clark kent x journalist!reader • wc : 3,789 • playing : stateside
synopsis : You’re the Gotham Gazette’s sharpest investigative reporter—you’ve got the ink under your fingernails and the cynicism to match. When your tight-lipped boss, Tim, drags the whole office to Metropolis for a "Journalism Ethics" conference at the Daily Planet, you expect a week of boredom and bright lights. What you didn't expect was Clark Kent.
warnings/tags : angst, fluff, meetcue, alcohol mention, y/n used, SMUTT MDNI 18+ (small make out, size kink, brief handjob, pussyjob, dom!clark, dom!reader, fingering, oral,)
reader warnings/tags : fem reader, reader has freckles, physically able.
blair’s message : hiii!! before you throw tomatoes, i’m so sorry i haven’t been active. it was recently my birthday and i went on a long trip and .. totally forgot about making fics. so to celebrate my return, here’s smut! it’s my first time writing smut so i apologize if it’s bad. thank yeww. (also finished heated rivalry, THAT SHIT WAS SO GOOD OH EM GEE)
The air in Gotham didn't just sit; it clung. It tasted like iron, exhaust, and the kind of secrets that only came out after midnight. You liked it that way.
You adjusted the strap of your leather satchel, weaving through the morning crowd outside the Gotham Gazette. You weren’t just a reporter; you were a shark in a blazer. With your hair tucked neatly behind your ears and your dark eyes scanning the headlines on the kiosks, you looked exactly like what you were: someone who knew where the bodies were buried and exactly which politician had the shovel.
You pushed through the heavy revolving doors, three minutes behind schedule. Not that you cared. You’d been up until 4:00 AM chasing a lead on the Falcone family’s latest money-laundering front.
The voice was like a dry radiator. You didn't even have to look up to know it was Tim, your editor. He was a man who looked like he’d been folded into a suit three sizes too small and hadn't smiled since the 90s.
"You're late," Tim says, his voice like sandpaper. He doesn't look at his watch; he doesn't have to.
"I was chasing a lead on the Crane shipment," you counter, not breaking your stride as you set your bag down. "The dockyards don't run on a clock, Tim."
Tim’s eyes narrow slightly as he hands you a heavy manila folder. "Forget the docks for a second. Let me explain this to you. Tomorrow we are going to Metropolis to have a conference with the Daily Planet."
You blink, the word hitting you like a physical weight. "Uhm, what?"
"The Daily Planet is hosting a conference on global journalism ethics," Tim says, his expression turning uncharacteristically thoughtful—which usually means he’s thinking about the budget. "And we're sending our best reporters to represent the Gotham City Gazette."
He pauses, leaning over your desk. "Which means you're going."
"Metropolis?" Your brain short-circuits for a second. "Tim, I’m in the middle of the dockyards investigation. Why am I going to the city of sunshine? They don't even have crime over there, they just have... cats in trees and guys in capes."
Tim scoffs, already turning on his heel. "Don’t care. Pack when you get home. The whole office is going."
"Pack a bag," he barks over his shoulder. "Try to look like you haven't been living in a warehouse for a month."
You sink into your chair, staring at the folder. You catch your reflection in the darkened computer screen—the light dusting of freckles across your nose makes you look softer than you feel, a "cute" trait you’ve spent years trying to overcompensate for with a sharp tongue and a sharper pen.
"Metropolis," you mutter to yourself, tossing the folder onto your desk. "This is going to be a long, miserable trip."
The next morning, the Gotham Gazette team looked like a funeral procession as you stepped off the bus in front of the Daily Planet. The building was all glass and gold, topped with that massive, rotating globe that seemed to scream, “Look how optimistic we are!”
Tim, your boss, adjusted his tie with a grimace. "Try not to bite anyone," he whispered to the group. "We’re here for ethics, not to start a turf war."
You rolled your eyes, adjusted your blazer, and stepped through the revolving doors. The lobby was humming. It was too bright, too clean, and everyone looked... happy? It was suspicious.
“Gazette team? This way," a voice calls out.
You turn, expecting some stiff corporate type. Instead, you see him.
He’s huge—wide shoulders that barely fit in a suit that’s seen better days, with a jawline that looks like it belongs on a coin. He looks like he’s never had a bad day in his life. He’s leaning against a desk, adjusting his glasses, looking every bit the "Golden Boy" of the industry.
"Welcome to the Planet," he says, stepping forward. His voice is a warm, steady baritone that grates on your nerves instantly. He extends a hand. "I’m Clark. I’ve followed your work on the Narrows redevelopment. It was... gritty."
You don't take his hand immediately. You scan him—from the perfectly messy hair down to the polished shoes. "Gritty is a nice word for 'real,' Kent. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of 'real' over here. Too much sun, probably."
He doesn't flinch. In fact, his eyes—a blue so clear it feels like an insult to Gotham’s gray—crinkle at the corners. He notices the way you’re bristling, and he definitely notices the light dusting of freckles on your nose that you’ve spent all morning trying to hide with powder.
"I think we'll get along just fine," he says, his voice dropping an octave, a small, challenging smirk tugging at his lips. "Even if you are determined to hate the weather."
The first seminar is a drag. You're sitting in the back, leaning your chair against the wall, when the seat next to you is claimed.
Clark sits down, his frame taking up twice the space of a normal human. He sets a coffee in front of you. Black. No steam.
"I saw you eyeing the machine. It’s tricky," he whispers.
"I don't need a tour guide, Kent," you mutter, though you take the cup. "And I definitely don't need a rival paper’s star reporter hovering over my notes."
"Rivalry? Is that what this is?" He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours. The heat coming off him is distracting. He looks down at your notebook, where you've scribbled 'Optimism is a blindfold' in the margins.
He reaches over, his large, warm hand briefly steadying your pen as you go to cross it out. "Don't. It's a good line. A bit cynical, but... it suits you."
You pull your hand back, your heart doing a weird, sharp thud against your ribs. "You don't know me."
"I'd like to," he says, and for the first time, the "Boy Scout" mask slips. There’s something sharp in his gaze, something that suggests he’s a lot more observant than he lets on. "I have a feeling this week is going to be a lot less boring than you planned."
The hotel bar in Metropolis is exactly what you expected: overpriced, smells like expensive gin, and filled with reporters from the Planet acting like they just won a gold medal for existing.
You’re sitting in a corner booth, hunched over a legal pad, trying to make sense of your dockyard notes while ignoring the soft jazz playing in the background. You’ve got a scotch in your hand that cost more than your first car, and you’re still wearing your blazer because the air conditioning is set to "arctic."
You don't even have to look up to know it’s him. The air in a five-foot radius around Clark Kent just feels... warmer. He slides into the booth opposite you without waiting for an invite, looking entirely too comfortable for someone you’ve known for six hours. He’s ditched the tie, and the top button of his shirt is undone.
"Go away, Kent. I’m working," you mutter, not lifting your pen.
"It’s 9:00 PM. The conference doesn't start again until ten," he says, leaning back. He’s so big the booth actually creaks under him. He sets a glass of water down next to your scotch. "And you look like you’re about to bite the head off the next person who asks you for a quote."
"Only if that person is you." You finally look up, meeting those infuriatingly steady blue eyes. "What do you want? Come to gloat about your Pulitzer? Or are you here to tell me my 'Gotham grit' is showing again?"
Clark leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. The clumsy vibe is still there, but there’s an edge to his expression now—a challenge.
"I’m here because I think you’re bored," he says softly. "And because I think you’re hiding behind that notebook so you don't have to admit you’re actually enjoying yourself in a city that doesn't smell like a tailpipe."
"I'm not bored. I'm focused," you snap. You reach for your drink, but he moves faster, his large hand gently catching your wrist.
His skin is hot. Not just warm—hot. The contact sends a jolt through you that has nothing to do with the alcohol. You freeze, staring at his hand where it circles your wrist, his thumb resting right over your pulse.
"Your heart is racing," he observes, his voice dropping to a low, rough hum. "Is that the scotch, or are you just that annoyed by me?"
"I'm annoyed," you lie, your voice slightly breathy. "You’re a distraction, Clark. I don't do distractions. Especially not from rival papers."
He doesn't let go. Instead, he shifts his grip, his fingers sliding down to lace through yours, pinning your hand to the table. It’s an assertive move, one that doesn't fit the clumsy reporter persona he wears in the office.
"I'm not a distraction," he says, leaning in until you can smell the mint on his breath and that clean, ozone scent that seems to follow him everywhere. "I’m your competition. And if I were you, I’d be very worried about what happens when the competition starts getting... personal."
He glances down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, his gaze lingering on the freckles across your cheeks.
"You've got a bit of Gotham on you, alright," he whispers. "But I think I might like the dark. It makes the light look better."
You pull your hand away, your skin tingling where he touched you. "You’re a lot more dangerous than you look, aren't you?"
Clark just grins—that slow, devastatingly handsome smirk. "You have no idea. Want another drink? Or are we going to keep pretending we aren't thinking about the same thing?"
The elevator ride up to the 12th floor is suffocating. It’s just the two of you, the silence punctuated only by the soft hum of the machinery and the sound of your own heartbeat thudding in your ears.
Clark is standing too close. In the cramped space, his physical presence is overwhelming. He’s staring straight ahead at the polished brass doors, but you can see the muscle in his jaw working. The "clumsy reporter" act from the lobby is dead and buried.
The doors slide open with a soft ding.
The hallway is lined with thick, plush carpeting that swallows the sound of your footsteps. You reach your door first—Room 1204. You dig into your pocket for your keycard, your fingers shaking just enough to be annoying.
"You’re doing it again," Clark says. He’s stopped a few feet away, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe of the room opposite yours.
"Doing what?" you snap, finally swiping the card. The light flashes red. Access Denied. "Damn it."
"Deflecting." He moves toward you, his shadow swallowing yours against the mahogany door. He doesn't stop until he’s inches away. He reaches out, taking the plastic card from your hand. His fingers are steady, his touch lingering against your palm. "You’re so used to fighting for everything in Gotham that you don’t know what to do when someone actually wants to give you something."
"And what exactly are you offering, Kent?" you challenge, leaning back against the door. "A tour of the monuments? A front-page lead?"
He swipes the card for you. The light turns green with a soft click, but he doesn't open the door. He steps even closer, pinning you between the wood and his chest. He places one hand on the door above your head, his large frame creating a private alcove in the dimly lit hallway.
"I’m offering a truce," he whispers. His blue eyes are dark, focused entirely on your lips. "Stop looking at me like a lead you need to debunk. Just for tonight."
"I don't do truces with the competition," you breathe, though your hands find the lapels of his jacket, bunching the fabric. You can feel the heat radiating off him—it’s like standing next to a furnace.
"Liars get caught, remember?" Clark’s voice is a low, gravelly rasp.
He leans down, his nose brushing against yours. The friction is electric. He pauses there, giving you every chance to push him away, to make a sharp comment, to retreat back into your Gotham shell.
But you don't. You lean in, closing the gap.
The kiss isn't sweet like you thought it would be. It’s desperate and heavy, a collision of pent up tension. Clark groans low in his throat, his hand moving from the door to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He tastes like the expensive scotch and something uniquely him—something clean and powerful.
He backs you into the room, the door clicking shut behind you both, cutting off the rest of the world. He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard.
"Still think this is a long, miserable trip?" he murmurs against your skin.
"Shut up, Kent," you manage to breathe out, your hands already working to unbutton his shirt, revealing the sculpted chest beneath. He smirks, stepping back just enough to let you take in the view. You don't waste time, your hands exploring every inch of him, tracing the lines of his muscles, the soft curls of hair on his chest.
Clark's hands aren't idle either, his fingers deftly unzipping your dress, sliding it off your shoulders to pool at your feet. He takes a step back, his eyes roaming over you, taking in the black lace bra and panties you wore. "gosh, Y/N," he breathes, his voice hoarse. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
You smirk, stepping closer to him, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. "And you talk too much." You unbutton his pants, and tug down his boxers, revealing his thick, hard cock. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, enjoying the way his breath hitches.
Clark's hands find your hips, pulling you closer, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. He pulls back, just enough to slide them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your skin.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the edges of your pussy, teasing you. You moan, your head falling back, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. He doesn't make you wait, his tongue finding your clit, licking and sucking, his fingers sliding inside you, pumping in and out.
You can't help the moan that escapes your lips, your hips bucking against his face. Clark's hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you in place, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault. You can feel the pressure building, your orgasm just out of reach.
Clark stands, his lips finding yours, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his lips, the mix of your arousal and his tongue driving you wild. He lifts you, carrying you to the bed, laying you down gently. He hovers over you, his cock pressing against your entrance.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low growl.
You nod, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer. He slides into you slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your hips bucking against him.
Clark sets a slow, steady pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside. You can feel the pressure building again, your orgasm just within reach. Clark's hands find yours, intertwining your fingers, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.
"You're so tight," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm not going to last much longer."
"Don't stop," you breathe, your hips bucking against him, meeting his thrusts. "I'm close."
Clark's hand slides between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow circles. The sensation is too much, your orgasm crashing over you, waves of pleasure washing through you. Clark groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own orgasm hitting him. He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing heavily, your hearts pounding in sync.
He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You can feel his heart beating, the steady rhythm lulling you into a sense of contentment.
"Truce?" Clark asks, his voice soft.
You smirk, your hand tracing patterns on his chest. "For tonight," you agree.
And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that come morning, you’ll be back to trading sharp words in the newsroom, but tonight, the only headline that matters is the way he’s holding you.
The sun in Metropolis is relentless. It pours through the hotel curtains at 7:00 AM like a personal attack, hitting your eyes with a brightness that feels illegal.
Beside you, the bed shifts. Clark is already awake, propped up on one elbow, looking infuriatingly handsome for a man who hasn't had coffee yet. His hair is a disaster, and there’s a faint red mark on his collarbone that definitely wasn't there yesterday.
"Morning," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He reaches out, his thumb grazing your cheek, tracing the line of your freckles. "You're frowning. Still thinking about the dockyards?"
"I’m thinking about how I have to look Tim in the eye in forty minutes without him smelling 'Metropolis Golden Boy' all over me," you mutter, though you don't pull away from his touch.
"Just tell him the air here is good for your complexion," Clark grins, leaning down to steal one last, slow kiss. "It's not a lie."
Thirty minutes later, the elevator doors open to the Daily Planet lobby. The transformation is instant. Clark hitches his shoulders, adjusts his glasses until they’re slightly crooked, and assumes that "aw-shucks" posture that makes him look half a foot shorter.
You, meanwhile, have pulled your hair back into a tight, lethal ponytail and buttoned your blazer to the chin. You look like you’re ready to testify at a grand jury.
"There you are," Tim barks. He’s standing near the fountain, checking his watch. He looks at you, then at Clark, who is currently pretending to struggle with a jammed ballpoint pen. "You’re late. Again. And why do you look like you’ve actually slept for once?"
"New pillows," you say flatly, not missing a beat. "Metropolis luxury. It’s disgusting."
"Right. Whatever," Tim grunts, handing you a schedule. "Kent, I hope you’re ready to get humiliated. Our girl here found a hole in your paper’s lead on the LexCorp merger. She’s going to tear your ethics panel apart."
Clark looks up, blinking behind his lenses with a look of pure, feigned innocence. "Is that so? Well, I look forward to the challenge. I hear the Gazette doesn't pull any punches."
He looks at you, and for a split second, the mask slips. The "farm boy" eyes sharpen, flashing with the memory of the night before—the heat, the grit, and the way you’d whispered his name against the pillows.
"I’ll try to be gentle, Clark," you say, your voice dripping with professional venom that only the two of you know is a lie.
"Don't bother," he says, a small, private smirk playing on his lips as he turns to lead the way to the seminar. "I like it better when you’re tough."
Tim watches him walk away, then looks at you. "See? That’s what I'm talking about. Don't let that farm-boy charm fool you. He’s the competition. Stay sharp."
"Always, Tim," you say, clutching your notebook. "Always."
The conference ends not with a bang, but with the quiet, hollow realization that the clock has run out.
The final night gala is a sea of clinking champagne flutes and self-congratulatory speeches, but you’re standing out on the balcony, staring at the Metropolis skyline. It’s beautiful, sure, but it feels like a movie set. In four hours, you’ll be on a train heading back to the rain, the shadows, and the crushing weight of the Gazette’s deadlines.
"The train leaves at midnight," a voice says behind you.
You don't turn around. You know the weight of his step. Clark joins you at the railing, his tuxedo jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks less like a reporter and more like the heart of the city itself.
"I have a story to finish," you say, your voice sounding brittle even to your own ears. "The dockyard lead didn't go away just because I spent a week playing 'ethics' with you."
"I know," Clark murmurs. He moves closer, his arm brushing yours. The heat is still there, constant and grounding. "But Gotham is a long way away. And you're a hard person to track down when you don't want to be found."
You finally look at him. The rivalry is still there—that sharp, electric friction that defines you both—but it’s softened by something achey and real. You’ve spent your whole life being the "sharp girl" who doesn't need anyone, yet here is a man who saw the grime and the freckles and the fire, and didn't blink.
"Don't get sentimental, Kent," you whisper, though your hand finds his, fingers lacing together one last time under the cover of the dark. "It’s just a city line. I’m sure you’ll find another rival to keep you busy by Monday."
Clark’s grip tightens, his thumb tracing the back of your hand with a slow, deliberate pressure that feels like a promise. "I don't want another rival. I want the one who told me optimism is a blindfold and then proved she was the only one in the room with her eyes open."
He leans down, kissing your temple, his breath warm against your skin. The angst of the coming distance settles in your chest, a sharp contrast to the fluff of the week’s stolen moments. You think about the cold apartment waiting for you back in gotham, and then you look at him—blindingly bright and devastatingly sincere.
And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you realize that while you’re leaving his city, you’re definitely taking the win—because you’re the only person in the world who knows exactly what it takes to make the Golden Boy lose his composure.
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