You invited Jackson over and the two of you were cuddling in bed, his arms wrapped around you softly as you drone on about some school project. “Also, who was that girl you were talking to in Chemistry class?” you murmur softly, looking up at him as he rolls his eyes. “Layla.” he says blankly, like you were stupid or something. You had seen him while you were waiting for him after class, caressing her face softly and pushing a strand of bleach blonde hair behind her ear.

“What did she want?” you murmur, trying your best not to sound co-dependent – that was the one thing Jackson hated. He made it clear from the beginning that you two lived separate lives, and that what he did with his free time wasn’t your business. I mean, no one likes a clingy girl, right?

“Are we seriously going to do this?” he mutters, annoyance clear in his voice as his warm grasp disappears and he shifts away from you. “No, no!” you assure, turning to look at him, panic evident in your voice. “I was just wondering, that's all- I swear” you assure, and he looks at you skeptically before settling back down. You didn’t ask about it again.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the last time the issue arose. The next time it happened was when you were at lunch, looking around the cafeteria for him with your lunch tray in hand. After a few moments you finally find him sitting at a table towards the back, Layla leaning against him as he whispers something in her ear. You freeze, before slowly walking over to join the table. 

The worst part? He didn’t even move once he saw you – just shot you a lazy smile and gestured for you to sit down. You didn’t even know what to say, of course it made you upset – but the last thing you wanted to do was lose Jackson. So, even though you shouldn’t have, you just decided to bite your tongue and let it go.

The final nail in the coffin came when you were at Jackson's house, lying with him in bed as you two made out. You were sprawled out on top of him, his hands running across your side when he gets a message on his phone, the loud ding shattering the moment. 

He grabs your hips harshly, lifting you off of him as he reaches out for his phone. “who is it?” you ask, trying to hide the frustration in your voice. He looks at the message, a smile on his face as he waves you off, “no one.” You scoff before rolling over to the other side of the bed. “Well, are you going to put the phone down?” you mutter, and he rolls his eyes. "Give me a damn second” he huffs before he begins texting whoevers on the other line back.

You two stay like that for ten minutes before you sneak a peek at his phone, attempting to see who he was texting. The first thing you see is ‘Layla’ in bold letters across the contact screen, and the second are the words “I love you” being typed out. You feel a lump in your throat as you look over at him “are you fucking serious?” you scoff, causing him to look over at you in shock. You never raised your voice.

“What is your problem?” he mutters, before realizing you definitely saw what he was trying – albeit weakly – to hide. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration “What did I tell you about looking at my phone?” he mutters, and you look at him, appalled. “You’re fucking cheating on me, and you think I’m somehow to blame?” you scoff, shaking your head angrily as you jump up off of the bed.

“You are so needy, Jesus,” he huffs, setting the phone down to look at you – like you’re just some chore to be dealt with. “Fuck you, Jackson” you hiss, shoving him back as he attempts to get closer to you. He scoffs, looking over at you “are you serious? I made you. The only reason no one thinks you’re a loser is because you’re with me. If you wanna throw that away because you’re a needy bitch, then that's on you.” he laughs sarcastically, getting even closer to your face.

And while you don't mean to, you slap him right across the face, an ugly red and raised mark blossoming across his cheek as tears burn in your eyes. “Go to hell.” you hiss as you storm out. You gave him everything – homework answers, your full undivided attention, your first time. You’ve never felt so stupid in your life.

Well, that's until the next day at school when he showed up with a nasty bruise on his face. Not to mention how he wasted no time telling everyone about how you had done that to him. He, of course, forgot to include the fact that he was a cheating, lying, asshole – but that didn't matter. Because now everyone just knew you as the bitch with a bad temper, and no one wanted to get to know her.

Fuck boys you'll never meet, well you can thank them for why im so goddamn reactionary

So here you stand, looking over yourself in your bedroom mirror as you contemplate your outfit. You wanted to keep it simple – not get too excited – while also putting in some semblance of effort. After a few minutes you change your top for the fourth time, opting for some cute low-rise jeans and a pink and white floral lace tank top, pairing some baby pink ballet flats to match as you quickly grab your tote bag off of your bed.

You go through a mental checklist, ensuring you have everything, before exhaling nervously and making your way to the front door. You quickly grab your car keys off of the coffee table as you head out to the driveway, hopping into your car and driving towards the Talon, your fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel the whole way there.

By the time you make it there and find a parking spot, Clark is already inside sitting at a table as he nervously waits for you. You walk in, looking around the crowded cafe before you spot him – not that it's difficult given his stature. He smiles once he spots you and stands up, leaving his backpack to rest on the table, saving the spot as he walks over to you.

“I got us a table.” he smiles. “Thanks. Do you wanna get coffee?” you ask, gesturing to the counter as he nods in response. You walk over to the register, browsing the menu for a few seconds before ordering a snickerdoodle iced latte, Clark opting for a plain vanilla latte, which makes you suppress a smile. You go to pull out your wallet, but Clark beats you to it and holds a crumpled $10 to the woman at the register.

“You didn’t have to do that.” you frown, not used to people doing things like that for you. He just smiles knowingly before shaking his head as he leads you over to the table. “I wanted to.” he assures, and you just nod silently. You quickly pull out your notebook and copy of The Scarlet Letter from your bag when you sit down, talking about the contents of the paper.

By the time your drinks arrive, the conversation has gravitated towards something completely different but you can’t bring yourself to mind. “So, how do you like living on a farm?” you laugh, taking a sip of your drink as he smiles. “it’s interesting to say the least” he muses, before he begins to tell you a story about one of his horses – which nearly causes you to spit out your drink from laughter. 

By the time you remember the assignment, it's dark outside, and you figure you should probably be getting home. “I’ll walk you to your car.” he offers, smiling as he grabs your bag for you and leads you to the front of the cafe, opening the door for you as well. When you stop in front of your car, you look over at Clark with a smile, grabbing your things from his hands.

“Thank you for today, I had great time.” he says, sincerity dripping from his voice as he looks at you softly. Your eyes meet his, and you can feel your heart stutter in your chest. “I did too,” you hum, turning to look down at your feet. “Thank you for inviting me.” you smile, and he nods. 

You figure the conversation is over as you open your car door, stepping inside before you hear Clark pipe up. “Also, I just want you to know- you look beautiful.” he adds, making your cheeks heat up in response. “Thank you” you smile, but there’s a sense of doubt clouding your mind as you wonder if he really means it. 

Meanwhile, you're just trying to tell me I look nice

As Monday rolls around, you feel something you haven’t felt in a while – excitement. You wanted to see Clark. So when you hop out of your car with a rare smile on your face, you browse the parking lot for him instinctively. When you don't see him immediately, you make your way inside the school, dropping off your books by your locker before heading to the library for some last-minute studying. As you make your way in, you hear a familiar voice talking in a hushed tone behind one of the bookshelves. “So, Lana tells me you and her were at the Talon.” Whitney laughs “You’re one strange man, Clark.” he calls out, making you freeze. “We had a great time, actually.” Clark cuts in, his voice hard as he ignores the guys.

“We’re just looking out for you, man” Blake pipes in “She’s fucking crazy – slapped the shit out of our boy Jackson a few years ago. Girls got a temper, and not the hot kind.” he laughs, and you feel your heart squeeze in your chest. Why hadn't he walked away already? “Well, I guess I’ll find out for myself.” Clark mutters, brushing their comments off as he searches the shelves for a book he needs in chemistry.

“C’mon Kent, you have to admit she's bitchy – you’re telling me in all the times you’ve talked, she's never once made a stray, rude comment?” Whitney laughs knowingly, and you can hear Clark hesitate. You debate on running – ditching school to lock yourself in your room and cry out your feelings, but your feet are planted to the ground. “She isn’t like that, you guys just don't know her.” he defends, but it feels different now. charged.

You feel so stupid, of course he’s going to consider the opinion of the guys on the football team – they were his friends. You can’t bring yourself to listen to the rest of their conversation, choosing to walk away as quickly as possible, pushing back tears that blur your vision. Making your way out of the library, you b-line for the girls bathroom, knowing it’s the one place Clark can't find you.

You sit there, locked in a stall, for who knows how long, only speaking up when someone jiggles the door knob to let them know it’s occupied. You only leave when you hear the bell ring, forcing yourself to attend class. You’re just thankful that you don't see Clark on the way, hoping that luck follows you.

You successfully dodge Clark all day, and when the final bell rings you rush out to your car – praying that by some miracle he doesn’t catch you before you get out of the parking lot. Thankfully, you make it inside your car by the time you see him exiting the school’s front doors, brows furrowed as he looks around for your car. Once he sees it, he smiles and jogs over, but before he can get to you, you speed out of the parking lot. 

You know deep down that he did defend you, that he never said anything outwardly wrong or hurtful – but in that moment, it didn't matter. Because deep down, you knew that his being friends with those guys would cause whatever fragile relationship you two shared to crumble anyway. Like they said, you had a reputation, and no amount of patience that Clark gave you would erase that – no matter how hard he tried. 

You say you can take it, but you don't know how hard I can make it

The next three days follow the same routine, Clark trying his best to catch you, and you successfully avoiding him like the plague. You’re sitting in your room one night, flipping through some old magazine you bought at the grocery store, when you hear the doorbell ring. You freeze for a moment, wondering who it could be. Your parents were gone, again, and god knows you didn't have many friends – especially not any that would show up announced. You creep out of your room, back flush against the hallway wall as you tiptoe over towards the door. You watched enough murder documentaries to know how to evade a serial killer.

You slowly lean against the door, looking through the peephole as your heart beats out of your chest. Thankfully, that feeling immediately ceases once you see a familiar figure waiting at the door. Unfortunately, it's replaced with a new feeling – a horrible mix of anxiety and lightheadedness, which makes you freeze in place. You debate on opening the door and facing him, but avoidance wins out as you slowly back away towards your room.

After a few moments of radio silence, Clark may use his x-ray vision to see if you were home – sure, he saw your car in the driveway, but he wanted to be sure. And sure enough, there you were trying to avoid him, again. “I know you’re in there.” he frowns, causing you to stop dead in your tracks. How the hell did he know? “Please just talk to me, avoiding the problem isn’t going to make it better. I don't even know what I did,” he calls out, and you feel the guilt gnawing at you as you make your way over to the door.

You open the door forcefully, suddenly wishing you had changed out of your pair of old yoga pants and oversized sweater as you look at Clark, taking in his old jeans and denim jacket. He looked good and you hated it.

“How did you find out where I lived?” you ask bluntly, looking at him with furrowed brows as you look around on your porch cautiously. “I asked around,” he murmurs, “why are you avoiding me?” he asks, and you laugh dryly “No beating around the bush then, huh?”

He furrows his brows “No, don’t do that. I’m serious, I-” he exhales slowly “I don't know what I did.” he murmurs, and you frown. “you didn't do anything.” you whisper, “I just want to focus on school and you’ve been distracting.” you justify, attempting to close the door.

Before you can, his hand shoots out to halt it, “We both know that's not true.” he mutters, stepping forward. “What happened within this last week that’s making you act like this?” he questions, and you can tell by his tone that it’s coming from a place of care.

“Have you considered that maybe this isn't just an act? That this is who I really am?” you hiss, your walls going up instinctively. He just shakes his head, laughing humourlessly, “No.” he says plainly, "because I saw who you really were that day at the Talon. Hell, I saw it before that, during that morning on the bleachers, and that day at the library.” he justifies.

You clench your jaw, “Maybe you think you did, but you didn't. You heard your friends, all I'm capable of being is a cold, hard, bitch.” you hiss, and he freezes, guilt mulling over his features as he takes in your words. “Well, have you considered that I don't share that thought?” he asks in bewilderment.

“No.” you say angrily, stepping out of your doorway and back onto the porch. “Because no matter how much you think you know me, you don't.” you scoff, “and you can thank your football buddies for that one.” you hiss, finger jabbing at his chest as you walk towards him menacingly, forcing him to back up in the process.

He looks down at you, and he wonders if you notice the tears building up in your eyes. You don't. “All you, or them, or anyone, cares about is making me look stupid – like the mean, bitter, bitch they made me into.” you shout, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively. You struggle in his grasp for a few moments before you go limp, your breathing heavy as your hand smears the wetness across your cheek. 

He brings his hand to your head, holding you close to his chest as he whispers in your ear. “Hey hey, it's okay.” he murmurs, “I don’t- you’re not whatever they say you are. I know that, I know you.” he assures, leading you over to the porch swing that sits in the corner. He sits down, you in tow, as he continues whispering reassurance in your ear, the tears eventually coming to an end.

You look up at him with wet eyes – he was the only person who saw you  – and like every good thing that came into your life, your initial reaction was to self-sabotage. It wasn’t until you were able to relax, your head leaning against his chest, that you realized maybe it didn't have to be that way. So you did the one thing you promised yourself you would never do again – you opened up, and he just listened.

By the time you’re finished, you’re scared to look up at him, something he must notice because a few seconds later you feel his hand grip your face softly, lifting your chin to look at him. “None of that was your fault,” he whispers, “They don’t know you, and that's their loss. And I know I can't change what happened, but I want to know you. all of you – if you’ll let me.” he whispers pleadingly.

You don't say anything for a few moments, your mind going a million miles a minute, contemplating the possible consequences of letting someone get close to you again. But ultimately, you decide that you’re tired of being stuck in the same place, tired of feeding into the pseudo persona given to you by people who don’t even know you. You want to be happy, and this seems like the perfect place to start. “I’d like that, Clark” you whisper, looking up at him with a mixture of longing and fear.

You know it’s going to be a long road ahead, unlearning behavior is never easy – especially when it’s something so ingrained in you that you once began to believe it too. You expect challenges, but thankfully Clark’s never been one to run away from something just because it's hard.

And as his lips meet yours, you feel a sudden warmth blooming in your chest that feels like it could light your whole body on fire. If this is what it was like to love someone, maybe you could get used to it after all.

Oh, one day, believe me, you'll want someone that makes it easy

[midniqhtt]

ALL MAKES SENSE

summary: The obsession of other interns had with him never made sense. Not until one night… drinks turned into something more. It’s so good that it makes all those promises to never be one of the girls giggling over Clark Kent feel ridiculous. But now it makes sense. God, now it does.

pairings: intern!clark kent x afab intern!reader

warnings: 3.5k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. intoxicated sex. (light) praise kink. size difference kink (light). internal ejaculation. clothed sex. cockwarming (implied). biting / marking. read responsibly.

note: i said i wasn’t gonna write bc i have too many wips and drafts piling up… haha god help me. but i literally couldn’t resist him. this was just a quick write. hope u guys enjoy it <3

You don’t get it, at first. The way the other interns practically light up when he walks in. They act like he’s the most handsome inside the building. Sure, maybe he is. But you hate the way they clutch their iced coffees, and giggle when he holds the door open with that shy, lopsided smile. It looks like they’re desperate for it. Or maybe you are just bitter. Or maybe you are trying to find red flags in him. Don’t also forget that when someone calls him “cute” and they think he can’t hear. But you think he does and just acts innocent and oblivious which made you shrug and roll your eyes every time that happens. Ignore, ignore, and ignore before going back to your drink and to scrolling on your phone. Because, yeah, he’s handsome, tall, shoulders a little too broad for the cheap shirts he wears, but he’s also corny as hell. Makes those terrible little jokes that hang in the air like a bad pun smell. And you notice how he glances around like he’s waiting for someone to laugh, and scratches the back of his neck when no one does. But that rarely happens because the girls always laugh at his jokes like they can let it pass since he’s handsome, cute, kind, tall, smart, and- whatever.

You don’t get it, because you’ve seen him spill coffee down the front of his shirt. The cheap button-down soaked with a stain he tries to clean it with crumpled napkins while his cheeks flushed pink like he’s waiting for the floor to swallow him up. You feel a little bad for him though especially when his glasses keep slipping down his nose as he leans over the counter before muttering under his breath, “It’s fine, happens all the time,” and just laughs it off but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You’ve watched him tug the fabric away from his chest before shaking it out a little and his hair falling across his forehead in that messy, boyish way, like he’s fighting a losing battle against the universe before it’s even eight in the morning. Okay, maybe that’s cute.

You don’t get it, until one Friday when everyone goes out for drinks. You don’t want to come but your office friend won’t take no for an answer so you just agreed to go to the cheap dive a block away with sticky floors and neon lights buzzing in the corner. You end up sitting next to him, not on purpose. It’s just the last open seat, and he offers to buy you a drink because he’s nice like that. Of course, it’s hard to deny free drinks especially after when you heard him blurt out something stupid about the weather, You find yourself laughing, actually laughing, and he looks at you like you’ve given him something he’s been waiting for all week.

You don’t get it, until you’re tipsy, and cheeks warm. Until you’re leaning into the space between you and closing the distance. Until he’s looking at you with those soft eyes, lashes so stupidly long, and asking if you want to keep talking somewhere quieter. You say yes, before you can think too hard about it because he managed to work his charms on you. Let's bring you to his place and let him hold the door open for you one more time, let him smile at you like you’re the only person in the world.

You don’t get it, until you do because because now you’re here. You’re on his couch with your knees pulled up and shoes off. You don’t even know where you left them because you’re tipsy enough that your limbs feel warm and slow but not enough to forget the way he looked at you while he keeps talking and listens when you respond to him. His apartment is enough, it looks domestic and it’s very Clark.

He’s sitting across from you, elbow hooked over the back of the couch. His shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms that showing the muscles that had been hiding underneath fabric, glasses still on, and hair messy from running a hand through it too many times tonight. He’s talking about something he couldn’t forget. It’s a story about how he once missed a bus because he stopped to help an elderly woman to find her lost pet. You just stare at him when he’s talking and how he shakes his head before laughing at himself like it’s something to be embarrassed about. Like he overthinks you might think he’s stupid for it. You don’t. It’s kind. It’s heartwarming to hear. You don’t think what he did is stupid.

Eyes remain looking at you while he talks. Not just… performative. He’s really looking, eyes bright, leaning forward when he says your name. Like he can’t help it. Like he needs to see how you’ll react. Like it, he enjoys how it rolls off his tongue. You think about all the times you rolled your eyes when the other interns giggled over him. The times you swore you’d never be that person. Now? You feel it, something small and warm in your chest, and something you don’t want to name yet.

But it blooms in your system as your head falls back against the couch. You laugh and tell him he’s such a dork and stupid. You don’t mean it in an insulting way, but more on like just teasing him and you are glad he just smiles. It’s wide and a little crooked. It’s obvious he’s hiding how your words made him smile like that. Everything feels so good right now, there’s even a music playing from his phone speaker. You wonder what his playlists look like because what’s playing right now is soothing and calm. It makes the room feel better and softer. Your legs and his are almost touching. You don’t even notice how the space feels smaller from the moment you sit there earlier.

And he goes quiet for a moment after talking continuously ever since you entered his place. His eyes try not to stare at you when he also tries to memorize this moment. The way your mouth smirks when you tease him about his jokes. The way you look at him when you feel yourself getting more into the conversation. His mouth opened like he was going to ask you something but he just shut it because nothing came out. So he just swallows and your eyes watch how his Adam’s apple bobs. He doesn’t know it but you also notice how his hands twitch on his knee like he’s thinking about something.

You know what he wants to ask. It’s not hard to guess what it is. You are also not dumb not to see it. It’s already written across his face. He thinks he’s slick when he keeps flickering to look at your lips. Going back to look up at your eyes and back down to your lips. You know he’s the kind of guy who won’t just do something unless you tell him to do it or you will just have to initiate it.

So you initiate it. You lean in and close the distance between the two of you. Your hand latches to his cheek with your thumb caressing the shape and sharpness of his jaw before you kiss him. It’s soft and you can taste the cheap beer you both drank earlier. You could feel the warmth of his mouth and it’s something you’ve been trying to hate and deny since the first moment you saw him smiling and waving his hand at you.

Now you get it. You get it because he’s been gentle from the kiss to this moment. He’s soft and touching you like glass, letting you take what you want while still holding you steady. He keeps you close with those big, and warm hands like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he lets go. His hands are warm and firm, but not hurting you. It’s just enough to feel he’s here.

Your blouse is open and hanging off your shoulders. Bra pushed down so your tits are out as your nipples brush against the fabric as you move. He was so gentle when he opened you up, even though it’s not really completely naked, but that’s all what he could manage with the impatience he had to be inside you. His shirt is open too, same as you with how his buttons are undone, sleeves rolled, and exposing the slope of his chest. You can also see the way his stomach flexes every time you roll your hips down on him. You’re still wearing your skirt. It’s just bunched up around your waist, and his pants are still on, pulled down just enough so he can free his cock, thick and flushed where it’s buried inside your cunt. His size really stretched you open with every slow, needy rock of your hips.

Hands rest on his shoulders while nails dig in the fabric while you find the right pace and angle for the both of you. Each drag of your hips earns a slicked sound from your pussy and you swear he groans every time it gets so loud and it makes him drag you down deeper to take the whole of him. There’s the friction sending electricity through your every time the tip of his cock presses and kissing against the spot inside you that makes your lips taste like metal from biting it just to keep yourself from being so loud.

“Fuck- baby-” he breathes out. His voice is low and desperate. It sounds so fucking pretty falling from his lips. You love the way he sounds. The way it stutters and the way he’s vocal about it. His hands grip your hips, not forcing you, but guiding you. Soft thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as he helps you lift up and sink back down. Helps you ride him like you’ve both been craving this since the first moment you kissed. He helps you because that’s what he always does. Be there for people and be soft to them. The difference is that what he’s doing right now is not because of some service or act of kindness, he’s doing it because he wants you to enjoy it.

Chest brushes against his with sweat sticking to skin both of your skins and you can feel the way his breath stutters when your nipples graze across his when you lean in closer. Forehead pressing to his, and noses bumping before your lips brush against just but not quite kissing. “Clark-” you whisper just to see how he reacts. It’s so hot when he moans after you say his name. It’s soft and broken that makes your pussy clench around him and makes him jerk up into you without meaning to. His cock is twitching inside your cunt as he tries to hold back.

“God, you feel- you feel so good,” he pants, eyes fluttering shut, lashes dark and damp against his cheeks. “So fucking tight around me, goddamn-” Hips just rocking and bouncing down harder when you hear his words, it’s like a compliment hearing that so you grind against him. Your movements made his mouth fall open before a ragged sound snatched out of his throat. His head tips back against the backrest of the couch and the sight below you is so hot. Him being pussy whipped, hands on your sides, and the way his cock disappears when you sink your body into him.

Your hands slide up into his hair to tug lightly, and his eyes snap open. It’s glassy and blown wide, looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. His hands flex on your hips, and you feel it when he bucks up into you, the angle hitting that spot that makes you gasp, makes your thighs tremble around him. “Please- fuck, please, baby,” he mumbles, not even sure what he’s asking for, but you understand. You feel it too. The desperation. The heat builds between your bodies. The wet slap of your pussy taking him over and over as you ride him slow and deep. Letting him fill you up. Letting him feel how warm and wet you are around his cock.

And you don’t want to come yet. There’s something in you that doesn't want this to stop. Something that wants to stay here at this moment. You don’t know if that’s the sex making you feel that way but you think he wants that too. Especially with the way he twitches when your pussy clenches around you. The way he moans when you wrap your hands around his hair to tug it. How he gets closer to make sure your body pressed so close when the sweat drips down to your chest. Breath mingling as you fuck yourself down on him, slow and steady, over and over. You want to remember how it feels when his hands slide up your back. How does it feel when he’s holding you tighter. When he whimpers against your mouth before kissing you like he can’t help it. How his tongue slides against yours. How he swallows your moans as you move together.

Now you get it. Now you get why everyone looks at him like that. Because right now you’re looking at him like this. Like you are asking him why you don’t want to stop. But you already know the answer. You don’t want to. Not when it feels so good. Not when he’s hitting it so deep. Not when it’s so thick inside your pussy. It drags against your walls with every slow, desperate grind of your hips, and every bounce that has your thighs shaking. Your cunt keeps sucking him back in, wet and hot with slick dripping down onto his pelvis where your bodies meet.

He’s still wearing his glasses. God, he’s still wearing his fucking glasses, and you don’t know why it makes you moan, but it does. Something about how they’re slightly crooked on his nose, how they fog up when his breath stutters, how they press cold against your neck when he leans forward and kisses you there, mouth hot and open, tongue dragging over your skin before he bites down softly. “Clark,” you gasp. Nails raking down his chest, over the open edges of his shirt, as you try to ground yourself, try to hold on when his hips jerk up into you. It hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back, makes your cunt clench around him, and makes him let out a low, broken groan against your throat.

“Fuck, you feel- you feel so good, can’t- can’t believe how good you feel,” he babbles. His voice was wrecked. Kissing up your neck, sucking a mark just under your jaw before pulling back to look at you. His eyes are glassy behind those fogged lenses, lips pink and swollen. You whimper while your hips stutter. Your pussy tightens around him when you see how he looks at you, like he’s falling apart, like you’re the only thing keeping him together. “Take them off,” you whisper. Fingers sliding up, hooking around the arms of his glasses, pushing them off his face as he blinks up at you. His pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any blue left.

You toss them to the side, somewhere on the couch, and cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “There,” you breathe, “wanted to see you.” He moans a soft, choked sound. Hands gripping your hips tighter, and guiding you down onto his cock. Helping you grind deeper, slower, rolling his hips up to meet you. The wet sounds of your pussy swallowing him fill the room, until the head of his cock drags right against your cervix, over and over, until you can’t hold back the sounds spilling from your mouth.

You’re so close you almost can taste it. Heat feels so tight in your belly. Legs trembling and shiver shooting down your spine with every thrust, every grind, every time his cock hits that spot that makes your vision blur. That makes your body shake above him. Your thighs are burning. Your breath is coming out in broken moans. Your forehead pressed to his, sweat dripping down your temple as you keep moving, chasing the edge, chasing that high, and wanting to come so badly it hurts.

“Please- fuck, please,” he gasps, and you don’t even know what he’s begging for, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re begging too, whimpering against his lips, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop-” And he won’t. He won’t stop because he lets you control everything tonight. He won’t let you fall off his lap. He won’t let you slip away. He just won’t, not when your pussy is tighter than anyone he fucked before, not when your pussy is squeezing and sucking him so tight. He’s going crazy under you and his hips are thrusting up into you. His hands pull you more down before guiding you up.

You’re right there, right on the edge. Your teeth can feel your orgasm already high and it feels like it’s going to break you both. Body shaking, nails scratching his visible skin while your pussy gushes down in his cock. Doesn’t care even if both of you are soaking the fabric of your skirt and his pants which are pulled down to around his thighs. It makes everything so messy. Skin slapping and wetness fill the room. So fucking perfect.

Now you get it. You get it when it happens- when it finally happens- when the pressure building between your hips snaps, when the pleasure spills over, hot and blinding. Tearing a sob from your throat as your cunt clenches down around his cock, so tight and wet that his breath catches, that his eyes roll back as he moans your name like a prayer. You get it when you see the way he looks at you while you fall apart, the way his hands grip your hips so hard it borders on bruising. He’s pulling you down onto him, grinding you against him as he fucks up into you, chasing your high, helping you ride it out, helping you take everything you need.

“Fuck, Clark- shit, I’m coming-” you gasp, your head falling back, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, finding the fabric of his open shirt, finding the soft hair on his chest, clutching it as your body shudders, as your thighs clamp around his waist, as your pussy milks his cock in desperate, pulsing waves. “God- baby, I-” he stutters, his hips jerking up, his eyes fluttering shut, his jaw going slack as he feels you coming around him, as he feels how wet you are, how warm you are, how perfect you are like this, taking him, taking all of him.

“Want you to come,” you whimper, leaning forward, pressing your forehead to his, your lips brushing against his as you breathe him in, as you move your hips in slow, rolling circles that make your overstimulated pussy spasm around him, that make him choke on a groan. “Want you to come inside me, please-” That’s what breaks him.

Mouth finds its way to yours and he starts swallowing the sounds you are making. Kissing you hard that it became messy with both of your teeth grinding together and tongues sliding while his hips stutter because his cock twitches inside your wet cunt. And then he spills and cum inside of you with a guttural and desperate moan that you feel vibrates against your lips.

You love the feeling of the warm cum that released and flooded deep inside your pussy and you absolutely love that he keeps thrusting to stuff it more inside. He’s fucking you through it. He chases every wave of pressure and drags out your orgasm until it’s almost too much. Until you’re shaking in his lap, and whimpering into his mouth with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels.

You’re so full and pussy is so wet because of his cum leaking out around his cock. It drips down to his pelvis and stomach which makes everything so slick and messy. It feels sticky and the sight is obscene. The room is filled with mixed sounds from both of your breaths, the wet and slick slide of your bodies, and the soft and broken whimpers the two of you let out when you slowly come down from the high.

And you just stay in the same place with your forehead resting against his and your lips brushing against his at the same time. Chests heaving when you try to catch your breath and you feel the aftershocks from the orgasm still pulsing through your pussy. You feel it still fluttering and clenching around his softening cock inside you.

Now you get it. You get why he’s worth the giggles, the stares, the soft smiles in hallways, the stupid little crushes. Because he’s gentle. Because he’s kind. Because he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world, even now, when you’re messy and fucked-out in his lap, your skirt bunched around your waist, his cum dripping out of your cunt, your hair sticking to your sweaty skin, your mouth swollen from kissing him too hard.

You get it.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[midniqhtt]

01. PERIGEE | CLARK KENT

Pairing: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader Word Count: 1.6k Summary: Perigee /ˈperəˌjē/: the point at which the gravitational pull of the moon is strongest. Or, the story where you've always been Clark's moon, and he's the tide that ebbs and flows with you. Warnings: a little unedited, I used the Beanery from Smallville the show but in this series it doesn't suck, lmk if I missed anything! Note: I am of the many who saw Superman last week and immediately started writing. I'm going to do my best to write Clark as the yearner he is in this three part series and I hope you like it!

Most people your age dreamt of getting out of Smallville, of finding their way to a big city where they could live their life to the fullest, but you? You loved it here. It was your home, your safety, the place you’d grown up, the source of all of your happiest memories. While others detested the closeness of the small town, you saw the beauty in how tight-knit everyone was. While they dreamt of skyscrapers and chain coffee shops, you reveled in the open sky and familiarity of the Beanery.

Though if you were being honest, the one downside to staying in the rural town was how limited the dating pool was. Everyone your age was either already married, had dated one of your friends, or was someone you had already gone on a failed date or two with. It didn’t help that any guy you crossed paths with was always unknowingly in competition with someone who had left Smallville years ago, and no one ever came even remotely close to him.

“Mornin’ sweetpea,” Martha sweetly greets you as she hovers near your seat, coffee cup and to-go sack in hand, “You workin’ today?”

“No, ma’am,” You give her a polite and warm smile, “I’m off for the next week.”

“Oh, are you goin’ on a little vacation,” She asks, nothing but sincerity and gentle kindness in her voice, “You deserve one after all those hours you work.”

“No vacation,” You shake your head with an light chuckle, “I’m just going to stay home and relax. Might try and fix up some things around the house that need to be done.”

You watch as something flickers in her eyes, almost like you can see the lightbulb lighting up with an idea so bright it shines throughout the entire shop. The coy smile that tugs at the corners of her lips is enough to tell you that she had thought of something, and whatever it was, you knew you wouldn’t be able to say no. You could never say to the Kent’s, not after everything they’ve done for you.

“If you aren’t busy this evenin’, you should come to the house for supper,” She starts off, though you can sense the subtle traces of some unspoken agenda, “Clark is in town, and I know he’d like to see ya.”

There it is.

The mention of her son sends an instant wave of warmth to your cheeks, a feeling of familiarity and comfort blossoming in your chest at the idea of seeing Clark again. It’s been so long since the two of you had last spoken, and even longer since you had last seen him, but the way you felt whenever he was brought up never swayed. Ever since the two of you were young, he brought out a feeling that you’d spent the better part of your days chasing after, yet you’ve never been able to replicate it with anyone else.

“I’ll be there,” You nod with finality, hoping she doesn’t notice the way your voice nearly trembles with nerves.

“Oh, good,” She gushes, delicately grasping your hand that’s on the table and giving it a squeeze, “I’ll send one of the boys to come pick ya up at five.”

You knew better than to argue against her, so you nod in agreement before she bids you goodbye and is out the door. The second she leaves, your nerves hit you in full force, and you’re sending panicked texts to your friends that they were having to decode as they fly in. They were trying to calm you down, telling you that you still had an entire day ahead of you to fill with distractions until the time came, but their attempts were practically fruitless. You were freaking out.

When you make it back to your house, you quickly began tearing through your closet in search of the appropriate outfit for dinner at the Kent’s. Of course, you weren’t going to wear anything too over the top, but you didn’t want to dress too plainly, either. Not if Clark was going to be there. With the help of your friends and a two hour long group FaceTime, you finally settled on something that was suitable and checked off your boxes. However, that still left you with nearly five hours to yourself, and a room full of clothes to put back on hangers.

“Are you sure this looks okay,” You ask as you twirl in front of the camera, “It’s not too boring?”

“Girl, you look great,” Mandy, the unfortunate recipient of yet another panicked call, reassures with a playful eye roll, “Those jeans make your ass look phenomenal. I wouldn’t be surprised if Clark took you up to his teenage boy bedroom and fu–”

“Oh my god,” You cut her off with a shriek, “Calm down, Amanda! That’s his parents' house.”

“So, you’re saying if his parents weren’t there,” She trails off into an amused laugh, ignoring the pointed glare you’re throwing her way, “All jokes, all jokes. My point is, you look fuckin’ good, you always do. That farm boy won’t know what hit him.”

“He’s been living in Metropolis for a while now,” You casually remind her, “He’s not really a farm boy anymore, is he?”

“Oh, please,” She lightly scoffs, “Clark Kent will always be a farm boy.”

You were trying to make sure that you had all of your stuff gathered in your bag, and the pie you had made was still warm and ready to take with you. It was nearing five, and you wanted to be sure that you were ready to go out the door the moment you heard the noticeable rumble of their truck. Of course, it was because you wanted to be punctual, and not because you wanted to see the Kent’s only son. That wasn’t it at all…

The sound of your doorbell ringing breaks your string of focus, which was you picking at your fingernails, and it makes your throat dry from nerves. You wipe your shaky hands off on the material of your jeans before you rise to your feet and make your way to the door. You contemplate peeking through the small hole in the door, but ultimately decide not to let yourself have the few extra seconds to stew in your own thoughts before you tug the door open.

“Clark,” You squeakily greet, ears burning and heat crawling up your neck at the sight of him.

Deep down, you knew it was him Martha was going to send to pick you up, but there wasn’t enough mental preparation in the world to ready you for the man in front of you. Clark had always been a taller, muscular boy, even in his youth, but now? Now he was huge. Not even with the large flannel covering his frame could hide how broad his shoulders were, how big his arms had gotten, how toned his chest was. And his hair? His curls were slightly mussed, almost as if he had run his hands through them over and over, but it looked good. He looked good.

If it weren’t for your grip on the frame of the door, you’re certain your knees might have given out.

“Hi,” He calls out, the sound of your name falling from his lips making your head spin, “Long time, no see.”

Deep dimples indented his cheeks in a way that throws you back to senior prom, Clark’s hands covering the expanse of your hips as he carefully sways to the music and listens to you ramble on about your dreams after high school. He didn’t stop smiling at you the entire night, and that was the first time you realized that maybe you felt something stronger for him. Maybe that feeling you’d spent years trying to tell yourself was normal was something much bigger than you thought. 

“Yeah, it has been a while,” You let out an airy chuckle, briefly glancing to the side to collect yourself, “Downsides of living in two completely different cities, you know?”

You don't miss the subtle downward twitch on his lips, or the way his shoulders fall just enough to be noticeable to you. No amount of separation would rid you of the ability to read Clark like you were always able to when you were in school. It was like second nature to you at this point. However, just because you could read him doesn’t mean you understood him, and you considered that to be one of your biggest faults.

“Yeah, I guess I should come back home more,” He sheepishly mumbles, his hand anxiously rubbing at the back of his neck as his ears turned a deep shade of red.

“Hey,” You instinctively reach out to take his hand in your own, sending a warm jolt from your fingertips to your toes, “The Daily Planet needs their best journalist, and Lord knows there's enough to cover up there. We’ll all be here waiting for you whenever you can make it back.”

The way Clark’s gaze softens as it slides between your eyes and your hands makes your stomach flip and your heart slam into your ribs. For as long as you can remember, he’s looked at you like that; Like you were the moon and he was the tide, ebbing and flowing at your will and call. For as long as you can remember, it confused you. It confused you because he’s always been the one to draw the line, to remind you how you were one of his most cherished friends. But friends don’t look at friends that way, do they?

“Ready to head to dinner?”

[midniqhtt]

ANTI-BULLYING ASSEMBLY ♡

♡ pairing: husband!clark x teacher!reader

♡ summary: when your school's principal catches you on the phone with superman, not realizing it's your husband, you come up with an excuse as to why you were on the phone with him.

♡ warnings / tags: fluff! wc: 1.3k

♡ author's note: i feel like clark with a teacher wife makes a lot of sense!! i had sm fun writing this!! feel free to send me some clark requests + join my taglist <3

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST ♡

"sooo, your ma finally gave me the recipe for her casserole. yes, that casserole." you laughed into the phone, when you heard your husband's excitement over the phone, "and i was thinking i'd drop by the store to get the ingredients and make it tonight. can't guarantee that it'll be just as good, but martha said that the most important ingredient was love."

"i'm sure it's going to be delicious." you could hear clark smiling through the phone, as well as a slight swoosh!

"what have we talked about texting and flying, mister?" you scolded playfully as you took out a stack of exams for your students, "well, technically i'm speaking on the phone and flying." "and technically i'm still gonna scold you when you get home tonight."

"i'll bring dessert from papa's donuteria?"

"fine, you're forgiven." you chuckle softly, "and you better make sure your superman duties don't take too long, or there'll be hell to pay."

"of course they won't. have a good day at work, honey."

"you too." you smile, hanging up your phone, only now realizing that someone was standing right outside your classroom door, the middle-aged woman's eyes wide and jaw slack. you clear your throat, putting on a friendly smile, "principal kelly! i was just on the phone with my hu—"

"superman."

"whhhaaaat?"

"i couldn't help but overhear you just say superman." the woman clapped her hands together, "mrs. kent, were you just talking to superman?"

"no, no." you clear your throat, "i mean, that'd be strange. how could i have superman's number?" you let out an awkward chuckle, your forming into a tight smile.

"well, your husband works with him, doesn't he?"

at the reminder of clark's supposed connection to superman, a lightbulb turns on over your head and you clapped your hands together, "oh, yes! i was indeed talking to superman. my husband gave me his number."

"how come were you talking to him at this lunchtime?" the woman looks down at her watch, "did you tell him about the bullying problem we've been having?"

"yes, i did!" you cleared your throat, "i actually asked superman if he could… come have a… talk. about how bad bullying is. i feel like he's a figure that many of the kids look up to and it might help."

"oh, that's a fantastic idea!" the woman exclaimed, "do you think he would do that?" "well, i think i can find a way to convince him..." you smiled awkwardly.

you hear the front door close the moment the infamous kent casserole is out of the oven, listening as he takes off his shoes and places his satchel down on its usual spot. you chuckle softly, your husband coming into the kitchen with a wide smile and a white box with 'papa's donuteria' written on it, placing it down on the dining table, his jacket already ditched and tie loose around his collared shirt.

"hi." clark bends slightly to press a kiss on your cheek, "i could smell the casserole. it smells just as good as my ma's." "good. i remembered her advice and put extra love in." clark turned to take some plates out of the cupboard, placing them on the table as you looked for forks and knives.

once the table was set and the two of you had sat down, you pursed your lips in thought, watching as your husband started serving himself food; however, when you didn't start putting food on your own plate, clark furrowed his brows, blue eyes flickering from your empty plate to your eyes, "what's wrong?"

"i... i have a favor to ask you." your husband nodded, telling you to continue, and you took your husband's ringed hand in yours, rubbing it, "so, today, principal kelly... heard me talking to you. well, more specifically, she heard me call you superman."

your husband's eyes turned comically wide at your words, and you could see his adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "w-what...?" he mumbled, his throat dry. the hand that wasn't in yours took off his glasses, and he rubbed the corner of his eyes. "she knows?"

"oh, no! god, no." you let out a soft chuckle when you realized what your husband must be thinking, "no, she just knows that i have superman's number... she thought i got it because you two work together."

"oh." clark let out a breath, "whew, you scared me." the man shook his head as if shaking the thought away, stroking your hand with his thumb, "so... what's the favor, honey?"

"there's been some issues with bullying at my school, and i was wondering if superman would be willing to come by, maybe give a little talk on why it's bad...?" you looked at him with a slightly pleading look on your face, your husband simply smiling, bringing his hand to his lips and pressing a small kiss on it.

"of course. you don't even have to ask."

clark cleared his throat before speaking into the microphone on the podium in the middle of the school gymnasium, "hello. first, i want to thank mrs. kent for, uh, asking me to come speak to you about bullying."

"thank you, mrs. kent!" a gymnasiumful of students echoed back at him, making you let out a soft, quiet chuckle as you watched your husband, your head tilted to the side. "thank you, mrs. kent, indeed." principal kelly whispered in a hushed tone, "he really does look more handsome in person."

"he does." you smiled fondly as you listened to your husband speak.

after clark was done with his presentation, he received a round of applause that echoed throughout the gymnasium, and you started leading him towards your classroom. "you did really well. i think they really listened to you." you said with a wide smile, not even noticing the way your husband was itching with the urge to hold your hand, so used to doing that whenever you walked side by side, now tapping his fingers against his thigh to keep himself occupied.

"here's where the magic happens. aka where i pray that eight-year-olds don't pick their noses." you chuckle as you were pulling the door to your classroom open, "ta-da!"

clark looked around as he stepped inside, many of the walls covered with drawings clearly made by children, along with cards that had your name written on them in scrawly, colorful handwriting. you even had a picture of you and the children you taught hung up that had been taken on picture day.

"wow..." clark's reaction made you chuckle, your kitten heels clacking against the floor as you walked to your desk, picking up a stack of papers. "just wait until you see these."

your husband closed the small distance between you two, taking the papers you were holding and starting to shift through them; each of them a different kind of drawing of clark, of superman, a lot of them with messages like 'superman rules!' or something along those lines. "these are... of me?"

"they are. when i told them you were coming to visit, they got really excited, so i said that they could make drawings for you. i assured that superman would get them." you raised your brows with a grin on your lips, "did i do good?"

clark put the drawings down onto the table, bringing one of his large hands to cup your cheek, stroking the soft skin og your cheek, "how did i get so lucky?" he asked softly, his beautiful, bright gleaming as he looked down at you. "i love you so much."

before you had time to respond to your husband's affections, clark brought his lips down to yours for a soft kiss, your lips melting into his, a warm feeling blooming in your chest.

however, the moment was cut short when you heard a gasp at the door, your husband pulling away from the kiss, the two of you looking to see a small figure skittering away from the door, your eyes wide as you and clark turned to look at each other, his cheeks reddening.

"i think one of my students just saw mrs. clark kiss superman." you mumbled, a moment of silence passing between you before you both burst into laughter, clark pulling you close to him, "what a scandal."

[midniqhtt]

𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. — clark kent.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you’re not fond of flying — thankfully, your boyfriend is superman.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: clark kent (corenswet) x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, just pure fluff & flirting!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I loved superman (2025) so much, it meant a lot to me! I would love to write more for him if there’s a demand / interest! this was a warmup! enjoy! 🫶

It’s nighttime in the city — gleaming, vibrant, and tranquil.

Typically, you’d be asleep at his time of night or watching reruns of movies on the television, but instead, you’re lingering outside.

“What if you drop me?”

Teetering perilously along the precipice of your balcony, you refused to step forward, hands grasping at the frame of your sliding door.

Behind you, the glass panel is left ajar, enough for you to still cling to, one hand clutching on as you begin to sway, brows furrowed together.

Metropolis loomed below, a sea of twinkling lights that sparkled through dusk, persistent; The Daily Planet spun on somewhere in the distance.

Clark hovered mere inches away, still dressed in the azure-and-crimson of his Superman attire, mouth upturned into a smile of sheer disbelief. He found the whole thing humorous, admittedly.

“You think I’d drop you?” He muses, arms crossing over his chest, tone saturated with amusement.

“Maybe,” It’s a weak counter as you swallow, brows furrowing together with a quizzical expression. You’re stalling — he knows it, and so do you. “Superman isn’t immune to sweaty palms.”

His shoulders shake with a huff of laughter, but he’s characteristically patient, blue hues full of a quiet expectancy.

“You’ve heard of a trust fall, right? Think of it like that,” Clark prompts, cape billowing with the light gust of a dusk breeze. “I’ll catch you.” He assures, still smiling.

After promising a rooftop excursion, you figured it’d be something like walking up the stairwell, or using the fire escape — not flying.

Despite your wariness of being flown around, you were eager to see what awaited you at the very top. Though, the longer your gaze lingered on the cityscape below, the more nauseous you became.

“What happens, hypothetically, if you don’t catch me? What if something happens and I slip?” Blubbering on, you refuse to let go of the door, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Hypothetically, you’d fall — and I’d catch you,” Clark reiterates, nose beginning to wrinkle with amusement. “You don’t trust me?” He prompts, and you sigh.

“I absolutely trust you,” Rebuking his claim with fervor, you know that he’s teasing you. Still, it doesn’t ease your anxiety by much. “I just … It’s me I don’t trust, or the wind.”

With a click of his tongue, he notices the way you’re gripping onto the frame still, head canting to one side. “All you have to do is walk forward, and hold onto me — no falling required.”

“I don’t want to think about falling, Clark.” You groan theatrically, nails ticking over the plastic as you deliberate. He’s content to wait all evening if he has to — you both work in the morning.

“Hm,” He lofts a brow, inching closer until his musculature nearly invades your doorway. The closeness makes your breath hitch, catching the glint in his eyes. “Need a little motivation?”

The teasing lilt within his voice pulls a chuckle from you, mouth twitching into a smile instead of a grimace. “A little wouldn’t hurt.”

There’s something innately boyish about the way he smiles, lashes fluttering, or the way in which his mouth parts in wonder, marveling at you.

It’s quiet, a passing beat before he tilts forward, lips pressing against yours. He’s indestructible, invincible; he kisses you like you’re glass, delicate and tender.

Black curls frame his temples, swept through by your wandering hand, the one that isn’t anchored to the doorframe.

A steady exhale pushes through your nose, slow and deliberate, pitched with excitement. The wariness slowly unfurls, and you hardly notice yourself drifting forward.

Clark lets you move on your own accord, without any prompting or interference from him. When you gain the courage to let go of the door, thick arms cage in around your waist.

As promised, he holds you close, lips still twined together in another warm kiss. He feels your hands twist into fists against his biceps, clutching onto him as if you might be swept away.

Slowly, he drifts away from the balcony, and he listens to the erratic swing of your heartbeat, from mellow to swift.

“Clark,” Barely above a whisper, you feel the solid ground slip away from beneath your feet, hands snagged tight into his suit. “Are we …”

“I’ve got you,” The warmth of his timbre wraps you in reassurance, arms steady and thick around your waist. “I wouldn’t look down.” He muses, and you almost take it as a challenge.

Mere wisps apart, your eyes slowly screw open, and you’re met with him; dazzling, charming, and devastatingly handsome. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, his smile marked by pearly teeth.

“Jesus,” Panic sets in for a moment as he slowly flies up, up again; you’re so high that parts of Metropolis start to look minuscule from a distance. “This isn’t as bad as I thought.”

“You still don’t trust me, do you?” Clark teases, hand idly caressesing circles into the small of your back. “You’re gonna break my heart.” His remark earns him a laugh from you.

“I trust you, I promise. It isn’t so dangerous.” You pout, feeling a brusque breeze trail over your silken pajamas, gooseflesh curling across your spine.

Warm lips press against your brow, reverent and gentle, a touch of sunlight to your temple. “We’re almost there.” He murmurs.

“This would be way more romantic if I wasn’t so nervous.” A brief laugh escapes you, and his smile splits into a glowing grin, partially hidden within your hair.

“It can still be romantic,” He counters, holding you close as he sluggishly flies towards the rooftop of your apartment building. “Just look up.”

You do, and it’s mesmerizing; in the clear skies above the city, the celestials loom overhead, millions of twinkling stars coupled with a particularly bright planet.

Veiled clouds drift overhead, the sky largely unobstructed, and the air seems crisp and filling the higher you go. The soft glow of string lights on the rooftop glitters through the night.

“This is amazing,” Awestruck, your apprehension dissolves into wonder, but you’re still a little nervous about flying. He doesn’t make any sudden movements, for your sake. “You get to see this all the time.”

“It never loses its charm,” Clark murmurs, gaze following after yours, lost within the tangle of stars above. “The stars, the sky, the planet.” The fondness within his voice is unmistakable.

“I love that about you,” Soft, your eyes flutter back to him, loud in their marveling of him. That was something you appreciated — his humanity, his passion for the world. “It’s sweet.”

Flattered, a laugh escapes him, warm and airy as the two of you drift through the sky as if you’re in slow-motion. The moment stretches on, and you’re left feeling elated.

“You never lose your charm, either.” His statement makes your features burn, heat curling over the nape of your neck. It’s accompanied with his smile — kind, amiable, and boyish.

“Thanks, Clark.” Smitten, your gaze drops toward the curve of his mouth. He meets you halfway without protest or prompting, the kiss lingering mid-flight.

It’s exhilarating; the wind gently kisses your back, his arms protective, keeping you pinned. As you drift through the air, you feel weightless, lost within the labyrinth of his kiss.

The first to draw away, you’re reluctant, lips parted and heart leaping into your throat. He’s perfect; he’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of and beyond.

Clark’s quiet appreciation of you doesn’t go unnoticed, dark lashes dusting over the skin beneath his eyes. The more you fly, the less tense you are; your heartbeat slows.

“You’re staring again.” You mumble, becoming smitten when he laughs, teeth scraping over your bottom lip.

His lips press against your cheek, as kind as summertime, firm and indestructible underneath your palms. “You caught me.” Clark utters, a rosy pallor crawling through his face.

“You aren’t exactly subtle about it.” Hushed, your tone lowers to a gentler octave, one that scratches something in the back of his mind.

It’s his turn to feel the excitable prick of being flustered, lips parting, curling into another exuberant grin. His dimples are cute; deep-set and overwhelmingly kind, the light reaching his eyes.

“I can try to be subtle,” Clark offers through another burst of laughter, and you laugh, too. You don’t want him to be subtle; the attention he lavishes you in turns your insides warm. “You’re beautiful.”

“That’s the opposite of subtle,” Giggling, you hardly notice the solid concrete slipping underneath your feet as he sets you down. “I like it, though.”

“More romantic now, isn’t it?” He teases, causing you to grin, nose wrinkling with amusement. Butterflies lurch within your stomach, and your hands fall to his chest.

Regaining your footing, you’re still clinging to Clark like a lifeline, as if he might fly away, never to return. His grasp on your waist begins to loosen, albeit reluctantly.

The rooftop is tranquil, with a cozy lounge, twinkling lights, and no wandering eyes. “Very romantic.” You concede, rocking up on your toes to kiss him.

His reciprocation is exceedingly gentle, chest expanding with a deep exhale, air pushing through his nose. Clark stays still, lashes fluttering a time or two, as if he’s in a daze.

A beat passes, and then another; you stay glued to him, unable to keep from smiling. The thrill of flying remains, adrenaline still simmering within your veins before it stills.

“So, Superman,” You begin, fingertips idly tracing over his collarbone. “I think I want to try the flying thing again sometime.”

Clark laughs, grip tightening on you as if to silently prompt you to hold on. “Really? I went very slowly,” He muses, teeth glittering white. “Where do you want to go next time?”

“I don’t know,” Clicking your tongue, there’s an idea that forms within your mind. “How about another rooftop? Dinner, maybe?” Your suggestion elicits another chuckle from him.

“Yeah,” He agrees, forehead gently nudging against yours, followed by a peck of lips over your brow. “I think I can arrange that.”

[midniqhtt]

— ☆ stop avoiding me.

clark kent x superhero!reader

btw reader is also a journalist, they are coworkers. god i wanna watch the movie again and write endless fluff with this guy. im sooooo happy laksjskaks.

cw : alcohol

so you really didn't mean for anyone to find out, much less him. truly, you meant to keep it a secret. you have been able to for all your life, you were assured your workplace would be a walk in the park too.

you just didn't expect another superhero— correction, you did not expect superman, of all the superheroes, to be your coworker.

it all began with a relatively good week for everyone, perry being in a miraculously good mood, everyone agreeing for a relaxing end to the week. that is how you and your coworkers ended up in that small treasure of a bar that jimmy of all people had discovered.

you sat hunched by the bar, looking at the bartender to quickly pass over the drink.

"that bad of a week hm?" clark made himself comfortable on a barstool beside you and shook his head as a response to the bartender if he needed a drink.

"no. i just need something quick before jimmy starts." you said as you look over your shoulder, staring at the said person already wooing a women, you just don't know how he does it.

but you did have a bad week. your work has been going great, you got leads and there has been no writer's block to make you go insane. no, its your superhero life that has been giving you a tough time.

on top of dealing with things ten times your size, superman was on your ass, desperate to form a rapport while you were desperate to avoid. you were relatively new to this savior scene and wanted to avoid being forced into a group that'd require socialising and tolerating. besides, what is that name? justice gang?

that and another embarrassing reason, but lets not get into that right now.

clark follows your gaze as he laughed softly. you whisper a thanks to the bartender before taking a huge gulp of your drink, then pausing at the sight of clarks folded sleeves.

you bite back a sigh as you looked away hurriedly, alcohol and beautiful men are not a good mix for you. because you lose it, you lose it quick. and you can't, because you don't know when your other duty might have a need for you again.

"why aren't you drinking?" you asked, casually, just wanting to distract your mind, "gotta be somewhere?"

he looked away from jimmy back to you and shrugged with a shake of his head, "no its nothing like that. I'd just like to wake up without a hangover."

"lightweight?"

he gives you a pointed look in response to your tease and you just look away with a breathy chuckle, "you just look like it."

"i look like im a lightweight? me?"

"i mean have you looked at you, clark?"

he just laughed with a shake of his head before he beckoned the bartender with a flick of his fingers, ordering the same as your drink.

"don't call it peer pressure later, kent."

"no darling, im just making a point."

"darling?" you whip your head slowly with a disbelieving chuckle, "not a drop in and already drunk?"

"i need to be drunk to call you that?"

"you—" you bit your lip as you looked away with a growing grin, nodding for a refill while clark downed his.

"when did you get so suave?" you shake your head, refusing to meet his eyes that are twinkling too much under the bar lights.

"maybe i have always been. you just needed to give me a chance." your confident grin faltered for a moment, his words causing your heart to do weird little jumps. you poke your cheek with your tongue before smiling, somewhat tempting and knowing.

you thanked the liquor for its courage, you could never pull this off sober.

you got off the stool and stepped closer, head tilting along with his. "so i take it all those morning coffee were more than just a friendly coworker thing?"

"i thought i was being obvious that it was more than just a friendly coworker thing." his cheeks had started to blush red despite the display of confidence, eyes wandering to your lips.

"well it was my understanding that you were nice to everyone."

"kind, kind should be the word." he hummed as he stared down at you, his hand raising to get closer to you, "i'm only nice to you."

your nose scrunched up as you bit back a smile, words like that might have no effect on you had they come from some other guy. but you just don't know what it is about clark that even words that would normally make you cringe, instead just makes you giddy.

"is th—"

"yeeeeesssss!" both of your head snaps towards the crowded table, where jimmy is in an.... arm wrestling competition? and he's winning, very clearly with the way he's pulling his whole bodyweight.

"what...?" you mumbled and your brows raised as jimmy yelled in victory, "wow. he's totally drunk huh?"

unfortunately, its like he heard you even with all the noise. his eyes stopped on you and clark, lips widening in that obnoxious grin and you groan to yourself.

that is how you found yourself sitting across clark, his hand in yours while everyone gathered with amusement and excitement brimming in their eyes. you pretended to ignore the warmth his hand carried and looked at clark with a dry smile.

"i expect a fair fight, clark." and maybe he would have lost to you, he can't really go all out of course and also the attention was already getting to him. but the challenge in your eyes sparked a little something in him.

and it started. both of you, hidden superheros, decided to just put a bit of your strength. but both hands stay solid, unmoving. your smile falters with his, eyes locking with his— but still, maybe he's just really strong. so you put just a bit more, so does he. and again, neither he moves nor you. that's when your eyes narrow and so does his.

unreal blue eyes, huge physique, personality like that of a golden retriever, messy black hair that you want to touch— that is so, so familiar.

and so, just to test this risky theory in your mind that just sprang up, you up your strength. a feeling pools in your gut, like you already the answer to something, you just can't look it in the eye.

a normal man can't take on that kinda strength, and you feel his unreal strength push you back. a normal man can't. superman can.

realisation dawns on both of you at the same moment, eyes widening in sync with his. you withdraw your strength a moment later than him, resulting in your hand pushing his down, unintentionally winning.

lois grins wide and hugs you from behind, but her words are like background noise to you, just like everyone else's. you smile awkwardly and hastily get off the chair, giving clark a pointed stare you excuse yourself.

your feet takes you to the rooftop of that building with him following closely behind. pushing the door open, you walk a certain distance before whipping around with a confused frown.

"how—"

clark takes off his glasses with a sigh and suddenly it clicks in, like an annoying puzzle finally falling in place. unlike your superhero self, superman's face is not hidden and you have had the opportunity (and blessing) to see his face upclose, so it did weird you out how you never connected the dots between clark and him.

you truly don't know how to act, this is clark, your coworker with whom you were just flirting and also superman who you avoid every damn day.

your mouth opens and closes a couple of times, somehow more awkward than him. you begin to rub your face in resignation and he approaches you with small, cautious steps. he is thrown off too by this revelation, but all he sees is finally a chance to meet the kind superhero who had caught his eye.

it kinda sets his heart running at the fact that the person he likes and the superhero he admires, are one and the same.

"look, i know this is... very surprising—"

"it was the glasses."

"...yes. t-that too." he clears his throat and tries again, though his mind is a bit blank at the moment, literally short circuiting, still he gets the words out, "but i mean- its good right? we know each other now so you don't have to avoid me out there."

"its-" you bite your lips before huffing out a sigh, "its not that. its just i don't work well in a team, especially in a team named justice gang. seriously who came up with that?" you question with a confused scrunch of your nose thats borderline judgemental.

clark's lips tug up as he shakes his head, "in my defense im not officially a part of it, yet. and also, guy came up with that."

"that ugly bowl cut?" they let him name the team? "huh. no wonder." your brows raised in understanding as if it finally makes sense.

"but, why? i mean, i don't want to push your boundaries. but i just want to know...and help." he said earnestly, and even you could see tye resistance it took for him to not step closer, "if i could. tell me if at any point i did something to upset you or someone else— "

"no. no its not- its not your fault, clark." you shake your head with a defeated smile, looking away for a moment as you contemplated whether to just put it out as it is. it is embarrassing, to say the least. so you suck it up and face him.

"i... im new to this, you know, superhero scene. i saved and helped wherever i could, but it wasn't fighting monsters. i couldn't— i didn't have that courage to go out there and fight. like you do." you said softly, eyes on your fidgety hands, "it was scary. what if i messed up? what if i just... couldn't save in time? the questions scared me. but then, then you came swooping in. a literal sunshine." you giggle and his ears reddened, gulping as quietly as he could.

"you... were my inspiration. you gave me hope and the courage i needed. i just didn't expect you to notice me the moment i stepped into the scene." you scratched your brows as you clear your throat, now is the more embarrassing part, "i just... i didn't know how to act around you. you know, as superman. i became clumsy whenever i saw you nearing me and it pissed me off."

"oh."

"yeah. oh. i know. i know it sounds very embarrassing. so well, that is it. thats why i couldn't. i just froze up and became a klutz whenever you appeared— oh my god why are you so red?" your eyes widen slightly, taken aback by the concerning amount of blushing on his part.

"are you okay, clark?"

"yeah- yeah i- oh my god— i just need a minute." he needs more than a minute.

the person he has been mad about at work, trying to impress, figuring out your favorites, your likes and dislikes, buying you flowers just to see you smile, waiting like a lost puppy after work to drop you home just so he could get a few more minutes, seizing up when you get close— and now, its revealed, that same person is a mess because of him?

he needs an hour to process this.

"oh my god you are so blushing." you begin to laugh, a contagious one bubbling out of your lips and he needs to hide his face behind his palm, smiling like an idiot.

"stop."

"you're sooo red."

"come on—"

"come on, kent, you can't be that obvious."

"you're so mean."

you're downright cackling now, and so is he. it feels nice, to finally not shy away, to share the secrets of your identity with someone. but its even funnier, all this time you had been mutually pining after each other at work, while actively playing cat and mouse at the other work.

soon laughter begins to die down and only soft smiles are on both of your lips. he walks towards you, now with less caution and more familiarity. his hands find yours, encasings it in his warmth as he stares down at you, hope hiding behind the mirth in his eyes.

"no more running away?"

"only if you keep bowl cut away from me."

"well he's a nice guy—"

"justice gang?"

"—with questionable tastes." you chuckle softly and his eyes follow, lips pulling into a wider smile that makes his dimple pop. god those dimples.

"and... how does a date sound?" his soft voice was barely more than a whisper, even after the shared moment he still carried some nervousness. it was adorable, truly.

"about time you asked." you grinned as your hands slowly brushed up his chest and found purchase at the base of his neck, while his hands wrapped around your waist.

with a gentle tug he pulled you towards him, his lips capturing yours in a sweet kiss. his hold tightens as the kiss deepens, hands caressing your back. he pulls away only to give you one peck after another, as if he was savoring his hard earned time getting to know you.

soon the rapid pace of your heart slowed to a steady beat. because everything was just right. the way he treats you, holds you, kisses you— it tells you what a sweet lover he is. he yearns to cherish and that is evident in the warmth his eyes hold.

how can life not be right with a man like him?

[midniqhtt]

i am in need of more pink reader and clark !!! they are such cuties

miss pink meets ultraman

part one part two

your boyfriend was keeping the city safe. your boyfriend. superman. clark kent. he was keeping the city safe, keeping you safe. that's what he said as he crawled out of bed, kissed your cheek, and stepped out of your window.

you couldn't get back to sleep once clark was gone. couldn't just sit there and listen as he risked his life to save everyone. but that was just the sort of man your boyfriend was.

your boyfriend. it felt less weird before you knew his secret identity. but he was more than superman now, the guy who showed up to your apartment when he wasn't saving the city. he was clark, your co-worker. he had a job, an apartment of his own, a real life.

he had a girlfriend too, now. you.

but then, your window shattered. "baby," you called, voice exasperated. "windows are expensive."

you realised too late that it wasn't your boyfriend. he was just as big, but he was hunched. not like he was when he was Clark, head bowed, trying to make himself more human.

no, his shoulders were hunched, his breathing heavy. your fear spiked, heartbeat becoming erratic. "g-get out of here!" you shouted, backing away.

in less than a second, he was on you. at least, you assumed it was him. but his sheer size and broad shoulders. he back you against the wall, caged you in.

you expected a hand around your neck, squeezing to cut off your air supply. and he raised his hand, as if to do exactly that. but something stopped him.

you couldn't help but cry out. but you fell silent as his hand clamped over your mouth, cutting you off. he grabbed you with familiar strength.

the next thing you knew, you were out of your apartment and flying through the air, in the arms of a man in a black mask.

***

lex luther. he crouched in front of where you sat, hands bound behind your back. he had tried to get answers out of you, showed you pictures of you with superman, on the roof of your apartment, of superman leaving your bedroom through the window.

but you couldn't stop crying.

he looked to his companion in the black mask. "shut her up," he spat.

ultraman approached. you were filled with that same level of fear from before as he reached out for you.

but he didn't hurt you. something stopped him.

when he stood up, he pulled you up with him. his version of shutting you up was getting you away from his boss. "why are you doing this?" you managed through your blubbering tears. where on earth was your boyfriend?

he pushed you into a room (not a room, it was no bigger than a closet) and locked the door, trapping you alone.

the world wasn't supposed to know that you were dating superman. you had been so damn careful. now that you were compromised, was his secret identity compromised, too?

trapped in that closet, you began to hyperventilate. there was nothing around you but cleaning supplies.

you cried until you could cry no more. your pyjamas were stained with tears as you pulled your knees up to your chest and tried to hide your face.

but then the lock clicked and the door opened.

he stared down at you, that black mask still on his face. you lifted your face from your knees to stare back. something about him was so fucking terrifying, the lack of emotion he exhibited. you couldn't see the eyes behind his mask, didn't know how familiar they would be.

like a dog, he tipped his head to the side. he took a step and you tried to back up, tried to get away from him. but he kept approaching. but then he held out his hand, fingers closed around something.

he opened his fingers.

chocolate, hot and smooshed together in his grip. your brows furrowed as you looked at his masked face. "what is this?" you asked, only to get no response. he hadn't said anything to you yet.

those black lenses covering his eyes seemed to stare at you until you took the chocolate bar from him. dropping his hand, he didn't stand up, didn't leave.

he just kept staring.

your hands shook as you peeled the wrapper away from the smooshed and melted chocolate. it didn't look appetising, not in the slightest, but you still ate it. you had to, with the way he just stared at you.

maybe he would kill you if you didn't.

only once you were finished did he stand up and walk out of the room. he pulled the door shut and locked it again. you didn't know he stood guard in front of the door. nobody was allowed to stop in front of your door, not if they wanted to keep their lives.

(eventually, clark saved you. luther used you for what he needed you for, to lure superman to where he wanted him to be, but he saved you. lex didn't much care about you once he got what he wanted, but ultraman did. but clark didn't need to fight him for you. no, it was your sweet words, your sweet touch that got ultraman to let go of you.

you couldn't explain it to clark, what happened with ultraman. but it left you to damn confused).

i'm more than happy to keep taking requests for these guys - i love it!!!

[midniqhtt]

unfold your love

pairing. clark kent x fem reader

jimmy olsen and the mystery of two idiots who are definitely not in love / 6.8k

tags. coworkers with history + the junleb trinity of stolen glances/pretend apathy/nosy friends. daily planet silliness

— i've been wanting to write a fic like this and david's sweet kind face said yes…. kisses 2 oomfs irl for beta <33

Jimmy watches as Lois throws her hands up, exhausted. “I'm killing someone after this.” 

“Please don't,” Clark pipes up from the coffee machine. Darkness has set in over Metropolis, decorated with the year-round Christmas lights of traffic and skyscraper displays. It’s late enough that the graveyard janitors are starting their shift.

Clark scoots back over, gingerly balancing three steaming Styrofoam cups, sure to join the hundred others stacked up in the corner Lois’ desk. Jeez, she’s a great writer, but Jimmy’s kind of worried about her coffee addiction. 

“You know who we need?” Lois asks, accepting the cup. She leans back in her chair, takes a sip and peers over the rim with her eyes narrowed down. Then she jerks her finger toward a desk, empty, but piled high with camera bags. 

Oh. You. 

Clark must be tuned into the same wavelength that Jimmy’s on, because they’re both sharing a look and adamantly shaking their heads. 

It’s not that Jimmy hates you. In fact, you’re admirable, even though he doesn’t get the chance to talk with you much. He doesn’t know about Clark, but since you transferred from the Gotham Gazette, the office has been...weird. 

You make a point to move if Clark sits a chair too close during meetings. And yeah, Clark can be clumsy, but accidentally hip-checking your desk on the daily is too suspicious. 

Hell, when Cat Grant is making theories, it’s serious—I bet the lore is deep, she said at Mr. White’s surprise, in-office birthday party, like, plagiarism and CIA assassination deep. 

Even if you and Clark weren’t mortal co-worker nemeses, the two of you are on opposite—no, completely different spectrums. For Superman’s sake, you’re a World Press nominee, one of the highest recognitions in photography. And Clark is...well.

Clark is just himself with all his slouched, ‘I’ve got a really weird intuition thing’ glory. 

And he’s also Jimmy's best work friend, minus the fact that he’s MIA for what seems like half the work day. 

“You know we need her,” Lois mutters bitterly, taking another slow sip. Clark looks anywhere but at her, shifty. “Come on, just for one photo. It’ll really help the exposé.” 

She says it in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way, the subtle singsong tone she takes when she knows no one would ever think about disagreeing with her. It’d be great ifs and could you help withs, that’s Lois Lane. She’s used it plenty of times, mostly during interviews to get a quote she wanted. 

Jimmy, an unwilling victim, has learned that Lois is very persuasive when she wants to be. 

Eyes crinkled with mirth, she smiles at the two of them, close-mouthed. Jimmy doesn’t know how she does it, spending days hammering away at an article and still having the energy to throw her weight around. 

“Just this once?” 

He looks at Clark, who looks back at him. A kind of silent pact forges in their sidelong eye contact, trying to see how long they can go resisting Lois. Her smile widens by a fraction, knowing that it’s just a matter of time. 

Clark breaks first, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair. 

“Okay,” he sighs out, collapsing in the nearest chair. It creaks under his weight, threatening. Speaking of which, Jimmy doesn’t really get how the biggest guy on the block can still be a loser dork (affectionate). A mystery for the greats, he supposes. 

“But,” Clark says, scanning Lois over the rims of his thick glasses. He tugs his collar by a smidge, faintly displeased, or uneasy, “I’m doing it tomorrow.” 

“Fine by me,” she grins, reaching over to shut down her monitor. It goes dark, sapping the blue glow that Jimmy’s gotten so used to. He blinks a few times to get rid of the spots that dance in his vision, then stretches. “Take Jimmy with you. Some people just need a face like his for some convincing.” 

Jimmy perks up at the mention of his name, arms still raised up. The idea of him being attractive to you is slightly scary. Even more so than the unanswered girls in his DMs, because you're like, the greatest of the greats.

...Okay, subjectively speaking. But he’s been subscribed to your photo collection for years when you were still with the Gazette. You’re the camera Superman of the modern generation to him. 

So excuse him when he jumps for the chance, eager. 

“Yeah, Clark,” he blurts. “I’ll help!” 

Lois grins, smug. Aw, shit. Jimmy’s fallen into the trap for Clark—hook, line and sinker. 

— 

“So, what's the deal with him and…” 

Hint-hint, nudge-nudge. 

Jimmy doesn’t want to say your name too loud, lest Clark’s weird hearing picks it up. Even though said man is halfway down the street in the opposite direction, he’s heard stranger things from farther and louder places before. 

A little bird told me, and all that.  

On late nights like this, it’s customary for Lois to walk Jimmy to the station downtown since she lives there. It’s the nearest part of the central city to Bakerline, where the island and mainland are connected by bridge and underground train.

They worked out this routine months ago, and it’s well-oiled enough for Clark—the Midtown Man—to know that Jimmy is in safe-ish hands, if he doesn’t get baited into an impromptu investigation. 

Lois exhales through her nose, amused. “You really haven’t seen it?” 

“I mean,” Jimmy stutters, dragging the scuffed soles of his sneakers along the downhill sidewalk. A loose pebble of concrete skitters away, landing in a patch of weeds sprouting from between the pavement cracks. “I know they’ve got some weird thing. Cat thinks it’s gotta do with the CIA.” 

She laughs, fuller and louder. Jimmy checks over his shoulder—safe. Clark, silhouette now smaller, is still walking straight on, probably whistling a tune to himself. 

“Kind of. Not really. Cat thinks a lot of things,” Lois decides. Objectively correct: Cat drinks rumors for breakfast. Not enough for the front page, but enough that Steve has a crazy long browser history trail because he actually believes her. 

She squints and tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Clark never really said much about it, but I did find a polaroid of them in his wallet. Captioned cider and cowboy, whatever that means.” 

Ah, the perks of being an award-winning journalist. Clark probably forgot that ratty leather thing on his chair again, leaving Lois to stake her claim on the prime real estate of other people’s business. Jimmy wouldn’t be surprised if his own wallet had been in her hands. She probably knows more about him than even Clark does. 

Jimmy whistles, “So, bitter exes?” 

“Maybe from a long time ago,” she agrees, nodding lightly. “They looked pretty young, like high school.” 

“Oh, bitter sweethearts.” That’s a hundred times worse. No wonder you both act like you’ll catch the plague being around each other. 

Weirdly, he can imagine it. Clark, skinnier and in the threadbare red flannel from Smallville that Jimmy spotted one winter, layered under Clark’s suit jacket for warmth. You, probably with your arms around each other, in the same Midwest, buttfuck nowhere fashion. 

“Mhm, that’s what I was thinking.” 

Jimmy’s still trudging forward when he notices the weird silence. He glances back to see that Lois stopped ten feet away, a curious glimmer in her eyes, jaw shifting. She looks at Jimmy, that mastermind smirk already blooming on her face. Jimmy stares, questioning, and kind of worried. 

She catches up with a full-blown grin and her hands in her pockets, posture too wound up to be casual. 

“Why are you—oh no, don’t look at me like that. I’m not good bait!” 

“How do you feel about a little case on the side?” 

— 

When Clark Kent enters the office, it isn’t without a wall of apologies as he squeezes between his coworkers. Almost six and a half feet, so he sticks out painfully, like Superman in a sea of civilians—except there’s no way he’s Superman, of course. 

(It’s kind of ironic once you think about it, how big Clark is. You don’t really realize it until you’re turning away from a conversation and bumping those thick glasses right off his nose. How long has he been standing there? No one knows.) 

Jimmy chases him into the revolving door, the lemonade he picked up from the bodega across the intersection sloshing around in its waxed, paper-plastic cup. Skidding to a stop, he catches his breath as Clark apologizes in a low voice for taking up space in the doorway. 

They scoot forward, shoes squeaking against the marble tiles of the entryway. Foot traffic is slower than usual today, aggravated by the door. Jimmy thinks to tell the Chief that the rotator mechanism needs oiling, but he knows it’ll only get done six months after he brings it up. 

“You’re not late this time,” Jimmy quips, inching along. The wings of the door finally open, washing a fresh wave of air over him. Thank god, he was about to start sweating through his shirt. 

Clark lets out a breathy little laugh, not quite believing it himself. “Yeah.” 

He looks kind of…excited? Kiddish, if that’s the right word. Posture finally having an effort put into it and head held high, like he’s searching for something. 

Oh. 

Did Clark get up extra early—or rush through his morning routine, or run instead of walk to work, et cetera et cetera—just ‘cause he finally has an excuse to talk to you? Jimmy can’t quite believe it either. 

Clark Kent, the supposed bitter high school ex of yours doesn’t seem so bitter anymore, grinning wider than he has this entire week.  

They squeeze into the elevator together, pushed against the back wall where the speakers croon corporate, scrubbed jazz into Jimmy’s ears. He grimaces at the artificial saxophone riff, too clean without the surrounding chaotic raff that he loves in improvised jazz. 

“It’s just for five minutes,” Clark mutters, craned weirdly with his satchel clutched to his chest, shoulders titled at an absurd angle as to make sure Jimmy can hear. “Small talk, right?” 

“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” Jimmy replies, sloshing his lemonade around to see how much he has left. Half a cup, which will last him thirty minutes before he needs to run for the nearest vending machine. Maybe he could ask an intern instead—they like him a lot. 

The mental plan to get hopped up on soft drinks for the whole day doesn’t deter Jimmy’s pondering about your and Clark’s relationship for long, though.  

“...Do you hate her?” 

Clark goes silent for a moment, pondering as a plucked bass melody joins into the sax’s fray. Quiet, “I don’t hate her. We just…haven’t spoken in a while.” 

“Bitter breakup or something?” Jimmy tests. 

Clark doesn’t scowl or push his hand up under his glasses for an eye rub. He just sighs, a heavy and burdened kind of exhale. Forlorn, gaze unfocused and directed at something on another plane entirely. 

“Not really. I don’t know, maybe?” A defeated sigh. “I guess you could say that.” 

The elevator lets out a pleasant ding when they get to their floor, and Jimmy dogs behind a slumped Clark. 

Just a minute ago, he was all sunshine and smiles about you. Flipped the script and shot the plot, and now he’s moping his way into the office at the slightest suggestion of feeling hatred. Fuck, this guy’s a total sap. 

“Come on,” Jimmy says. He slaps a hand onto Clark’s back, urging him along toward your desk. “Just think about it this way: if you start talking again, maybe you’ll be on better terms.” 

Clark picks up speed, just a little. Still hiding the pep he wants to put in his step, but Jimmy can tell all the same. 

Your desk hasn’t changed in the ten or so hours since he left last night. Still a whirlwind of organized chaos, every corner still stuffed with camera equipment. 

Except, you’re there now, computer screen painting your face in bright blue light instead of the empty chair Lois had pointed at earlier. And the stupid thing is, Clark starts lagging behind Jimmy, suddenly enthused to stay the reserved man everyone thinks he is. 

He stutters in his gait, runs his fingers through messy hair once, then twice, and then gingerly—so slow and delicate—unwinds his arms from around that old satchel. The leather bag peels off the front of Clark’s chest comically, like a poster slowly falling off a wall. 

Jimmy almost snorts. 

Lois is right. Once you start looking, you can’t unsee it. 

(“I’m just saying,” she said last night, boots clicking against the pavement. Hands stuffed in her pockets, too restrained to really be casual conversation. Jimmy knows that look on her—she’s hooked on a story, and trying to sell it at the same time. “They look at each other like they’re still in love.” 

He scoffed. “No way.” 

“Just see for yourself,” Lois shrugged, pulling ahead. Then, like nothing had ever happened, like the notion of you and Clark together despite it all had never existed, “Come on, you’re gonna miss the last train.”) 

Jimmy is pulled out of his flashback by a cough. Back to present. 

You’re turned around in your chair, monitor displaying a default login screen. Vaguely, he remembers you tapping the lock button on your keyboard the moment he stepped within five feet of your desk. 

Jesus, insanely private people these Gazetteers are. Jimmy’s heard stories of coworkers sniping each other's scoops in Gotham, but he didn’t think it’d translate into borderline supersenses. Good thing you’ve moved to Metropolis, where the only journalists you’ll be afraid of are Lois or Cat trying to worm a confession out of you. 

“Hi, Olsen. Need something?” You give him a mild, porcelain-polite smile—typical Gothamite manners. Doesn’t quite reach your eyes, which are low lidded in the daylight and rimmed with a faint red. 

You look exhausted. As if you haven’t really gotten used to the light in Metropolis, squinting because not being in the dark of Gotham is hurting your eyes and circadian rhythm. 

He lets out an embarrassing ‘uhhh’ before his thoughts can catch up. Then, he does as Lois does, and jerks Clark forward by the elbow. The man’s body protests more than Jimmy thought it would, shoes super-glued to the floor. 

What the hell is this guy made of? 

Jimmy tugs again, and Clark finally snaps into it, stumbling forward like a thrown ragdoll. His glasses sit lopsided on his face as he stares. 

You give him a look, one that seems almost telepathic, and the words just start pouring out. 

It’s like Jimmy never existed. He watches as Clark mumbles out his words, little fragments of ‘Lois wanted’ and ‘sent me’ and ‘it would be…appreciated,’ said in the way questions are reluctantly asked. 

You look at Clark, and only Clark. Head tilted, elbow propped on the edge of your desk and temple cradled by your fingers. Eyes never leaving, like his voice is the only sound in the world. Like you’re trying to cling onto every single one of his words so you can commit them to paper later. 

And Clark doesn’t even look at Jimmy for help, eyes naturally attracted to yours. He can’t pull away, it almost seems like.

Launching into a soft-spoken spiel about the background of Lois’ exposé, he details sources and photo-ops and how he ‘really shouldn’t be telling you this because it might be dangerous, but I wanted you to know that—’ 

Now Jimmy’s sold on Lois’ side-quest, or whatever she called it. 

If there are any other explanations in the entire universe for two people looking at each other like it’s the last time, speak now. No? Going once, going twice? Alright: it’s love. 

Let's put aside the mysterious estrangement and the tense incidents that have everyone convinced of your mutual hatred. Despite it all, you’re still looking at Clark with the sweetest face Jimmy has ever seen on you, and Clark is standing up taller, chest almost puffed out. 

"We’re talking about it over dinner on Saturday, if you wanna come,” Clark says, a soft sort of grin lighting up his face. It’s not the awkward, left side of the face scrunched smile that usually comes when someone cracks a bad joke. This one is kinder, shredded wide-open. 

Yearning. 

“You sure?” 

“Lois won’t mind,” he shrugs, and holy shit—Jimmy did not know Clark’s pupils could dilate like that. Like dinner-plate wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue around an uncanny pool of tar. Kind of alien, if he really had to put a word to it. “It’ll be like the old days.” 

Your hand falls slowly to rest on your desk. You sit up straight, posture conditioned. Just like that, you’ve hardened back up again, porcelain-polite mask sitting over your face. Cracked over the mouth, just a little, clay falling apart in the way your lips curve sadly down. 

“I just saw Lois,” you breathe out with a half-hearted head tilt. Jimmy follows it, and sure enough, a familiar dark-haired troublemaker is squeezing out of the elevator. “I’ll talk to her about it.” 

“Great,” Clark says, morphing back to his usual posture. “That’s great.” 

You swallow, giving him a single, curt nod. “See you.” 

Copying you, he draws his mouth into a terse line. Softly, with a sick gleam in his eyes that could make Jimmy almost throw up at, “Yeah.” 

Clark moves faster than he can say ‘Daily Planet.’ Jimmy looks back, incredulous, at how fast the man skitters back to his own desk without bumping into a single person. 

He has half the mind to ask what the hell is going on. 

Instead, he scoots on over to Cat’s desk, weaving through a group of interns who smile and wave and offer him a coffee. The gossip writer is already staring at him, eyes wide behind her huge cat-eye glasses as she fiddles with her golden earrings—a habit when she knows she has a story. 

“I rescind my CIA theory,” she whispers, twirling a strand of hair around her painted finger. Cat nods as if she’s trying to convince herself of it. “They’re definitely dating.” 

“Nah,” Jimmy says, leaning an elbow on the wall of her cubicle. “Hear this: bitter exes.” 

She gasps. Actually looking concerned, she hides her mouth behind the back of her hand. “No.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Really?” 

He nods, glancing back for a moment. Clark is trying to hide it, but he’s never been the subtle type—answering a phone call, he leans back in his seat, and Jimmy can trace his gaze right back to you talking with Lois.

Jimmy kind of wants to hit the two of you over the head for being so stupid. 

Cat hums, clearly seeing it too. Grimacing, she taps her index finger against her chin. “Oh, yeah, definitely.” 

— 

This must be karma with a side of cosmic comedy. 

Jimmy supposes that while it’s one thing to speculate that his co-workers are in love with each other, it’s an entirely different thing to spy on them. But it isn’t his fault. Scout’s Honor! 

If anyone should receive fury from the gods, it’s Cat. She made him do it. 

…And he complied. Just one picture, though. Nothing more, nothing less, but it was enough to capture evidence of you and Clark, frozen in surprise on the six-inch display of Jimmy’s phone. 

(“Take it!” Cat hisses, nudging him below the ribs. Ouch—sharp elbows. 

“I don’t have my camera!” Jimmy panics, patting himself down like a swarm of ants are crawling all over his body. Where is that damn phone? 

The photo-op before them: Clark, hunched over his keyboard, picking out the words in his article one by one; you, giving him a hard sidelong stare over the lip of your coffee cup. This has happened multiple times in one way or the other. 

Clark looks at you, and you look at him—never at the same time, though. It’s always with some wounded, twisted kind of longing in both of your eyes, one that reminds him of an animal trapped in the bushes. Scared of stepping out but needing it so badly at the same time. 

“Hurry,” Cat urges, gesturing her arms in your direction. She's like an animated Italian grandpa, Jimmy thinks, fingers finally wrapped around his phone. He can see Clark shaking his head to himself, not quite happy with his article, and you smother a smug grin into your coffee. “She’s looking!” 

Clark spins around immediately—as if he heard the gossip columnist’s urgently whispered cries from across the damn newsroom and needed to see it for himself—and freezes when he makes eye contact with you. You nearly choke, eyes wide, brows furrowed.

Jimmy’s thumb finds the shutter button. 

End of story.) 

What he doesn’t get is why the hell it isn’t his phone, but his cameras that are cursed. He almost cried handing over his two beloved Nikons to the repairman and sobbed for real into his pillow when he found out both their mirrors were jammed and needed to stay in the shop for a business week. 

“But it only took a few hours last time!” he protested. The repairman just shook his head sadly and stuck his thumb over his shoulder to the rack of repairs, nearly buckling under the weight of fifty-something cameras. 

Now, back at the office with zero equipment and a hundred photo-ops, Jimmy feels peeved, and kind of crazy. 

Lois frowns, leaning back in her rolling chair. Clark is out of the office for lunch again, an occurrence that’s become too common. He’ll probably be back in ten minutes, saying that the foot traffic was terrible because Superman was doing loops in the sky. 

“I did say that mirrorless cameras were better,” she says, giving him that I told you so look. “Less moving parts and a better sensor.” 

Jimmy sulks with a soda in hand, sucking air through the straw and making the wheezing, burbling sound a finished drink always makes. He mutters, mostly to himself, "A mirrorless isn't as romantic as a DSLR.” 

Lois’ face pulls in on itself—definitely judging. “You’re gonna say some shit like ‘a camera is like a woman,’ aren’t you?” 

He nods, solemnly clutching his fist tight and placing it over his heart. “A camera is like a woman.” 

“I have to say that I agree.” 

Jimmy nearly shrieks and jumps in his chair, a shiver ripping along his spine.

You’re leaning your right elbow on the short, thick wall on the side of his desk with a small smile cracking over your lips. An old-looking camera bag is slung across your body, the dark strap stark against the washed-out maroon of the crew neck sweater you’re wearing. 

(Smallville Giants?) 

In the background, Lois chuckles and crosses one leg over the other, ankle on knee. 

Embarrassment burns through him. 

“Exactly,” he huffs out, flashing a full grin. His leg starts bouncing out of control, and he digs his fingers into the orange plush of his chair’s armrest. “God, I—you kind of scared me.” 

You’ve warmed up since the day he and Clark stumbled around your desk like fools. Cracking a smile here and there, telling jokes steeped in dry Gothamite humor. Sometimes, Jimmy swears he can hear a tiny Midwestern twang fighting the polished city accent you have. 

“Sorry,” you say, head tilting as your grin widens. “Heard you don’t have a camera.” 

Jimmy nods, not trusting his mouth to say anything else. Lifting the strap over your head, you place the bag on his desk. By the sound, it’s heavier than it looks. 

He gazes at you with stars in his eyes. “Seriously?” 

“D5. You can borrow it for now,” you tell him. Casual, like you aren’t handing over a precious relic. He almost feels a prick of jealousy in his heart. Back in school, the wealthier kids were too stingy to even let him near theirs. 

He still loves the D500 he managed to scrounge up the money for as a broke college kid. But this...he might start salivating and floating like a Looney Tunes character. 

“For real?” Jimmy can’t believe it. Maybe this curse has a silver lining that’s too good to be true. 

“I’m trialing a Sony mirrorless right now.” And then you lean a little closer as if this is just a secret shared between the two of you, blocking the side of your mouth with a palm, “Personally, not as sexy as a DSLR.” 

The Kansas accent that he’s only ever heard from Clark bleeds into your words, just slightly. 

Bingo! 

Jimmy slaps his thigh with a wide grin and points at Lois, victorious. “Told you so!” 

You laugh as you slip away. 

— 

The sands of time run quicker when he has a stellar camera in his hands. 

He spent the entire day wandering around the city until his feet went sore, the camera strap tight to keep it as close to his chest as possible. There is no way in the entire universe that something is going to happen to the D5. He’d die before that happened. 

Even from the tiny display window, which is smeared with permanent fingerprints—believe him, Jimmy already tried everything to wipe them off—he can tell the difference between your and his equipment. Especially for Superman photos, he notes. 

Now, alone in his room, parents already put down to bed, Jimmy longingly runs a finger down the worn leather grip of the Nikon you passed to him. It’s a good model, one of the best. He’s yearned for something as good as this since high school. 

Fighting sleep, he springs the hatch in the side of the camera’s body and pops out the memory card. 

Wait. Blink three times. It isn’t his, and it’s older than the ones he uses by a lot. Hell, this is ancient. 

Jimmy is rocketed out of his grogginess, back going ramrod straight. 

If this is your SD, and it’s this old...what photos do you have? 

It’s a natural thing for journalists to speculate, he justifies, knowing full well that he’s been infected with the investigative virus. 

Invasion of privacy—invasion of—invasion— 

His hesitance is interrupted by the faces of his two nosier co-workers. Cat, ever the devil on his shoulder, telling him that a peek doesn’t hurt. Lois, hands on her hips and head shaking left to right, saying, “Journalists dig deep.” 

He boots up his computer, vision seared with the annoying flash of white that always precedes the login screen. Jimmy follows the motions: insert the card, scroll to find his files, select the—almost two-hundred shots—he took and move them to a local folder. 

Meanwhile... 

He almost sprains his wrist with how fast he scrolls back into the card’s history. 

The first one he finds is approximately dated to when you and Clark were in high school. Far too early for a kid to own a D5, and the quality proves it, grainy enough to be from an amateur camera. 

Clark is without his signature glasses in this one, the edges of his body burnished in white-gold. He’s still pretty big, but he leans more to the gangly side with the way his clothes aren’t as filled in. His hair is longer, not as curly, but his dimples are the same. Smile kind, bright blue eyes turned to crescents. 

Handsome, in a way Jimmy never expected him to be. 

He’s lying on his side in bed, surrounded by a gingham-flannel duvet and a striped pillowcase. Pale light streams in from a blurry window, thin beige curtains fluttering in the corner. His hand is buried in the long hair of a border collie as he looks up at the camera with a glint of tender fondness in his eyes. 

Jimmy can tell you’re the one who took this, even though the composition is kind of clumsy. Explaining it is hard, but it’s just a feeling. You always take pictures that make people feel romantic about the world. 

Next. 

This one is around fifteen years from today, and it’s Clark who’s taking this one—he's talented with his words, but it seems that photography has never been his strongest suit. 

Your face is rounder, younger, nose crinkled in displeasure about being half-buried in a pile of loose hay. Still, the corners of your mouth are angled up as if you’re happy to see Clark on the other side. 

Dirt is smeared on the front of your shirt, and the rest of the details are hard to make out, but Jimmy thinks you’re on the floor of a barn. Someone else’s cut-off leg stretches from the side. The angle of the shot is tilted, like Clark had fumbled with the shutter and almost dropped the camera.  

All the way to the bottom now. 

Jimmy feels a strange wave of nostalgia wash over him. Spending his entire life as a born-and-raised Metropolitan sounded so perfect, but now he isn’t so sure. He’s almost envious of what you and Clark had. 

The colors of everything are faded together, except for the sky, which is exceptionally blue and clear. You’re both about four, or five—kindergarten age, completely oblivious about your futures. Standing in a field of brown-green grass and dirt, you wear matching white Little League jerseys. 

Smallville 1 and 2, emblazoned across your backs in red. A glove and bat are laid to the side. Clark’s neck-length curls spill out of his cap, and you’re just an inch taller than him. Your small hands are clasped together as you both watch the field, like if either of you let go, the other would disappear. 

He ejects the memory card and wipes his eyes. 

Fuck. What went wrong? 

— 

Apparently, further intruding on your and Clark’s personal life means rigging the Saturday work dinner, if hanging out at a bar could be considered that. 

“It’s the perfect excuse,” Lois mutters to herself, hands stuffed into her pockets. She has that scheming expression on her face again; narrowed eyes, tongue caught in the pocket of her cheek. “They have to sit next to each other, so make sure you’re not late.” 

She was ecstatic to hear about the pictures harbored in your SD. The ever-changing theory has now gone from co-workers with deep hatred to bitter exes to sad, estranged childhood friends who never had the time to fall in love.

Good thing he didn’t tell Cat, because she would have gone running to the nearest movie studio to pitch a romcom idea. 

“Are you sure this’ll work?” Jimmy asks, falling in step next to her. Just to be safe, he checks over his shoulder. As per usual, Clark is already nowhere to be seen, having already turned the corner. 

Briefly, he wonders how long it takes for Clark to get home, if you live in Midtown too, and if you ever pass by each other on the way to the store or something. That would be awkward. 

Lois hums, a hesitant sound. She tilts her head, suddenly interested in studying the non-existent stars. “Like, seventy...five percent sure.” 

“Seventy-five?” 

“Alright, eighty,” she decides. For real this time! is what goes unsaid. 

Jimmy sighs and kicks a pebble down the smooth sidewalk. 

— 

“Sorry, am I late?” you ask, rushing over from the door. 

Wow. The sunshine in Metropolis can really change a person. A time where you would sit straight-backed and stone-faced at your desk has been long forgotten. You look brighter now. The exhausted weight you used to carry around the office has disappeared, and you walk over with a pep in your step. 

The heavy slab of glass and wood swings close behind you, dimming the light available in the bar. Jimmy notices that your shoes are more casual than the ones you take to work, and you’re wearing the same Smallville Giants sweater. 

You weave past a group of college kids playing pool, the sound of your steps masked by the loud clack of an eight-ball being sunk and the cheers that follow. 

“No, no, you’re great,” Lois says, sliding out of the booth. You wrap an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug without an ounce of hesitance. 

Jimmy, stuck next to the wall, politely waves at you from behind Lois, to which you respond with a small grin. Placing your bag on the bench opposite from them, you slide into the booth and take in the warm light of the bar, how the air smells like alcohol and salt. 

“How was the camera?” 

“Amazing,” he blurts, palms glued to the tabletop, a little damp from the last wipe-down. The nerd in him is so psyched out right now. “Like, wow. I’m not betraying my D500s, but that’s a dream camera right there.” 

There’s no indication that you know anything about the childhood photos you accidentally left in his hands. You laugh, a soft sound that comes whispering under the rock song playing from the old jukebox in the corner. “This your regular spot?” 

Lois flags down a waiter, nodding with a grin that matches yours. “Yeah, this is an official invitation to join our long-running tab.” 

“If this were Gotham, we’d be jumped in an alley two weeks ago,” you say, looking around the bar with a sort of wonder in your eyes. Jimmy supposes things aren’t like this in Jersey, but then again, the rent is cheap, the architecture is gorgeous, and the jazz is sexy.  

Besides, it isn’t like Metropolis doesn’t have her own handful of nutjobs. They’re a lot more partial to obliterating Superman and ruling the world than gassing an entire city, but tomayto-tomahto. 

Lois orders the sweet wine she always does—ever the sugar addict—and Jimmy gets himself a beer, much to your and the waiter’s surprise. He has to flash his ID to prove that he is indeed older than twenty-one. 

“Is it mean if I thought you were a cub until last week?” you ask. Then you turn to the waiter. “Sparkling cider, but water if you don’t.” 

The server nods and turns back to the main bar. 

Jimmy gets the hint-hint, nudge-nudge look from Lois, her brows raising as she looks at him from the corner of her eye. She serves it with a sharp jab of her elbow into his side. Ouch—once a victim, always a victim. Good thing he has a thicker jacket on to soften the blow. 

“Apple cider?” Lois frowns, inquisitive—extra verbal emphasis on cider. Jimmy runs back his mental film reel, trying to remember why the hell the association of you and the drink is so familiar. “I don’t suppose you’re abstaining.” 

You rest your chin on your right hand, elbow propped on the tabletop. The moisture that Jimmy felt earlier has long dried up. You get a wistful glimmer about your face, eyes flicking up to the corner of the room where a baseball game is airing. 

“I’m not,” you explain, tearing your attention off the screen like it’s hard. “I just like it. Reminds me of home, you know?” 

“Right. Perry told me about your file,” Lois says, ever the confession-puller even though she acts like she isn’t doing anything. “The Planet has Smallville One and Two now.” 

A frown pulls at your face, not quite sure if you heard her right, “Sorry?” 

“You know, like Thing One and Two.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” You smile, but it’s a little shakier. Miffed, Jimmy seriously considers bumping Lois’ foot with his own. 

Luckily, she doesn’t press any further, letting the conversation flow naturally from your mysterious origins to current world events—the drinks come now, numb to the touch and beading on the glass, and your eyes are sparkling just like the cider before you—to the exposé. 

The reason why the three of you are here in the first place, sharing anecdotes related to the scandal about to be thrust upon the world. It has something to do with widespread corruption in the precinct that patrols the ports, and in the three times Lois has almost gotten herself killed, she’s connected it to a Gotham cartel. 

Jimmy tells a wild, borderline tall tale about being chased down Main Street by a gang of cops. He had to hide in the alley behind his favorite bodega for an hour before slinking back to the office. Mr. White wasn’t very happy about that. 

(“Great Caesar’s ghost!” he exclaimed, acrid cigar smoke puffing everywhere.) 

You pull up pictures on your phone of suspicious activity you’ve captured in the area, from police loitering for too long in corners to pristine vans driving through the city across the bay. 

Perks of being connected, you say, keeping your voice low, Gotham isn’t as bad as most people think. Sources are basically endless. 

The bell at the door rings, though it’s barely heard over the din and racket of pool-playing jocks and the jukebox, now playing some Beatles song that Jimmy can’t remember the name of. Lois slouches in her seat, slowly peeking out from the booth to check who just came in. It’s Clark. 

He stumbles over in a pair of slacks that don’t look tailored enough and the knit sweater Lois called ‘sick of the laundry machine’ the last time she saw it on him. She gives him a curt once-over, disapproving. 

“Sorry,” he breathes out, finding the floor exceedingly interesting. His glasses are askew, sliding down the bridge of his nose like he’d just shoved them on and his curly hair is whirlwind-messy. “Foot traffic. Superman.” 

“It’s always him,” Jimmy drawls, knocking back a sip of his beer. 

You look up at Clark. Eyes shining like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, you pinch your mouth into a tight line. 

Clark, still in his typical daze, wonders out loud, “Cider?” 

He says it in a feather-soft tone, quietly poking. As if he’s a kid again, Little League glove resting in the dry grass, tugging at your arm when a teammate steals a base and making sure you saw that too. 

Your drink is half-finished on the table. There’s a ring of room-temp water around the base, sure to join the hundred others etched into the wood. A pearl of condensation rolls down the side, chasing the bubbles still fizzling in the ice. 

The puzzle pieces in Jimmy’s head finally click together—the polaroid Clark allegedly keeps in his wallet. Cider and cowboy. You and your childhood best friend. 

It could be considered a miracle in itself how fast you react. Jimmy notes the heavy way you swallow, throat bobbing as you reach for your bag, draw it toward you, and— 

You let Clark in. 

Apprehension hangs in his body as he slides into the booth. Clark sits board-stiff, unsure of his standing with you. You elbow him, harder than Lois would do to anybody, and the man doesn’t budge. 

His face just keeps getting ruddier by the second. If this were a cartoon, his glasses would for sure be misted with the same steam pouring from his ears. 

Lois coughs. “Right. Could we get to fact-checking the piece?” 

“Yeah,” Clark squeaks. The leather of the booth’s cushion makes the same sound when he scoots a little closer to your side. 

Your elbows end up bumping somewhere between the second round of drinks—Clark and the weird looks he gets for drinking fucking milk are hilarious—and Lois going on a tangent about how Central City is a great place at this time of year. 

Clark stills, watching your reaction, but you don’t need words. You don’t jump back like you’ve been burned. You just settle into some kind of semi-normal truce area.

Relaxation finally melts into Clark’s bones, and he stumbles into the conversation with a banging opener about meeting a brilliant college kid there. 

“I think his name was Allen?” 

Lois laughs, fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “We should all cover the science fair they hold next year, then. Just to confirm your source.” 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes darting to the space where your elbow meets Clark’s. “We should. It’s close to home too.” 

Jimmy catches Lois' eye. Can you believe this?

He realizes that his investment isn’t so much about the mystery anymore. That’s something you two could keep to yourselves, because there’s no way in hell Jimmy would willingly learn the painful lore. 

It’s more about the way you glance at each other. Held-back, ready to run full-tilt without hesitation if someone gave the green light. You’re clearly in love, and everyone can see it. 

Now, the real mystery is how long it’ll take for you both to admit it. 

—

notes. please lmk if u enjoyed my sweet childhood best friends who fold despite being estranged... if i do write a second part it'll prob be in his or reader's pov ⭐⭐

[midniqhtt]

clark kent imagine——rivals to lovers

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Imagine you and Clark being the last ones to leave the office

He was finishing up on a long overdue assignment and you were overworking yourself like always. The lights were low and all that could be heard was each of your keyboards firing off as quick as they could go.

You’d stand up first. Not to leave, but to get more coffee from the break room. The moment you left your desk, his eyes would follow. 10 seconds after your silhouette disappeared into the room, he’d stand up and trace your movements.

“You know it’s not good to have coffee at night.”

You’d be hovered over the coffee machine, cursing it as it refused to turn back on.

“I wasn’t aware you were a doctor as well, Kent.”

Your words wouldn’t come off as snippy as they used to. Clark would notice a kind of softness formed around them, even if you didn’t notice. Or refused to notice.

“Stupid thing isn’t working anyways.”

He’d take a step towards you, standing next to you as you glared at the machine that was likely older than you. This was the closest you ever let him be next to you.

“Maybe it’s a sign then. It is kinda late.”

You’d look up at him, immediately being stricken with a sense of deja vu.

But for what, you couldn’t place.

“I’m not finished. I still have—“

“Work that’s not due until friday.”

You’d pause, your brain unable to come up with something sarcastic or witty for a millisecond longer than your typical.

“Stalking isn’t cute Kent.”

“It’s not stalking if everybody knows it.”

He got you there.

Didn’t mean you had to like it.

“Fine,” you’d groan, beginning back to your desk. “Whatever.”

You’d probably smack him if you saw the smile he wore as he followed behind you.

Everything would be quiet as you finally headed for the elevators for the night.

“Y’know,” he’d say quietly when the doors would close. “You’re just as apart of the team as any of us…no need to overwork yourself to prove it.”

Silence would fill the elevator, unable to find the right words.

“…I appreciate the sentiment Kent.”

Imagine not hating Clark Kent. Your brain wouldn’t admit it, but your heart knew

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Lil smthn smthn while I work on part 7, hope yall like it :)

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MEDIC IN DENIAL──SUPERMAN!

2025!superman x reader 1.6k fluff-ish

!spoiler-free for superman (2025)!

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It was your day off. A day where you weren’t worried about pushing the next piece, or getting the next bit of evidence for an investigation, or even collecting an interview with the next in a long roster of people.

It was just you, your television, your phone, and an unhealthy amount of ice cream. 

At least until it wasn’t. 

A crashing noise on your balcony, jolted you from your comfort, knocking your ice cream to the ground and sending your spoon somewhere on the floor. However when you saw the red and blue heap from outside your balcony doors, they went ignored as you ran quick to action. 

When you saw him, crumpled into a pile on your balcony, your mind stuttered, unable to process the image of the city’s figure of greatness and immense strength beaten down. 

But when you heard the unmistakable sound of his groaning as he attempted to lift himself up, it was like a piece snapped itself into place, ushering you to rush to his side. 

“Oh my goodness,” you uttered, falling to your knees at his side to assess his damage. “Are you okay?” 

Instinctively, you reached to touch the place in his ribs where you could see he hunched over, hovering his own over. 

“I’m fine,” he winced, gingerly taking the hand that reached out for him as he pulled himself up to rest on the balcony window. “Just…sittin’ down a bit before I go back.” 

Almost on command, you heard the distant screams of what you could only assume was the persistent big bad of the week. The kind that would give Perry material for at least a week. 

Turning back to him, your heart broke at his pained expression. He gripped your hand tightly, but you could tell he was holding back, afraid of ever hurting you. “Isn’t there somewhere you go to heal? A base maybe?” 

“Go all the way back,” he shook his head stubbornly. “I’m fine, I just need a minute to catch my breath.” 

Your eyes tracked across his face, taking in all he endured. 

“Stay right here, okay.” You took his hand in both of yours, letting it ball into a fist as you pressed a chaste kiss to it before rushing back into your apartment. 

When you returned, you held a damp rag, once more falling to your knees and wiping away the blood that trickled down his temple. You could only force yourself to focus on the blood as he stared at you, his bright blue eyes seeming burning a hole into you with such concentrated gaze. 

Of course, almost as stubborn as you were, his first instinct was to lightly push your hand away. “Hey, hey, I’m fine, you don’t need to do this.” 

You only smiled as you pressed the cloth back to his face, most of the blood gone under your care. “Can’t fight with blood in your eyes Superman.” 

As you wiped up the last of the blood, you felt his hand snake up your arm, taking your wrist in his large hands. You knew he could hear your heart pick up pace. 

“Thank you.” 

“If Superman picks us up, who picks up Superman right?” He would’ve laughed harder if it weren’t for his bruised ribs. 

He wasn’t on the ground much longer. With his breath back and blood clear from his eyes, he stood over you once more for a final farewell. 

“Go knock some justice into them,” you smiled. “In one piece preferably.” 

Superman grinned. “Only cause you’re telling me.” 

In a quick movement, before your brain could even process it, he pressed a kiss to your temple. Short and sweet and leaving you dizzy on your feet. 

And he was gone before you even had time to question it. 

You knew you didn’t have any reason to worry. It was Superman afterall, the ever invincible hero of Metropolis with 18 months of undefeated battles now under his belt. There was no worry that he was hurt or injured or not coming back. 

Yet the feeling still settled at the pit of your stomach, making a home like sand at the bottom of the ocean. No matter what you did, watch TV, attempt to eat what was left of your melted ice cream, or even take a nap, you felt too sick to do it. 

All your body would let you do was sit and stare until you received some sign that he was okay. 

So when the recognizable sound of whooshing wind echoed in your ears, you felt that pressure rise into that gravity-defying feeling you’ve become accustomed to over the few months. 

“I’m glad to see you’re alive,” you joked, leaning on the door frame, arms crossed. “Whatcha got there?” 

He cradled a paper bag in his hand, watching you expectantly. “I noticed you spilled your ice cream. Might as well be a thank you.” 

Your smile was coy as you trailed outside, following him as he took a seat at the somehow still standing lawn chairs, facing the steadily arriving sunset. 

He was observant, you eventually came to realize, especially now as he pulled out your favorite flavor in a pint before placing his own sorbet in front of him. 

“Able to withstand a monster 50 times his size and even a metahuman with way too many abilities, yet the one thing Superman can’t stomach isn’t kryptonite, but dairy.” You grinned as you took a bite of your own. “Go figure. The headlines will go insane.” 

He chuckled, dipping his spoon into his own pint. “I’m not lactose intolerant if that’s what you’re implying. I just enjoy a tarter flavor.” 

You hummed, amusement sparkling in your eyes. “That’s what a lactose intolerant person would say.” 

“How can I convince you otherwise?” 

You tapped your spoon on the rim of your container, pretending to think hard over the new decision. “Drink 50 gallons of milk in the middle of the city. Then I’ll believe you.” 

His smile grew wide, tossing his head back to laugh. “Absolutely not.” 

“Okay then,” you sang. “Get ready for Daily Planet headliner: Superman? More like Super-Gassy.” 

He pointed his spoon at you, holding back another stream of laughter from falling past his lips. “I’m so glad you decided on journalism and not comedy. You’d be out of the job in hours.” 

You gasped, feigning offense. “Rude.” 

Superman smiled, enjoying the sight of you truly letting yourself laugh. “Speaking of, how has it been at the great Daily Planet?” 

A smile allowed itself on your lips. “Things are looking up for me for the most part. I’m the lead of this new project. Shockingly thanks to that one guy I told you about.” 

So focused on the beautifully setting sun, you missed the way the man’s spoon faltered over his cup, your words catching his attention. 

“Kent was it?” He didn’t typically take to asking questions about his alter-identity. It usually left him with some gut-eating guilt, like he was invading some sense of privacy. But sometimes his curiosity would beat him to the punch. “Are you finally coming around to him?” 

“No,” you blurted, rather bluntly, then taking to biting the inside of your cheek. 

He could almost read the bright flashing neon sign that screamed ‘LIAR’.

But he only looked away, taking another bite of his sorbet. “You know stubbornness only holds you back a lot of the time.” 

“I am not stubborn!” 

He raised a brow up at you. 

You sighed. “Fine, maybe a little. But not over this, okay. He’s just… less annoying than before.” 

He watched you, taking in the way you crossed your arms. At first as a display of disapproval, but now closing yourself off little by little from the topic. 

“What changed that,” he pushed. 

Silence ate between you two, waiting for the words that balanced on the tip of your tongue. You thought back to the breakroom. The phone call. The state he found you in. A hot ball of embarrassment burned in your chest. “...nothing. Like I said, he’s just less annoying now.” 

Liar. 

Superman said nothing. Only watched as you seemed to shrink in on yourself. Your smile dying as quickly yet as subtle as the dying sun right before you. Before the two of you knew it, you were bathed in nighttime again. 

“Well…I’m glad you have one less thing weighing you down.” 

Looking up at him now made you realize how close you were to the man. His arm brushed against yours and as the two of you locked eyes you felt the world below you abandon its stance steadying your feet. 

It felt unreal, like a dream where you fall with no promise of ever finding ground. The kind that shook you long after you woke up. 

“I think it’s getting late,” you uttered, forcing yourself to look away from him and slide out your chair. 

A breath left his lungs, disappointment clear on his face for just the few existing seconds before you turned back to him. 

“The criminals of Metropolis never sleep,” he joked forcefully, rising from his seat as well, mirroring the way you took a step back from him. “Have a safe night, okay?” 

You smiled, but it didn’t quite meet your eyes. “Okay.”

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tysm for the love, comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist or if I forgot to tag you

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OPERATION: YOU [ 3 + 1 ]──CLARK KENT!

3 times clark “helped” + the 1 you said thank you

2025!clark kent x reader 2.2k hurt/comfort (?)

!spoiler-free for superman (2025)!

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A new week presented new opportunities and Clark was determined to get in good graces with you. Not because he felt he deserved it, but because a part of him—a large part of him—couldn’t stand only knowing you under the veil and short hours of night. 

Just as Jimmy said, "Forgiveness can be an uphill battle.”

[ 1—the replacement recorder ]

If you weren’t in a consistent state of being annoyed by Clark’s presence before, you definitely were now since Clark ruined your prized possession of a recorder. One that he eventually came to find out was the first one you bought, the moment you started at The Daily Planet. He remembered when Jimmy told him, you were glaring at him from the corner of your eye, pretending to be too busy to care about Steve guffawing in Clark’s face about the whole ordeal. 

Lois said she’d never seen him so red in the face and as much as he wanted to disagree, he knew it was true. 

So he spent the rest of the week hunting down the exact same version you had, even down to the color. And while it was hard, it wasn’t impossible. 

He wrapped it up nicely, folding its box into your favorite colors and held it with the utmost care as he made his way into the Daily Planet, this time standing just a little bit taller and smile shining a little bit brighter. 

But the moment he walked through the elevator doors, he knew something was wrong. Call it a gut feeling. When he rounded your desk, Cat and Lois stood around you, marveling at something you were presenting to them. 

“My sister-in-law just surprised me with it! I guess she heard my cries all the way from back home.” 

Peeking over Cat’s shoulder, he saw the shiny new recorder in your hand, even better than the one you originally had and likely better than the one the man bought you. 

“Oh! Clark,” Cat exclaimed, shocked to see him standing over her. “When’d you get here?” 

With a plastered-on smile, he tucked the gift behind his back. “Just now,” he breathed. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

His eyes naturally fell on you, watching as you narrowed your eyes at him ever slightly. “What’s wrong with you Kent?” 

Of course you were somehow the one to immediately pick up on his strange behavior, no matter how well he managed to cloak the disappointment in his eyes. 

But he only shook his head and took a stumbled step back. “Nothing,” he pushed out, his voice rising the octave. “Just curious I guess.” 

[ 2—the flower fiasco ]

Clark’s next attempt on you possibly seeing him in a better light included a flower shop not too far from where he lived. 

“Do you um, do you have any that say ‘I’m sorry” while also saying “Please don’t hate me.” 

The store was filled on every surface with various shades of different flowers and while Clark seemed to tower over the whole store, even when hunching down his height, he moved past each one with a gentle hand, terrified it would wilt at a single touch. 

“Well,” the employee smiled. “My first line of advice is to tell your partner that they’re right. Even if they aren’t, they are now.”

Clark’s eyes widened, quick to come to his own defense and failing as he stumbled over his every word. “What? No, no, it’s not, it’s not like that. It’s more like, it is like a coworker.”

She lifted a brow at the man, nodding in amusement. 

“Right,” she drew out. “ Well if you’re looking for something more in the apologies department then these should deliver the message.” 

Clark’s eyes almost sparkled when he set his eyes on them, wanting to reach out and touch them, but drawing his hand back. 

“Do you do deliveries?” 

When Clark arrived the next day, the flowers were already sitting on your desk, blooming somehow even brighter than they did before. But once again, your desk was empty. 

As he settled down, beginning on his own work, he watched as you made your way from one end of the office to the other and back, all morning long. 

“Jimmy,” you called as you passed your desk, scratching the nape of your neck. “Do you have the transcripts from the recent LutherCorp press conference?”

“Got it,” he called from his space. “Sending it over now!” 

“Actually,” you paused, coughing into the back of your hand. “Can you send it over to the printer? Perry needs it stat.” 

“Gotcha.” 

For the first time that morning, you plopped down at your desk, another cough forcing itself past your chest, making you hunch over as you caught your breath. 

“Woah,” Lois expressed, slowing down at your desk. “That cough doesn’t sound good. Are you coming down with something?” 

You shook your head, once more scratching at your neck. “Not that I know of. I was fine until this morning,” you wheezed.

Lois frowned, reaching for your hand and pulling it away, revealing the irritated rash growing on your neck. “Holy shit, your neck!” 

Your eyes widened wildly, freaked out by the woman’s sudden outburst. “What?! What’s on my neck?” 

With a quick but fumbling hand, Lois pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of it. “Are you allergic to anything,” she asked as she presented it to you, flagging down a nearby assistant. 

“Only–,” you cut yourself off, finally resting eyes on the vase situated on your desk. “When did that get here?” 

A younger boy you’d seen around the office was suddenly at your side. “Delivered to your desk this morning.” 

“That’s what I’m allergic to,” you wheezed out, your eyes watering. 

“Oh my god,” Lois muttered. “Call security to get rid of them.” 

“No need,” the boy said, swooping up the flowers and already walking off with them. “I’ll trash them now.” 

Turning back to you, Lois began to gather your things. “Here, take a break, go get some air.” 

You shook your head, stubborn as ever despite literally struggling to breathe. “I’ll be fine, it clears up fast.” 

But the woman wasn’t taking it. “Nope, go home, take extra time for lunch, whatever I don’t care. Go get some air and don’t come back until it’s cleared up.” 

Clark could only watch as she ushered you out of the building. With a frown, he wandered to the scene that just played out in front of you, seeing a note from the flowers.. 

‘Hope you don’t hate this apology as much as the first’ —Clark.

[ 3—celebrating superman ]

Clark had steered clear of your path since ‘the flower situation’ as he liked to put it. Maybe Jimmy was wrong about his approach to you, after all for every other woman giggling in his wake, there was at least one who hated his guts. After a while Clark tended to notice that as good as Jimmy was at starting bonds with people, mending them was not as easy for him. 

So he gave up. Not everyone liked him and he couldn’t control that. 

That’s what it meant to be human, right?

The end of the day was barralling in fast, most people wrapped up with their tasks for the day and preparing for the next few assignments for the next few weeks. That meant a meeting with all of your favorite people (note the sarcasm). 

“And finally,” Perry wrapped up. “Next week marks 18 months with Superman seemingly serving the people of Metropolis and to the mayor’s request, we’re doing a special piece to commemorate him.” 

From the corner of his eyes, Clark saw how you perked up to attention, excitement clear in your eyes at the new possibility. 

“We’ll need all hands on deck for this,” Perry continued on. “18 months, 18 quotes, 18 interviews. All with witnesses or people Superman saved personally. For the brilliant suggestion, Clark will be leading this project, any questions?” 

On a typical day with so many eyes on him, Clark likely would’ve given that smile that only read as humble and embarrassed, his ears going pink at the tip. But this time, all he saw was you from the corner of his eye. It was subtle, but that excitement in your eyes dissolved; reducing itself to a pursed smile and disappointment in your eyes. 

Clark was very rarely an impulsive person, more often than not thinking through his every action. But at this moment, he abandoned that notion. 

“Actually,” he coughed into his fist. “The idea was all their’s,” he motioned to you, confusion immediately flashing in your eyes. “I only spread the word. All credit should go to them.”

Clark looked to Perry first, measuring his options before speaking. “Very well. y/n? Will you be able to take the reins on this?” 

Your mouth fell open for just a moment before immediately collecting yourself. “Yes. Yes sir.” 

“Good. On that note, you’re all dismissed, details on the meeting for any one who misse…”

Perry’s words faded as Clark looked over to you, shocked to see you already looking at him, so many emotions dancing in your eyes. Confusion, gratefulness, confusion, pride. Confusion. 

Clark only humbly nodded at you, wordlessly telling you ‘don’t mention it.’

[  +1—breakroom breakdowns ]

The next few days had been…cordial. You weren’t having fun conversations with him, whispering instead of working, but you also didn’t seem like you wanted to storm out of a room he was in. It was progress. Ironically enough, accidental progress. 

He hadn’t been thinking of how he could make some great show of making it up to you. He just did. And you seemed all the happier from that last minute decision of his.

“Clark!” 

The man poked his head up, Perry standing above him with impatience rolling off him in waves, just as he always was. 

“Yes sir,” he exclaimed, his voice cracking as he pushed his glasses up his nose. 

“Where are they,” he questioned, motioning to your empty desk. 

He paused, recalling when he saw you leave last, coming up with nothing. “I’m, I’m not too sure.” 

Perry sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Go find them, I need the both of you in my office, preferably five minutes ago.” 

Clark turned to Jimmy once the man walked away. “Did you see where they went?” 

“Ummm,” Jimmy paused, thinking for a moment before his eyes landed on the break room. “I think they got a phone call not too long ago, so probably in there.” 

“Thanks Jimmy.” 

Now, Clark didn’t try to use his super hearing often, especially when he was Clark, but as he neared the breakroom, he couldn’t help but overhear you. First he heard the faintest sound of crying, like someone trying to hold it back desperately but failing. 

Then he heard a particularly loud voice over your phone. She sounded older and upset. 

“You’re selfish,” she shouted. “You always have been and I’m sick of you pretending you are some great hotshot with your fancy job that was handed to you. Your brother actually worked to get where you are. All you did was write until some newspaper decided it was mediocre enough to hire you as an assistant. God,” she scoffed, “You probably found some special way to get to your current position too.”

Clark hadn’t meant to just stand there and listen. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it until your eyes went wide seeing him standing there. 

Like a reflex, you turned away from him, immediately hanging up the phone. “What do you need Kent?” 

Clark bit the inside of his cheek, his words reluctant on his tongue. “Perry….Perry wants us in his office.” 

You sniffled. “I’ll be there in a minute, go without me.” 

Clark had always been stubborn. Without thinking, he approached you, pulling a tissue out of his suit pocket. “Are you okay,” he offered. 

You looked up at him with wide eyes then down to the tissue, tentatively slipping it from the man’s grasp. “Do you always have a perfectly good tissue in your pocket,” you joked. 

You were deflecting, Clark could tell, but it didn’t stop his heart from stuttering, knowing that it was the first time you hadn’t replied to him with some level of sarcasm or formality. 

“As fate has it, only when it’s needed.” 

And you smiled at him. It was short, quickly tucked away by the tissue as you wiped away any sign of your tears. 

“Let’s go,” you ushered, starting for the exit of the breakroom. “Before Perry blows a fuse or something.” 

He followed in step with you. From the corner of his eye as the two of you travelled to your destination, your head hanging lower than it usually did, your shoulders tight and your posture as a whole closed off. 

He’d never seen you make yourself so small. 

Approaching Perry’s office, he let you through first, hearing the quiet words you uttered to him: “Thank you, Clark.” 

He froze, his brain short circuiting as he processed your words. He felt his heart slam against his chest at them. Not because it was the first time you told him thank you, but because it was the first time you didn’t call him Kent.

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is it obvious i don't know how journalism works?

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[midniqhtt]

NIGHTTIME HAPPENINGS──SUPERMAN!

2025!superman x reader 1.4k fluff

!spoiler-free for superman (2025)!

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There was something beautiful about the night that Clark couldn’t help but love. Up above the sleeping city he cut across the cold night sky, his cape leaving a red streak amongst the stars. His world below melted together into a scene of soft twinkling lights, seemingly mimicking the sky above. 

So high above, Clark only felt peace, a final moment of silence as he awaited the next cry for help, but never finding it as the city finally rested.

But that’s not what he loved most about the night. What he liked most about it was you. 

Call them visits, chats, or interviews, ever since that first one he felt some kind of kinship to you. A comforting presence found behind your eagerness that told him he was understood. With you, it was no question of ulterior motives or a fear of turning against the people. 

He wanted to do good. And you understood that. You understood him. 

Even from the first interview. 

──about 18 months ago ──

You weren’t sure how late it was. You lost track of time the moment you came home from work at the cafe, your things abandoned at the door as you ushered to your computer. 

A week ago your blog would’ve looked entirely different, taking on a simple appearance with simple colors and likely filled with inconsistent topics from food recipes to celebrity life hacks. Now however, it took a bold new look, donned with red, blue, and yellow, pictures of the caped man, and filled with features of people recounting their encounter with Metropolis’ new hero: Superman (named by you of course). 

It was a hit, immediately flocking attention all throughout the city and more. It was just missing one more thing: an interview with Superman himself. 

That’s why you sat on your balcony, much later than your usual. You were slumped over in a cheap lawn chair, flashlight in hand as you shone it up straight at the sky. (You’d seen it in a comic book once and prayed your dollar store flashlight would do the trick). 

However, you were losing hope. Nighttime was well set in, the air only seemed to blow colder and harsher, and you were beginning to drift off. 

That’s when you saw it: a bright streak of red and blue splitting up the vast night sky. 

“If you’re calling for S.O.S. then your morse code could use some work.”

You sprung out of your chair as if a fire was set under your seat. “Superman!” 

He floated down gracefully, his boots touching the cold concrete of your balcony as you marveled at his presence once more. 

“Is that what the people are calling me now?” 

You shrugged, fighting back a smile as you feigned a cool composure. “Credit to your very own.” 

The man laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s very…” he thought for a minute, “official.” 

You smiled, tucking your hands behind your back. “Are you? Official I mean or here to stay.” 

You watched as he stood impossibly taller with a sigh, an overwhelming aura of justice radiating from him even as he just stood there with his arms crossed. “So long as the people of Metropolis need help, I’ll be here.” 

The smile on your face somehow burned brighter on your cheeks. “How noble of you Superman. It’s very inspiring. To everyone, not just me.” 

He laughed, then nodded towards the computer seen through your balcony door. “Is that what people are saying on your page?” 

You turned around suddenly, seeing the new notifications illuminating the screen and displaying the latest picture of him you managed to steal before he flew out of sight. “You know about my page?” 

The man shrugged, “I’m not one for social media but I have friends who have mentioned it numerous times.” He gave you a once over, like he was reading you and your poorly hidden enthusiasm. “It’s impressive. I’m shocked you’re not with the Daily Planet the way you work.” 

You laughed, shaking your head. “Me? A reporter? I never really tried to go down that path.” 

He smiled, taking the smallest of steps towards you. “It suits you.” 

For just a moment, you forgot how to speak. Something in his voice, deep and larger than life yet so grounded. You could only imagine what you looked like, your mouth falling open then shut, looking for that next quip that slowly died on your tongue. 

“Well th–well maybe.” You stopped, clearing your throat as your face grew hot, embarrassed by your sudden stammering. “Maybe you can give me a push in the right direction.” 

You stood up straight, mocking a formal setting. “May I possibly get an interview regarding your recent biggest rescue?” 

You could see the amusement stretch across his lips, shining in his eyes at your question. “I’d love to be interviewed by you.” 

“Wait actually?” Your eyes widened, not actually anticipating the man’s response. “Um, give me one minute, I’ll get my phone to record.” 

Superman watched as you slipped past your sliding doors and frantically ran inside. “There should be another chair out there, feel free to sit if that’s your thing.” 

As he sat down, he heard you move around through your apartment—possibly including the sound of you falling. When you returned, you had a phone in one hand and a notebook in the other. 

With a slight shake in your hand, you placed the phone down on a table in between you two, pressing record. 

“Superman.” 

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and spoke your name like a declaration. It wasn’t the first time and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

It became a kind of routine, at first him stopping by once every few weeks for a few questions or an interview, but eventually it morphed into something more. They grew more frequent and eventually started losing the formality and anxiousness, trading it in with a casual air. The two of you became unlikely friends. 

When nighttime came and he did his rounds through the city, he sought you out, knowing whether or not he’d be with you based on if you sat in that lawn chair, watching the skies. 

Tonight was a little different though. 

Your lights were on and he saw the familiar flowing of curtains breezing out of the doorway—even if he’d told you numerous times to close your balcony door at night. You, however, were nowhere to be seen on that balcony. 

Curiosity reached him before hesitation, his boots softly hitting the concrete and trailing a few steps forward. There he got his answer. 

From his place outside, he could see you at your desk, slumped over your keyboard and completely sound asleep. 

He eyed the frame of your door. He’d been inside maybe once or twice, but never without your permission. After a tentative moment, he slid the door open wider and let himself in, shutting it carefully behind him. 

You were in your pajamas, your desk completely cluttered from pens, markers, to a few cups and a plate with utensils, likely from eating dinner at your desk and overworking yourself as always. 

With a quiet laugh, the man put himself to work, reaching for the dishes first. He delivered them to your kitchen slowly, forgetting his superspeed as he tried to move soundlessly. When he returned back to you, he began collecting everything from your desk, organizing how he remembered from all the other visits. 

Once finally clear, he looked over you. You were a surprisingly heavy sleeper, not budging an inch as he lifted you with ease from his chair to his arms. 

His eyes cast over your sleeping image, taking in how peaceful you were. All the stress washed over you as you quickly became comfortable in his arms. 

He almost immediately began missing the feeling when he placed you down in your bed and pulled the covers up to your shoulders. 

A piece of him only wanted to stay and forget about his duties for just one night. But he didn’t. And he couldn’t. 

Without thinking, he leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your temple, relishing in the feeling of being around you.

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[midniqhtt]

SPILLED COFFEE ──CLARK KENT!

2025!clark kent x reader 1.3k fluff-ish rivals to lovers

!spoil-free for superman (2025)!

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Clark Kent wasn’t Superman. 

Sure physically he was. Behind the glasses, terrible posture, and clumsiness he was the daring, charming, yet humble man of justice the public adored. But when the glasses and tousled hair came back on and he slipped into his desk in front of yours, any trace of that quick-witted, charming superhero persona faded away.

The worst part was, you clearly liked Superman more than you liked Clark Kent and for that, he had absolutely no clue why. It wasn’t like you talked to him long enough to tell him in detail why you smiled less around him compared to everyone else. 

Even now, from across the room, he saw as you held a genuine conversation with Cat over the printer. She was doing most of the talking, her movements rather animated as she told you all about her weekend. But it was your reactions that held Clark’s attention. You held a rare smile—at least one that was rarely pointed at Clark—as you laughed at Cat’s story. 

He recognized your laugh, it wasn’t like your “customer service laugh”, nor the laugh you gave Steve that implied his joke wasn’t really funny. It was open and genuine, the laugh he only got to see when he was Superman. 

Clark's lips dipped down into a frown, his eyes flickering back to his computer where he was looking at the article that published in place of yours.

At the very least, he knew you were upset about that. After all it was your pitch that pushed the story, your groundwork giving it its spine. All he did was get a few more “interview” questions than you did. It was presented to Perry as something to aid you, make the article more complete. When Perry requested it be a collaborative piece, Clark certainly did imagine that meant him accidentally hijacking the whole work. 

If you weren’t snippy around him before, you definitely were now. 

With a final sigh, Clark closed the page and swiveled his chair to face Jimmy who looked to be getting done as much work as him. 

“Jimmy,” Clark coughed. “I need advice on something.” 

With a grin, the boy wheeled over to Clark’s desk, excited for any excuse to pull him away from his screen. “How can I be of assistance?” 

Clark readjusted in his chair, fiddling with his thumbs absentmindedly. “I get this feeling that y/n doesn’t like me much an–,” 

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” he coughed in an attempt—a terrible attempt— to cover a laugh, only making Clark’s face fall. 

“It’s that bad?” 

Jimmy paused, narrowing his eyes like he wasn’t sure if Clark was serious or setting him up for a joke. 

Clark waited, eyebrows raised, but then watched as Jimmy’s skepticism slowly morphed into a smile, then a grin before bursting into a fit of laughter, this time trying—and failing—to stifle it. 

“I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t be laughing but,” he took a moment to catch his breath. “I thought you were meant to be the smart one.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean,” the man exclaimed, his voice going up the octave much to his distaste. 

“It means,” Jimmy finally sighed, a trace of a laugh still left on his face, “if I had a choice to be trapped in a room between you two, or them and Steve, I’d choose Steve.” 

Clark frowned, running a hand down his face. “You’re really not helping Jimmy. Is it because of the article last week? Cause I tried to apologize, they just kinda brushed me off.” 

“I’d say it’s less of the article and more of all the articles.” 

Clark blinked, confusion now taking his face once more. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s not the first time you’ve overshadowed them for a Superman related project. They tend to keep count,” the boy paused, leaning towards Clark. “Are you telling me you really didn’t notice?” 

Clark squeezed his shoulders in a shrug, recounting the few conversations you had with him Superman. “I did, I just assumed it was something bigger I’d done. Like maybe insult their ma.” 

Jimmy tossed a quick glance over to you, still talking to Cat by the printer. “Look, if you’re trying to get in good graces with them, do something small. Surprise them with coffee, pass one of your ideas off as theirs. Doesn’t have to be a grand show, just show them that you’re not trying to be some sort of rival.” 

Clark thought about it, letting the idea run through in his mind before he wrinkled his nose. “Rival is a heavy word.” 

“But accurate.” 

Clark took Jimmy’s advice to heart, waking up early and going straight to a nearby coffee shop, this time picking up two cups instead of his usual one. 

Mornings in the Daily Planet were busy and crowded, half of the population wrapping up loose ends from the day before and the other half getting in new intel and story opportunities. 

When he arrived to your shared area, you were nowhere to be seen, much to Clark’s disappointment. 

“Uh Lois,” he called to the passing woman. “Is y/n in today?” 

“They’re in Perry’s office running a rough draft on a recent update with the Boravian conflict.” 

Clark pursed his lips together, his plan already not going to plan. He hesitated for just a moment, debating whether or not to hand it to you in person or to just leave it. 

After a moment of thought, he placed it down gently before reaching a sticky note on your desk, scribbling something on it. 

“Hey loser,” a sudden, loud voice exclaimed. “Didn’t see you come in this morning.” 

“Hey Steve,” Clark sighed, still hunched over the note that was getting longer than it was initially going to be. 

Clark felt as Steve went to pat him on the back, as aggressively as usual. However, between being hunched over the desk and the hot cup of coffee dangerously close to his moving hand, he bumped right into the cup and like a domino, the contents on your desk became soaked in the hot drink. 

“Shoot,” Clark exclaimed, reaching for the papers on your desk with hope to save them. Holding one page up hopelessly, he could see the soggy paper and washed away the ink of your handwriting. 

“What. Did you do?” 

Clark stilled like a deer in headlights, turning around to see you with wide eyes, your left one visibly twitching. 

“I thought I could be nice, surprise you but–,” 

But his words went bypassed when your eyes settled on your voice recording device in the middle of the hot brown puddle. 

“Dammit,” you exclaimed, springing forward to fish it out, but the damage was done. It dripped with coffee when you picked it up and the screen was long from turning on again. 

“I had a whole hour of a Superman interview on here,” you said, your voice cracking to a whisper as you shut your eyes and pressed a hand to your forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” Clark breathed. “I was only trying to hel–,” 

“It’s fine Kent just–,” you paused, taking a deep breath and pressing your lips into a thin line, a dozen unspoken thoughts evaporating behind your silence. “It’s fine.” 

He could only step aside as you brushed past him, cradling the recorder in your hands. 

“That went…” Jimmy trailed off as took a step next to Clark, observing the mess. “Well it went.” 

Clark cringed, turning to the shorter boy. “How did I mess up that bad?” 

Jimmy only shook his head, a semi-reassuring pat left on Clark’s shoulders. “Forgiveness is an uphill battle some days. Trust me, I know.” 

Clark pushed a half-hearted smile on his face. “Try try again, right?” 

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