Heya! Youâre writing is amazing!!! I got a hopefully fun request for you!
I was thinking and a cute Clark Kent x Reader where Reader is seen as quiet and serious by most but Clark constantly hears her cracking jokes under her breath and doing little actions that shows sheâs silly just not great at being outwardly expressive.
[ Bonus points if she pulls minor harmless pranks because she knows no one would ever assume itâs her]
A/n: id like to imagine this took place when everyone first started working there so they're young adults. So I hope you enjoy anonymous requester :)
Sypnosis: Youâre usually seen as quiet and serious, but nice, and you care a lot about your job. No one ever suspects you of anything until a prankster starts causing trouble at the Daily Planet. While Perry and everyone else scramble to figure out who it is, Clark already knows the answer.
Warning: reader is not a social butterfly, jimmy has a crush on reader, no use of (y/n), pranking, reader loves to torture jimmy (not literally), not proof read (so ignore any mistakes)
divider credits: @chrisssiren
At the Daily Planet, you were known for three things: being quiet, being good at your job, and never causing trouble.
So it wasnât exactly a shock when no one even considered you as a suspect once the pranks started. You werenât the type. You were far too professional, too composed, too busy actually working. And honestly, you hadnât planned on doing any of this. You hated childish bullshit.
Or at least, thatâs what you told yourself.
But Jimmy Olsen had a special talent for getting under your skin, and lately, heâd been pushing every last nerve you had left. It wasnât exactly a secret that Jimmy had a mouth on him. And because you were quiet, because you kept to yourself, he seemed to take it as a personal challenge to get a reaction out of you.
Not because he disliked you. It was quite the opposite. Jimmy Olsen had a huge, painfully obvious crush on you. You knew it. He knew it. And everyone else in the building knew it too.
Which meant Jimmyâs favorite hobby became poking at you. Whenever he caught you looking especially serious, brows drawn in, eyes on your screen like you were singlehandedly holding the Daily Planet together,heâd lean back in his chair and throw some comment at Lois and Clark, loud enough to be heard, but not directly aimed at you.
You didnât react. Just kept typing, focused, unbothered, pretending you werenât listening at all. Jimmy grinned wider because of it. Clark, sitting nearby, watched the whole thing.
Jimmy nudged Lois with his elbow. âSee? Sheâs doing that thing again. The intense stare. She takes It all to seriously."
Lois rolls her eyes at him before tuning back to her work. Jimmy leaned in closer, stage-whispering, âIâm just saying, if she smiled once, Im sure she'll be fine.â
You didnât look up but under your breath, quiet as a secret, you muttered, âYeah⌠and he wonders why heâs not a top journalist.â
Clarkâs paused mid type. His head lifted slowly, eyes flicking toward you with a look that was half surprise, half did I seriously just hear that?
A small smile tugged at his mouth, soft, almost disbelieving, like he couldnât decide if youâd actually said it or if his brain had just supplied it because he wanted you to.
But then you shifted in your chair, still staring at your screen like nothing happened, and Clarkâs smile deepened and it wasnât the only time Clark heard you. Because once he noticed it, he couldnât unnotice it.
Every time Jimmy said something aimed in your direction, some harmless jab, some dramatic comment meant to get a reaction out of you, you always had a response.
You just never gave it to him. Not out loud. Not where he could grin and say he finally got you to drop that serious act. You kept your eyes on your work, posture straight, expression calm and unreadable, like you were above all of it.
It was like you had this entire running commentary that you only allowed yourself to whisper into the safety of your own space, little remarks meant more for you than anyone else, like you couldnât help it. Like the words just slipped out before you could swallow them back down.
Youâd just keep going, fingers moving across the keyboard like you were doing something important, while Jimmy stood three desks away acting like he was auditioning for a comedy special.
âOkay, okay,â Jimmy said one afternoon, leaning against Loisâ desk with the confidence of a man whoâd never been humbled, âIâm telling you, I could totally pull off being an undercover reporter. LikeâŚÂ easily.â
Lois snorted. âYeah, no. You talk to much and youâll give it away.â
Jimmy waved her off. âYeah, well, I can still do it.â
Clarkâs gaze flicked to you automatically, even though you were still staring at your screen, face set in that same calm seriousness. Then, barely louder than a breath, you murmured âUndercover my ass,â
Clark had to drop his eyes back to his monitor so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. His mouth twitched, fighting a smile.
Another time, Jimmy wandered over to your desk, hovering in that way he always did when he wanted your attention but didnât know how to ask for it without turning it into a joke.
âSo,â he said, rocking back on his heels, âI read your article. Iâm gonna be honest⌠I expected it to be boring.â His eyes widened immediately. âNot because youâre boring! Just because youâre⌠quiet! But it wasnât boring at all!â
For a second, the only sound was the hum of the newsroom and the faint clacking of keys somewhere behind you. You stared at Jimmy.
Jimmy stared back, looking like heâd just tripped down a flight of stairs in front of his crush and was waiting for the floor to swallow him whole.
Lois slowly turned in her chair, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. âJimmyâŚâ
âI didnât mean it like that,â he rushed, hands up like he could physically catch the words and shove them back into his mouth. âI meant, your writing is really good. Like, really good. It was justâ I donât know! youâre quiet, so I thought itâd be all⌠monotone? But itâs not! Itâs like... really good. â
He stopped, breathing hard, then finished in a quieter voice, almost miserable. ââŚIâm making it worse.â
Clark watched the whole thing from his desk, pretending to type but absolutely not typing a single sentence. His gaze kept flicking between Jimmyâs panic and your face, your expression still calm, still unreadable, like you were listening to a weather report instead of a boy accidentally insulting you while trying to compliment you.
But Clark knew better. Heâd seen you get flustered before. Not with big reactions, never that.
You swallowed once, eyes darting back to your screen like it could save you. âThanks,â you said finally, voice even. It came out perfectly polite. Perfectly normal.
And somehow, that was the problem. Because you being nice, quietly accepting his messy little compliment without snapping back, only made Jimmy bolder. Like he took your calmness as permission. Like he convinced himself he was getting somewhere.
So he kept hovering. Kept talking. Kept finding excuses to be near your desk, to comment on your work, to tease you like it was flirting, but failing and coming off as insults.
To Jimmy, it was harmless. Playful. Just him trying to get you to react. To you, it started to feel like a fly that wouldnât stop buzzing around your head.
Day after day, heâd lean too close and crack another joke, like he was determined to make you break character and youâd keep your face neutral. Keep your tone level. Keep your patience⌠barely intact.
Until you didnât. Because eventually, even you had a limit.
The day the Daily Planet nearly fell apart. Not literally, but close enough. Journalists pacing, voices raised, everyone suddenly very invested in figuring out who exactly was messing with them.
Perry called the meeting ten minutes after the first prank happened, which, in Perry White time, meant he was already on his last nerve by the time everyone crammed into the bullpen.
He stood at the front, tie loosened, body covered in pink glitter, slamming a folder down onto the nearest desk. âAlright,â he barked, scanning the room like he was daring someone to blink wrong.
âWhich one of you thinks the Daily Planet is a playground?â
The room stayed silence. Jimmy, unfortunately, chose that moment to swivel in his chair. the moment he did, his desk chair let out the loudest, most dramatic HONK anyone had ever heard.
Not a squeak. Not a creak. A full-on clown horn. The room froze but Jimmy didnât.
He jumped like heâd been shot, nearly face planting into his desk as the sound echoed again HONK this time louder, somehow. Phones rang. Someone dropped a stack of papers. Steve Lombard laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Perryâs eye twitched. âWhat,â Perry said slowly, dangerously, âwas that?â
Jimmyâs face went bright red. âIâI donât know, Chief! I swear, I just satââ
"shut up, Olsen i've had enough with you." Perry said.
You stayed in your seat, watching the whole thing unfold. Your face was perfectly still, professional to a fault but on the inside, you were losing it. Youâd snuck into the Daily Planet late last night, long after the janitors had left, and made a few very specific adjustments to Jimmyâs chair. Turns out taking shop class in high school hadnât been useless after all.
Beside you, Clark shifted. He glanced at you, brow furrowing slightly as he caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips. He leaned in just enough to get a better look, and when you turned your head, your eyes met.
âSo tragic,â you murmured quietly, your expression flattening into practiced seriousness. âJimmy taking his job so unseriously.â
Then you looked back toward Perry, who was still going off on Jimmy like the world itself had personally wronged him. Clark didnât say a word but the way his mouth twitched told you everything.
Yes, you were seen as a serious person. To everyone but Clark.
Clark was observant in a way that felt almost unfair. Like he noticed things people usually missed, the small details that slipped through the cracks when no one was paying attention. And for some reason, he paid extra attention to you.
Maybe it was because you were so quiet. So composed. The kind of person who didnât demand space, but somehow still took up a room just by being in it. Or maybe it was your writing, it was always good, effortless in a way that made other journalists jealous.
Or maybe it was everything. The way you stayed calm when the bullpen got loud. The way you never reacted outwardly, but always had something clever tucked behind your silence. Clark noticed all of it. And the more he did, the more he found himself drawn to you
At first, it really was just the chair and the glitter bomb at the entrance. The glitter bomb had been meant for Jimmy, but Perry just had to show up three minutes earlier than usual.
A one-time thing, but then the next day, Jimmyâs computer turned against him. Headlines automatically credited every article to Jimmy Olsen, Investigative Genius. His cursor lagged just long enough to make him misspell everything, freezing at the worst possible moments. And every time he hit print, the office printers, all of them, spat out the same single page.
A blown-up photo of Perry Whiteâs face with the words PERRY SUCKS ASS stamped boldly across it.
âJimmy, what the fuck is this?â Lois demanded, skidding to a stop beside his desk, waving one of the pages like evidence in a murder trial.
Jimmy shot up from his chair, eyes wide, and snatched the paper from her hands. âHowâd you get this?â he blurted. âI thought I threw them all away!â
âYou sent them to be printed in every single room,â Lois shot back. âYou dipshit.â
Around them, the bullpen buzzed, murmurs, stifled laughter, someone choking on their coffee. That was when you walked in, a cup of coffee in one hand, and on the other, a stack of papers tugged under your arm.
Jimmy spotted you immediately, panic latching onto hope. âHey!â he called out. âDo you know who did this?â
You met his eyes and shook your head calmly, expression unreadable, before moving past him and taking your seat at your desk right beside Clarkâs.
. âDid you see the paper?â he asked, watching your face carefully. You turned to him, face soft and no emotions showing.
âYeah,â you said flatly, eyes already on your screen. âThatâs⌠really fucked up.â Then you began typing, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard.
Clark lingered a moment longer, studying you your posture relaxed, your breathing even, the faintest hint of satisfaction flickering and disappearing like it had never been there at all.
âOlsen!â Perryâs voice boomed across the room. âGet over here. Now.â
Perry didnât stop at Jimmy. Once he was done tearing into him, he turned back to the bullpen, eyes sharp, jaw tight, like a man ready to interrogate a war zone.
âAlright,â Perry barked. âNobody leaves. Not for coffee, not for bathrooms, not for âimportant sources.â I want answers, and I want them now.â
A collective groan rippled through the room. Perry started down the row of desks, firing questions like bullets. Where were you this morning? Did you touch the printers? Anyone notice anything strange? His voice grew louder with every non-answer, frustration bleeding through.
You kept your head down, fingers still moving across your keyboard. As Perry stopped near Loisâs desk and started grilling her, you leaned back just slightly in your chair and muttered under your breath, barely audibleâ
âGuess free speech doesnât apply to printers.â
Clark stiffened beside you. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. Your expression was neutral, focused, like you hadnât said anything at all. But heâd heard you. Of course he had.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Perry moved on, voice booming as he questioned someone else. Clark smiled to himself, fond and knowing, before straightening in his chair as Perryâs shadow crept closer.
When Perry finally stopped in front of your desk, you looked up calmly, meeting his gaze without a flicker of guilt. âAnything youâd like to share?â Perry demanded. You blinked once. âJust my article, Chief.â Perry stared at you for a long moment then grunted and moved on.
You told yourself that was it. One more, then youâd stop. You didnât.
Because there was something intoxicating about it, the tension in the room, the whispered speculation, the way everyone leaned forward whenever something went wrong, waiting to see who would be next. And Jimmy, bless him, continued to be an endless source of inspiration.
Clark kept an eye out on you. He noticed you began to move your routine around. The way you stayed late more often. The way youâd be at work earlier than usual.
One afternoon, after Jimmy let out an anguished yell from across the room, Clark leaned back in his chair and glanced at you.
âYou know,â he said casually, adjusting his glasses, âstatistically speaking, whoeverâs doing this seems very⌠organized.â
You slightly glanced at him, then looked back at your screen. âI know. Itâs crazy.â You answered, flat. Clark watched you for a beat longer than necessary. That familiar mouth twitch was back.
Clark smiled, slow, knowing, and far too fond for someone who was absolutely starting to suspect that you might be the reason the Daily Planet was quietly falling apart.
But he didnât want to accuse you. Not yet. No, he wanted to see how far youâd take this little pranking phase. Besides, heâd be lying if he said he wasnât enjoying it too.
There was something endearing about watching you like this, calculated, clever, barely containing your satisfaction. About seeing that spark in you that you usually kept so carefully hidden from everyone else. And every time chaos erupted and you stayed perfectly composed, Clark felt a strange mix of pride and amusement settle in his chest.
The last prank wasnât supposed to be big.
That was the whole point. You were done after this, one final, stupid, harmless thing just for Jimmy. Something embarrassing enough to satisfy the itch, tame enough that you could walk away clean.
You set it up the night before, long after the bullpen had emptied out. The building felt different then quiet, echoing, almost sacred. You climbed onto a chair near the bullpen entrance, hands steady as you adjusted the rig above the doorway. A large pouch of powder. The timer synced to motion, calibrated to trigger when someone passed through at Jimmyâs usual arrival time.
You tested it twice. Clean release. Perfect drop. You went home telling yourself that was it. The next morning, the bullpen hummed like always, phones ringing, printers warming up, the low buzz of people settling into their desks.
You were already seated, coffee going cold beside you, pretending to focus on your screen while your heart ticked louder with every passing minute.
The doors swung open. You didnât even look up at first. Then the room went quiet in a way that didnât feel right. A sharp whoosh cut through the air, followed by a soft, awful thump.
Someone gasped. You looked up just in time to see a thick cloud of white powder bloom in the middle of the bullpen, slow, almost graceful as it drifted downward.
And standing directly beneath itâ
The powder clung to him instantly. His hair. His shoulders. The front of his suit. It settled into every crease like it belonged there. No one dared to laughed or to breath.
Perry stood perfectly still, staring straight ahead as the last of the powder floated down and dusted his shoes. Then he looked down at himself then up.
Jimmy, who had just stepped in behind Perry, looked like he might pass out on the spot. âChief, I swearââ
Perry turned his head slowly. âNot. A. Word.â
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might be sick. Clark was already looking at you, not smiling, not amused. Just⌠knowing.
Perry wiped powder from his sleeve with two fingers, jaw tight, then turned and walked straight toward you. âYou,â he said. âMy office. Now.â
The walk felt unreal. Every step toward his office echoed. You could feel eyes on your back, curiosity buzzing just beneath forced professionalism. Clark watched you go, face slightly smiling.
The door shut and Perry didnât sit. âI know it was you,â he said flatly.
Your mouth opened, then closed again.
âI didnât guess,â he continued. âI checked the security footage after the chair incident.â He turned his monitor toward you. There you were, after hours, standing on a chair, carefully adjusting the rig above the bullpen entrance.
You remembered how careful youâd been in the beginning. How youâd checked every corner of the ceiling, every dark dome and blinking red light before the first prank ever happened. Youâd made sure of it.
Which meant this one thing. Perry must have added security cameras after the first two pranks.
The realization hit late and heavy, settling in your chest like a dropped weight. Of course he would. Of course heâd quietly tighten security instead of announcing it. That was Perry, let people hang themselves with their own confidence.
On the screen, you watched yourself step down from the chair, dusting off your hands like the job was finished. Like you hadnât just sealed your own fate.
Your stomach twisted and your face burned. âI wouldnât have thought it was you. My most quiet and best journalist.â Perry said, rubbing a hand over his face.
âIt was supposed to be Jimmy,â you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.Perry laughed once. Sharp and humorless. âI donât care who it was supposed to be.â
Silence stretched between you. Finally, Perry sighed, long and tired, like someone who had lost a battle he didnât want to fight. âYouâre suspended,â he said. âOne week. Without pay.â
You nodded. âYes, sir.â
âAnd this ends,â he added firmly. âCompletely.â
When you stepped back into the bullpen, the room felt⌠off. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. Chairs squeaked as people shifted, suddenly very interested on you.
Jimmy looked like heâd just watched you reveal a second identity. His face was a mix of shocked, annoyed, and weirdly betrayed, like he couldnât decide if he was impressed or offended.
âYouââ he started, then stopped, mouth opening and closing like his brain couldnât catch up. You didnât give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You just slid into your chair and reached for your bag.
Clark was still sitting in his desk, like heâd been waiting. You started gathering your things, laptop, notebook, charger, keeping your movements steady even though your hands felt too warm.
âI figured it was you,â Clark said suddenly. You paused mid-zip, turning toward him. âYou did?â
He hummed, a smile tugging at his mouth. The dimples showed before he could stop them. âYeah,â he admitted. âI hear your little comments whenever Jimmy bothers you.â
Your eyes narrowed slightly. âYou did?.â
Clarkâs smile grew, soft and fond. âMhm. Youâre⌠really funny.â
Heat crawled up your neck. You looked back down at your bag. âAnd,â Clark added, then hesitated like he was stepping onto thin ice, âIâve been watching you.â
Your head snapped up. Clark immediately panicked. His smile dropped, eyes widening. His ears went pink. âNot- not like that,â he rushed out. âI just mean. Iâve noticed you. Likeâwhen things happen, you get this littleâŚâ He lifted his hand, gesturing vaguely at his own mouth. âTiny smile. Like youâre trying not to be pleased with yourself.â
You blinked at him. Then, to your own surprise, you smiled. Not the polite, barely-there one you gave the office when you had to. An actual smile.
Clark froze like heâd been hit with something. His whole face softened, like heâd just seen the sun come out. âThere,â he breathed, almost to himself. âThat one.â
You rolled your eyes, but it was weak. âOh my god.â
Clarkâs grin came back immediately. âI knew you had one.â
You zipped your bag and slung it over your shoulder, then sighed. âWell. Perry suspended me for a week.â
Clarkâs eyebrows lifted. âA whole week?â
âWithout pay,â you added, leaning in slightly like you were sharing classified information. âWhich is totally fair⌠and it was fun while it lasted.â
Clark blinked. âIt was,â He agreed. That earned you a soft smile. âSo,â he said, âI guess Iâll see you in a week.â
You nodded, tightening your grip on your bag strap. âYeah.â
Clark held your gaze a second longer, like he wanted you to hear him clearly. âIâll be waiting for you to come back,â he said, simple and sincere.
Your chest tightened. You managed a flat, practiced smile before turning away but the second you did, the real one slipped out anyway, small and uncontrollable.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy was still sitting at his desk, watching the whole thing. He blinked once, then muttered, half-awed and half-offended.
âSo she does smile.â
