syddds - Tumblr blog

syddds · 23 days ago

Text

night's so blue

clark kent x fem reader / 4.5k

it's rare for two reporters to be assigned to the same movie. how convenient that you already have a good relationship with clark. or, this is too good to be true. it isn't a set-up, right?

— co-workers to loves, stupid cute movie night, hint of everyone knows

— title from somethin stupid by the sinatras. clark kent u are so dear to me...

Your side grows cold when Clark shuffles forward to the counter.

“Ready?” he asks, smile sweet and kind of sheepish as he clutches a large bucket of popcorn to his chest. Your face warms at the sight of his broad hand covering half of the bucket’s tacky design.

“Yeah,” you say, returning the favor with a grin of your own. Something in Clark’s face shifts, goes soft. “I’m great.”

Moving in unison, steps synchronized, you and Clark make your way down the hall of the theater. The carpet masks the sound of your footsteps, but it does nothing to quell the sudden leap of your heartbeat.

Clark clicks his tongue absently, speaking slowly to avoid a stutter. “‘Descender’ is actually the movie I wanted to see the most this year.”

“Really?”

“Yes. So, I think it’ll be a hundred times better seeing it today with you.”

—

Here is the thing: you and Clark Kent are co-workers. It’s as simple as that, a three-syllable word that describes your entire relationship in the most perfectly inaccurate way.

Autumn is beginning to chase the tail-end of summer in Metropolis, which means that all the interns are gone, and now work needs to be picked back up by the actual staff, most of which have been slacking.

(To clear any allegation: no, you are not a slacker, but a hardworking journalist for the Daily Planet who is a shining example of diligence. Your eyes are always glued to your monitor, unless... Well, unless a certain tall man stumbles into the office, spewing excuses for his tardiness or sudden disappearance. What—is people-watching not a valid hobby anymore?

If anything, point fingers at Steve Lombard.)

It just so happens that you and Clark were the only two without assignments at the time.

Naturally, the Chief (don’t tell him you said that) lumped you together on this movie review article. Truth be told, you were already saying yes before he even mentioned that all expenses would be paid for by the Planet.

So yeah, you might be a little desperate, and you definitely have an unnoticeable, tiny crush on your co-worker.

Who knows what the Chief would say about that, but everyone else at the Planet can agree that if there was one guy who could exceed a woman’s standards, it would be Clark Kent, and he’d do it with flying colors.

Exhibit A: when he stopped by your apartment thirty minutes ago, sweet in a way that felt too good to be true. Too good to be just co-workers for any other person, but Clark Kent isn’t any other person, and it’s just in his nature to do so.

“Hi.” Clark’s voice is breathy, pitched just above his typical baritone, like he just ran up five flights of stairs or got flown in via Superman Airlines. He almost calls you Miss, good manners kicking in before you remind him with an eyebrow raise.

You take him in, the rumpled sweater he fills in nicely and dark brown slacks that hug his thighs and all. His hair is messy, windswept; there’s only a slim ring of blue in his eyes, obscured behind his thick glasses.

Secretly, you wish he would show up to work like this every day. Hell, if Steve can clock in with that stupid polo and khaki combo, then Clark can wear something other than the outstandingly polite grey suit.

Not that you hate it, but...it just hides so much of him. You wind your fingers a little tighter around the strap of your bag, just now realizing how big he truly is—a revelation that hadn’t come until you opened that door.

He holds out a small bouquet of tulips. They’re a little ruffled like he is. Clark says something about running into a florist on the way, how he thought about you.

And then he smiles with hope filling the pockets of his dimples.

Swallow. Your pathetic heart starts doing somersaults. His cheeks blush with the same pink that blooms in the tulips.

“Are you—” you take the flowers, lay them on the table in your foyer, and think better about teasing him for showing up like he’s about to take you out on a date “—uh, that’s so sweet of you.”

He shrugs, speaking a little fast, “It’s nothing. I just thought you should have something nice.”

“Still...” you trail off, looping a finger into the ring holding your keys together.

“Oh, I could carry your bag for you while you do that.”

“Clark, you're going to give me cavities for being spoiled like that.”

Still, you’re so endeared by how earnest he is as you lock the door and make your way down the hall.

Clark walks one step behind you and holds the elevator even though it’s just opened. He’s so polite; offering to hold your things, standing a respectable distance away with his hands clasped together.

You don’t realize that you’re staring, lost in your daydreams, until you blink and woah—his eyes are inches away, wide pupils ringed with the sea. Your throat gutters into the grey area between desert dry and choking on spit.

“Sorry if I scared you.” His apology is soft, gentle, like the touch he’s pressing to your cheek. “You had something on your face.”

He pulls away to show you his thumb. There’s eyeshadow powder smudged over the strange, not-quite-typical swirls of his fingerprint.

Clark says, “It’s a nice color. Suits you.”

And then you think you might have blacked out, because you only remember walking past the doorman and the metro ride in little fragments. Must have been the way your brain started shorting like livewire when Clark’s warm knuckles brushed against the back of your hand.

Then there’s Exhibit B, five minutes before the previews started (Clark hates to be late, you learn, and he loves the trailers so he can add more movies to his watchlist).

You’re standing in the line for popcorn, the warm smell of an oven and butter soaking the air. The carpet is stained, stiff beneath your soles in the way only old movie theaters can be. You wouldn’t have it any other way, though.

Clark is next to you, still slouched as ever, except he has a slightly different energy about him tonight. It’s hard to place your finger on it, but if you had to pick a word, it would be ‘unguarded.’

Making small talk while you wait, you ask him about his previous assignments. All of which you have read—he’s brilliantly well-written that you’re kind of jealous—but you needed something to talk about before you exploded into a million pieces on the floor. At least you’d die to the sound of Clark’s voice.

“The last time I wrote for Entertainment, I reviewed an Italian restaurant on Olive and Jefferson,” he says, nodding to himself. Eyes trained just past your temple, Clark lets a small, shy smile dawn on his face. “It’s the best I’ve had in the city.”

That’s debatable, because you’re pretty sure the nice restaurant on Fifth and Main is better. Clark argues, though it’s weak, that the taste could be an atmosphere thing.

You shake your head. “No, really—their linguine is to die for. Like, it would make Batman smile.”

He laughs softly. “Well, there’s always next time.”

Flip-flop in your heart again—next time.

The moviegoers before you peel away to the pick-up counter. Clark looks at you, you look at him. Your hand starts creeping toward your bag.

It’s a mad rush to the cashier. His card is wrestled out of his pocket; you’ve got your phone ready to tap.

“One bucket of popcorn, please,” you blurt, tapping your foot as you eye the way Clark’s credit card is held in his right hand, poised to strike. Firmly, you decide that you will fight before you let your chivalrous, hot co-worker pay and further cement himself in your heart.

The ring-up is slow, almost excruciating. In slow motion, you watch as one of the workers scoops white-golden blooms into the bucket and crosses the floor. Each footstep takes a lifetime.

Just as the cashier finishes typing your order, Clark has his card sliding into the reader—lightning-quick, blink and gone. Transaction complete. You’re stunned as he quickly signs off with his index finger. Your phone barely had the fighting chance to even move an inch.

You scowl, lightly nudging his arm. Usually, something like that would set his clumsy curse off, but he doesn’t even budge. Weird. “Clark, you do know that all this is paid for, right?”

He hums. “I don’t mind filling out the reimbursement forms.”

You don’t really know what to say to that. “That’s…weirdly cute of you.”

With a shrug, the left corner of his mouth lifts. The action makes a muscle in his cheek scrunch up, and suddenly all that fills your mind is the image of his dimples. Deep-set, and pretty, too.

“I…don’t know what you mean.”

And then he moves to grab the bucket off the counter.

—

You aren’t a stranger to being in proximity to Clark.

Your desks share a short cubicle wall. Lois drags you to dinner night with Jimmy and Clark, and for some reason, she loves to sit next to the former and join him in giving you weird, expectant looks across the table. Mr. White always puts you on the same byline, like now—you already share a desk, he had grunted, staring down a front-page draft, so you should be a good team already.

On a less professional note, he’s always been the guy you can rely on. He operates like clockwork. Every day—in the office by nine; late after lunch break; taking a few days every month to see his parents; clocking out with you.

He told you, once, that his mom would love you. It hadn’t meant much then, other than three days straight of dreaming about seeing his hometown and waking up tangled in your sheets, frazzled.

But now, things are kind of different.

This isn’t like awkwardly bumping elbows at the table in that midscale restaurant Lois frequents when she’s short on cash and needs a place to think and talk out a new lede to her friends. It’s not standing up and crashing into each other because Clark always forgets to go the other way, and this isn’t routine either.

This...feels like a date. A looming in the back of your mind, handholding across the armrest, fireworks in your stomach date.

The theater is still bright when you enter, hardly populated by spectators. There’s a teenaged couple of girls sitting in the far-right corner, one of them having her legs thrown over the other.

You don’t know how that works. Looks uncomfortable, crammed into a little boxy space.

They giggle over something on their phones, and the girl with her legs on the bottom of the stack puts her hand on her partner’s knee, rubbing her thumb in a circle as they grin at each other.

Is there some sort of love virus in the air or something? Because that would be a great explanation as to why you want so much more than you usually do with Clark. Want to hold his hand. Want him to put his hand on your knee and—

Clark taps your shoulder, breaking your miles-long stare.

“Are…you okay?”

“Yeah,” you stumble, fingers coming up to touch your neck. Self-conscious, you give him a crooked grin. “I’m excited too.”

“Oh,” he says. You decidedly hate him and his stupid big build and stupid soft sweater and stupid little ‘oh’ that makes your stupid heart start tap-dancing. “That’s great to hear.”

Awesome. Like all times, Clark is oblivious to the world—that being the rat-tat of your stomach doing a sharp kick.

It’s a true blessing that he doesn’t have the power of super-hearing. Who knows what you’ll do if he did…embarrass yourself, probably. You want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Which row?” you ask, already beginning to scale the steps.

“J12 and 13,” he responds, trailing behind.

You didn’t know it was possible for a person to have a five-foot radius of body heat, but you suppose that it’s one of the quirks he always seems to be surprising you with. It also isn’t helping when a flicker of warmth lights in your stomach at the sight of his slacks straining against his thighs.

Another unwarranted thought about Clark Kent. You really need to get a grip on yourself.

Row J. Sliding between the seats, you search for number 12 and 13.

You clear your throat to soften the sudden dryness that’s come to it. “So, tell me about the movie.”

Clark shuffles in like he’s walking on stilts, nearly falling into the wrong seat twice before righting himself. You’re surprised he hasn’t spilled a single piece of popcorn.

“It’s—think of Star Wars, but with a robot kid who’s—well, his entire existence is looked down on,” he manages, bucket clutched flush to his chest. He stalls for a second, eyebrows tilting the slightest bit inward. “And everyone wants to kill him, but he’s just a kid who feels too much.”

A little stunned, you hold Clark in your stare. “Wow. That kind of sounds like Superman.”

You think to slap yourself for saying that. Fuck, that’s stupid.

He laughs then, a half-scoff with the corners of his mouth turned up. Left side higher than the right, you note—as usual. “Yeah. Just like Superman.”

You don’t go deeper into the nuances of Superman’s existence, despite having an expert in getting interviews with the hero standing right next to you. Instead, you sit down in a silence broken only by sparse fits of giggles from the girl couple in the back and the occasional boom from an adjacent theater.

People filter in slowly as the previews start. You train your eyes on your hands like Clark as the trailers play, not sure what to do with the conversation being left at that, and the bucketful of still-hot popcorn between you doesn’t help.

He coughs first. You look up, and he’s already standing, washed with the colors of a movie screen. “I just realized. We don’t have napkins.”

“Oh,” you say, stupidly. A flash of pink—Clark's tongue comes darting out to wet his lips, and it’s gone just as quickly. He fiddles with the cuff of his sweater, antsy, thumb and index rubbing the soft material. “You’re right.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he tells you.

“And I promise I won’t finish the popcorn.”

A small, awkward smile. You feel the nails of endearment drive deeper into your heart.

Then he slinks back out of the row, knocking into the back of a seat as per usual, nearly stumbling down the stairs.

You hide a grin behind the back of your hand. He’s so cute runs circles in the back of your head, and then you catch yourself.

Co-workers, remember that.

—

He tells the truth, so you keep your promise. The popcorn remains untouched.

Retrieving napkins only takes a minute (and a half), which is enough time for your phone to buzz with a notification that Superman has just beat the shit out of an asteroid and still had the time to rescue a classic cat-in-a-tree. He also flew over Meteor Stadium and signed baseballs for three kids.

Naturally, the staff group chat blows up.

You’re halfway through a quiet, incredulous laugh at Jimmy’s message—just saying, Bruce Wayne kind of looks like Superman—and Lois’ response—hell no, he’s from Jersey—when he returns. Clark looks a little more puzzled than he was a minute ago, hair messier and glasses sitting crooked on his nose.

Clutched in his hand are five or six napkins as he sits back down. His slacks—those damn slacks—hug his skin like a secret he’s only showing you now. You want to bite something. You might have something that comes first to mind too, and if anyone suggests that it’s Clark, you’re going to silence them.

Back to the real world…now would be nice.

In the time it took you to give him a once-over and stare, Clark has taken to lightly bouncing his knee and rubbing the cuff of his sweater. You think to hold his hand, just so he doesn’t ruin the knit.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, words hesitant. His right hand reaches up to touch his jaw, feather-light.

“No,” you say, too quickly. “I zoned out thinking about Jimmy’s text.”

Clark frowns. “Jimmy?”

Turning your phone to him, you scroll through the huge wall of heated debate between the photographer and Lois. His face is lit by the screen, a square of light that makes his eyes shine ever brighter.

Somersault in your stomach. Ba-dump. Heart crashing into your ribs.

He lets out the same quiet, incredulous laugh you did, lashes fluttering. “Bruce Wayne can’t be Superman.”

“I know, right? He’s just…I can’t see it.”

Shaking his head, Clark smiles and shifts to relax in his chair. “Yeah. Can’t see it.”

The theater is fuller now. You can’t even see the couple from earlier, already lost to a sea of people sitting down. Premiere night effect, you suppose.

What’s surprising is that the seats next to you and Clark are empty, on both sides. No one is sitting behind you either, or in front. It’s just a little bubble for the two of you here.

The chatter rises a little louder, then stops as the lights dim, and the PSA about distractions begins.

You think it’s kind of funny. To have your phone on silent and tucked into your pocket and still have something to watch.

Clark is mesmerized by the opening credits. The camera pans out to a sun peeking out from behind the curve of a globe, a tiny flash of white-yellow before the music swells. Then, cut to a shot of clouds parting to reveal a sprawling city of pure tech, and his mouth stays open for a whole minute at the opening credit sequence.

You watch the first five minutes through the reflection in his wide gaze, a rush of adrenaline flickering in your chest at every dart of his eyes as they chase details across the screen. Clark doesn’t reach for popcorn until the pace starts picking up.

“I think we’re getting close to my favorite scene.” Clark’s voice, deep and quiet, is closer than you expected it to be. You turn your head to him, and even in the dark of the theater you can see his eyelashes fluttering inches away from your ear.

“Yeah?” you whisper, an uncontrollable grin rising on your face. You reach for him and gently nudge his chin with your knuckles, turning it back to the screen. He complies, easy.

Sometime between a corny one-liner and a roar of laughter in the audience, you bump hands with Clark’s at the bottom of the popcorn bucket. He chuckles a little louder then, and you tear your eyes off the screen to look at him.

He’s sneaking a glance at you from the corner of his vision, face uncrinkling with the tail end of his laugh. Your heart flares, ribs scorched. You feel a little struck, warm under the collar.

Fingers smearing at the corner of your mouth, “Something on my face?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, eyes strikingly blue and—you just noticed—somewhat alien. “This movie’s just surpassing my expectations.”

—

The sky is settling into a deep blue by the time you step out into the night.

(Clark spent an extra five minutes taking pictures of every poster he found interesting, muttering to himself as he noted them down for future reference.)

It’s unexpectedly chilly at this time. Though you’re wearing a sweater, you can’t help but rub lightly at your upper arms. Without a word, Clark shuffles a little closer, body heat radiating off him like a furnace.

Bubbles are still fizzling in your stomach at the memory of the accidental touches you shared with him. You bite your cheek, a grin already urging at your face.

“You were right,” you tell him, shoe soles scuffing on the pavement. “His story really reminded me of Superman.”

He exhales through his nose—a pleased sound. You train your eyes away from his face, of course. How else would you get home safe without exploding on the street?

Cars rush past the sidewalk, sending slipstreams of wind that cut through the knit of your sweater. Fighting a shiver again, you pick up the pace to the nearest crossing light—about ten paces down, blinking with that red hand in the distance.

Clark says your name then. Quiet and gentle, like he always is, but now there’s the slightest inkling of something more solid lying beneath it in a weirdly familiar way. This is of utmost importance, says a voice in your head.

“Yeah?”

A car horn blares right past you, but the sound is lost to a watery filter that rushes into your ears. Only Clark’s voice is clear when he says, “I have something to tell you.”

Your stomach does a somersault as you turn.

He’s looking at you with a softness to his eyes, the same one he had when you were sneaking glances at each other. He’s also standing up straighter, the barrel of his chest swelling. You want to bridge the distance and shake him by his freakishly broad shoulders. You also kind of want to kiss him.

You shrug, a small smile coming to your face. “What?”

Clark swallows. Gulps, really, so hard that you can see the outline of his Adam’s apple bob. Then he steps forward with a breeze that comes downwind—smells like clean, sweet hay, archived newsprint, and sun-dried linen washed in citrus detergent—and pats your shoulder.

“I’m...” he starts, chewing his cheek like he’s doubling back. You blink, and his shoulders are closing back up, neck slumping forward. “I liked spending time with you tonight,” he decides, holding your eyes earnestly.

“Me too,” you say, nodding too fast. Something still bugs you, the question of why his attitude seemed so familiar poking at the back of your mind.

His mouth warbles into a semi-straight, relieved smile; the habit of tilting his lips has never really been kicked, and you don’t want it to. Your stupid insides flip at the sight, heads over heels, and you try not to swoon at the quick glimpse of the tip of his tongue as he wets his lip.

“Is it weird that I want this to happen again?” Clark’s warm hand, still on your shoulder, squeezes lightly. Not hard, but just enough to ground you.

You reach up for it, sliding your fingers around his big palm. He’s a lot warmer when you’re skin to skin. His nails are short, healthy; there are faded calluses on the side of his finger from holding a pen for too long. You wonder about the rest of him, and then you wonder about him around you. That sets off a whole different tangent in your mind, one you won’t work through until you’re alone in your apartment and have a wall to vent at.

Holding his hand, you decide to throw caution into the wind. “Are you free next weekend?”

“Yes.” It’s thunderclap-quick.

“That’s—great,” you stutter, face blooming with heat at the fact that you’re basically asking him out. Holy shit, you’re going on a company-sponsored date. “We could try that Italian place I was talking about.”

“Of course.”

“But I get to fill out the reimbursement form this time.”

“Sounds good.”

Just to tease, “And you’re Superman.”

“Sure!” he blurts, circuits practically bursting and sparking out of his ears. “I mean—I couldn’t possibly be...him.”

You laugh, a course of giddiness rushing through your veins. He’s ridiculously endearing, shaking his head with ears dyed pink, pupils blown wide, and glasses slowly sliding down his nose as he stumbles over his words.

“I’m kidding, Clark.”

A long exhale from him, hissed through the teeth as embarrassment flickers over his features. “I knew that...”

—

It’s hard not to start kicking your feet the moment you crash onto your bed.

Ever the gentleman, Clark had walked you up to your apartment. Your knuckles brushed in the elevator. He giggled—giggled!—at a shitty joke you stole from the internet.

Then he stared at you from the other side of the door with sick puppy eyes as he said goodnight. His face was still red.

“Holy shit.” Your whisper echoes in your empty apartment. This might just be your new favorite phrase. “Holy shit.”

Fragments start coming back to you at full strength. The smell of buttered popcorn at the theater. How his eyes glinted with that weird, otherworldly blue when the movie’s colors splashed all over his glasses. The feeling of his hand in yours—warm, and right. The scary, exhilarating way your head spun when you discovered that he was already looking at you.

The loud buzz of your phone cuts through your schoolgirl-giddy daze. You fumble around your bag for it, pulling it out to reveal PERRY WHITE branded on the pixels in bright white.

Holy shit.

“Hi, Mr. White,” you rush, phone clutched tight in your fingers. You can just see his stern face in front of you, beard bristling as the embers of his lit cigar flare. “If you’re calling about what I think you’re calling about, I am starting my first draft right now and I will share it with Clark in a second—”

Someone snorts on the other end of the line.

...That’s not your editor-in-chief. The impersonator speaks with their hand over the receiver, and you can hear the muffled back-and-forth with another person in the background. It sounds like a young man, voice still kind of pitched, and a woman with a serious tone.

Oh, they can’t be serious. You squeeze your eyes shut until spots start dancing in your vision.

Come on, you always get the phone.

Hissed: Do you wanna be an accomplice?

Yes, actually, I do!

Fine.

Rough scratch—a sound that only comes when a phone gets passed around. The two culprits mutter to each other for another second or so; you catch something like ‘or else I’m gonna do it’ before the man’s voice comes blaring through your speaker.

Jimmy’s voice is shit-eating as he sings, “So, how was your date?”

You roll your eyes, flopping back down onto your bed with a groan. “Of course, it had to be you two. I’m going to tell the Chief this time, I swear.”

Now it’s Lois’ turn to pitch in. “Oh, he’s in on it too.”

The wide grin that splits your face can’t be helped. Despite the meddling of your co-workers, who must feel like masterminds at this point, you’re kind of thankful. You just cling to the infinitesimal sliver of hope that they won’t sidle up to you at the coffee machine with suggestive looks.

“You three are so lucky I don’t have a lawyer.”

—

notes. im spilling my guts rn i saw the prime premiere. yea my broke ass stole someone's amazon account and dropped real money to get a jumpstart on clark brainrot LOL ૮◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა

++ if u enjoyed please let me know!! i love feedback ;)))

#peak

4K notes · View notes