i love your writing sm <3
2. miguel req... really emotional sex, maybe a rebound after not being together for a couple of years? very much 'normal people' coded if you've read/watched that!!! HEAVY on the angst if that's cool >:)
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x gn!reader
Warnings: 18+, Penetrative Sex, Angst, Emotional Sex, No Aftercare
A/N: I unfortuntely do not know anything about Normal People, so I tried my best LOL
You fucking hate this.
You feel gross: cheap and hypocritical. You would have never imagined yourself doing this once upon a time. You used to be all big talk about exes and rebounds and letting the past be the past. But, that was before two years of bad dates and missing him and regretting ever having become exes in the first place. Besides, you knew there was a reason why you never deleted his number from your phone in the first place. Call it delayed fate... or desperate circumstances.
But you really needed this- him- after the fuckass date you were just on. Sitting in a greasy restaurant for almost two hours, half-listening to another narcissist praise himself and somehow find a way to belittle you from the few words you said. You were just so fed up and needed something to forget your unending streak of bad date night candidates and even more unfufilling bedroom buddies. And, really, if Miguel didn't want you to contact him, he would have changed his number or blocked you by now. But he didn't, and he didn't call you batshit crazy for requesting him to come over to your apartment, so fuck yeah, you're calling this fate.
It definitely doesn't seem like a bad idea as his hands- still large and comforting- grab at you. Remeasuring and scaling your body as you clumsily walk through your apartment. The layout hasn't changed much since he moved out, making it easy for him to walk you back through the halls with his mouth locked with yours. Having him pressed against you once again, moving together in a way that is still so familiar, almost tricks your mind. It is easy to believe that the two-year gap never existed. That you're simply coming back home from a date with Miguel, and you'll make love like you used to, and wake up and do it all again. But that isn't the reality, and it will all come crashing down once this is all done.
So for now, you enjoy it. You lose yourself in the way Miguel lays you on your bed, in a way that is gentle and passion-filled. Not hazardous and desperate like your past few dates. His mouth and tongue are warm as they travel the expanse of your body, lacking the gross slime you've come to associate the act with. His mouth is gasp-provoking as they find your chest, and his hands use the perfect amount of pressure as he tweaks at your nipples. It leaves you squirming, already sensitive to the pleasure you've been deprived of for so long.
You get lost on the steady trail that he leads down to your sweet spots, remapping the areas that rest at your sides and along your legs. Your head is fuzzy, and your nails dig into his wide shoulders. He mumbles something as his tongue and fingers soothe over the tempting love between your legs: Ask me to stay, ask me.
And you moan, lifting your hips and silencing him as he tips you closer and closer to your long-awaited release. The feeling is electrifying, lighting up all your nerves at once until you crash from the high. Eyes heavy and foggy as Miguel gently detangles himself from you, massaging your prickling skin until you're lulled into a deep sleep.
summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions… and then some.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: soo much fluff. clark is hopelessly devoted to you, but you have no idea. you're a cutie who loves fashion. he is adorable, friends to lovers, funny, domestic clark always! barely proofread, but enjoy xx
You’re running late. Again.
For the fourth time this week, and it’s only a Wednesday.
It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.
The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies. There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.
“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.
Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.
“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.
You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.
You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.
The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.
“How was your evening?”
“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”
His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I watch the news.”
Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”
You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.
Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.
Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.
“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.
You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.
Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.
Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.
“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.
It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.
You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.
It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.
After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.
“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.
“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.
“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”
“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.
The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.
You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.
“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from the place ‘round the corner?”
“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.
“No need. I’ve got you.”
You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.
Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.
It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.
No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.
Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?
He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour by simply existing.
He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.
Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.
He is also in love with someone else.
“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.
And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.
Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.
“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.
It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.
Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.
“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”
“What if she takes forever?”
Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.
That, was six months ago.
And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.
You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.
You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.
Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.
You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.
“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.
“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.
“No need. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.
And gives you a peck on the lips.
It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.
“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.
And he’s gone.
Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.
You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.
Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.
“What was-“
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he-“
“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.
But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?
Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.
He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.
You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.
But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.
So why didn’t he stop?
You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.
He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.
Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.
He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.
“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.
He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.
“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”
You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.
He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.
So, neither do you.
Clark keeps kissing you.
And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.
At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.
But then he does it again the next day.
It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.
And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.
Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.
Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.
“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.
This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.
By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.
But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.
Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.
He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.
Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.
Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.
He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.
Or better. Or whatever this is.
Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.
He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.
Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.
He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.
And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.
Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.
By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;
do best friends kiss on lips??
signs of short term memory loss
am I hallucinating long-term?
long term hallucination symptoms
group long term hallucination
do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss
You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.
But then, comes the moment everything changes.
It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.
It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.
You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.
You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.
And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.
Not a peck this time. Not a blink.
A kiss.
A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.
You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.
So, you do.
Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.
Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.
And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.
Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.
One day.
You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.
You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.
Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.
Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.
But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.
It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.
“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”
i have a problem with overexplaining things and i really tried not to w this fic - tried something different!! hope you liked <33
You’re roused from sleep by a steady tapping at your window. For a split second, your heart lurches. Blinking sleepily, you catch sight of a silhouette hovering outside on the rickety fire escape. When your eyes focus, you can’t help but grin. You kick your blankets off and fumble with the lock to let Clark in.
“Superman,” you greet teasingly. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“Good evening, ma’am. I wanted to check in on Metropolis’ most beautiful woman before ending my night.”
Clark’s voice is deep and steady, carrying that familiar blend of confidence and chivalry despite the grin curving his lips. His crimson cape flutters behind him, the breeze sending the scent of ozone and fresh air into your apartment. Different from his usual cologne, but welcome all the same.
You beam, holding out your arms and giving a little twirl. “Why, how kind of you, Superman. Here I am, all in one piece.”
Clark lets out a low whistle, gracing your skin with a teasing blast of cool air. You feel his gaze sweep over you— lingering and appreciative. Tonight, you’d traded your usual sweatpants and tank top for one of his old t-shirts and a lacy pair of panties. When you turn, you know the red lace peeks out from beneath the hem.
“Indeed,” he murmurs. “Your boyfriend is a lucky man.”
You bite back a giggle. You could wear thousand-dollar lingerie, a potato sack, or nothing at all, and Clark would still look at you as if you hung the stars in his sky.
He inches closer, coming face-to-face with you as you lean over the windowsill to drink him in. Only now do you notice one of his arms tucked behind his back, as if he’s hiding something.
Your lips curl into a sly smile. “What do you have there?”
Clark feigns shock and pulls his arm into view, revealing a paper-wrapped bouquet of tulips. “Oh, these? I brought them for a very special woman. Fresh from the Netherlands.”
You arch an eyebrow, leaning in to admire the soft pink petals and their sweet scent. “Fresh from the Netherlands,” you echo, lifting your gaze to meet his sparkling blue eyes. “She must be a very special woman.”
His eyes never leave yours as he offers the bouquet. “Believe me, she’s incredible.”
You take the flowers, pressing them to your chest. “So? Are you going to come in? The bed won’t warm itself.”
Clark’s smile widens until you think it might split his face in two. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, swinging a leg over the windowsill and ducking inside. “Which reminds me—I forgot something earlier.”
You set the tulips down on your dresser and look over your shoulder to find him removing his cape and red boots. “Oh? What’s that?” you ask, facing him again only to find his chest inches from yours. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.
“This.”
Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, pulling you into a deep, breath-stealing kiss. Smiling against his lips, you tangle your fingers in his hair, pushing him backward toward the bed as he sheds the Superman suit and the persona that comes with it, until he’s just Clark.
Clark’s a big guy in more ways than one. It’s something you’ve always known, but never quite felt before. When you glance down and see the faint bulge pressing up from your stomach, you can’t help but let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. It’s wild, almost unreal. But Clark, Clark looks like his brain just blue screened.
He stills completely, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Is that—” he manages, voice low, almost reverent. “Is that me?”
You nod, breathless but amused. “Yeah, looks like it.”
He stares, his hand hovering just above your abdomen like he’s afraid to touch, afraid it’ll vanish if he does. “I didn’t know— I mean, I didn’t think I could—” He stops, exhaling hard through his nose, like he’s trying to process something impossible.
You reach up, brush your thumb along his jaw. “It’s okay Clark, you’re just— you know.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. There’s awe in his face, but also worry like he’s terrified he might hurt you, it like he just realised what “superhuman” really means in the most intimate way possible.
You shift slightly, fingers tracing his arm, grounding him. “Hey,” you whisper, “I’m fine. More than fine.”
He exhales, a shaky laugh leaving him, relief flickering through his eyes. “You sure? Because that’s— I mean, I can see—”
“Clark,” you cut him off gently, voice soft. “You can stop worrying now.”
He nods slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something small and boyish. The awe lingers though, his hand finally resting on your stomach like he’s memorising the strength, the closeness, the impossibility of it all.
You smile faintly. “Guess Superman still finds ways to surprise himself, huh?”
He huffs out a laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Guess so.”
👙fwb!scott keeping your bra in the glove compartment
⤷ scott miller masterlist┊david corenswet masterlist┊taglist₊⊹ . ݁˖
The car bumps over a rut in the dirt road, dust kicking up around the tires. Scott’s driving with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses pushed up on his nose, looking like he owns the whole horizon.
You’re half-turned in your seat, rummaging through your backpack because someone in the back asked for the spare map. Nothing in there. Right, so there must be one in the glove compartment.
You open it, and freeze.
A bra. Your bra. Folded like it’s some precious artifact instead of the thing you forgot after Scott it unclasped with his teeth two nights ago.
Your hand goes still.
Scott glances over, tracking the way your shoulders stiffen. “…Find it?”
You hold up the bra between two fingers, ready to question him about this matter you came across. “This? Yeah. I found this.”
His jaw ticks so subtle you almost miss it, but he doesn’t look embarrassed. Not even a little. Doesn’t look like someone who has been caught hiding something that isn’t there. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts, smugness overfills his face.
“Wrong compartment?” he murmurs, looking back at the road.
Your eyes snap to him. “Scott.”
Behind you, one of the guys says, “The map, did you—”
“—Working on it,” you interrupt, voice definitely too high.
Scott snorts under his breath. He reaches over, quick and quiet, closing his hand around your wrist, guiding the bra back toward the compartment, shielding it with his body angle so no one in the back can see.
“I was wondering where that went,” he says, tone just loud enough for you to hear. “Forgot I tucked it there.”
“You forgot?” you hiss back.
His fingers brush your palm as he takes the bra from you, shoving it deeper into the glove box. He leans closer without looking like he’s leaning, eyes still on the road.
“No,” he whispers. “I didn’t forget.”
Your breath catches. “Why the hell is it in here?”
He releases your wrist deliberately, thumb dragging across your pulse before he lets go. “Motivation,” he says simply. “For you to ride with me more.”
You glare at him, heat crawling up your neck, trying to sustain any evidence of letting him know you like that he did that. “You’re impossible.”
“Don’t act like you’re mad,” he counters, voice dancing with amusement. “You’re the one who left it in my backseat in the first place.”
“That was because you—”
“Hey,” someone in the back interrupts, oblivious. “Did you get the map or not?” Scott arches a brow and you find the map under the backpack, probably having fallen out, throwing it in the back, before crossing your arms in front of your chest, accepting he caught you unprepared. At least this time.
kissing on SCOTT MILLER to take his gum from his mouth. the first time it happened you caught him by surprise, took a clever amount of maneuvering through the craning of your neck and your tongue to dig it out from the back of his teeth. you were just trying to make him laugh, get him to do that thing he does where he shows you that panty-melting grin and tells you to “get on,” with an encouraging pat to your ass. now it’s a regular occurrence, and it’s not so funny anymore. it’s an excuse to throw your arms around his neck to bend his tall self down, to kiss obscenely—preferably where you’ll be seen—with a wet amount of tongue, to feel him push that piece of half-chewed gum into your willing mouth so you can finish it off. it’s intimate, it’s gross. now everybody’s aware of the fact you’re working on scott’s spit-soaked candy. it’s the pre-cursor to getting him to fuck you in one of those dirty motel bathrooms knowing full well your crew is waiting on you two.
Summary: Scott Miller becomes more neurotic than usual when you’re due any day now. You go into labor just before Storm Par’s about to go storm-chasing.
Scott Miller x Fem!Reader
david corenswet characters masterlist ♡
tags: pregnant reader, labor, no birth details, marshall riggs being a capitalist?
The Oklahoma sky was already thick with humidity. That morning smelled like rain and electricity, and even the clouds seemed to be holding their breath.
Storm Par had gathered just outside a diner, trucks idling, fresh radar data flickering on screens. It was the unofficial start of storm season, adrenaline ran high, and every sound of distant thunder made everyone’s pulse quicken.
Scott Miller was there first, of course. Standing by his truck, coffee in hand, jaw tight, eyes on the horizon like it had personally offended him.
Javi stepped out of his own truck, squinting. “Morning, boss.”
Scott grunted in response, the verbal equivalent of a nod.
“New storm data looks good,” Javi offered. “We’ll probably get something out by Stillwater by noon.”
“Good,” Scott muttered, voice clipped.
Javi frowned. Normally, Scott was terse, sure, but this was different. His shoulders were tighter, his tone shorter, and he’d already snapped at the radar tech twice before eight in the morning.
“Hey, uh… you okay?” Javi tried carefully. “You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”
Scott shot him a look over his sunglasses. “I’m fine.”
Which, in Scott-speak, meant absolutely not fine.
The rest of Storm Par began arriving, including Dani and a couple of new recruits. The morning chatter filled the air as they prepped their gear, but Scott seemed distracted, his gaze flicking to his truck every few seconds.
Javi noticed.
And he was curious.
When Scott turned to double-check some equipment, Javi wandered toward the truck, pretending to inspect the radar monitor mounted in the back. But when he leaned down and peered through the tinted glass, he froze.
Because there, sitting in the passenger seat with (swollen) feet propped up, wearing a pair of maternity overalls and a bright smile that absolutely did not fit the current tension, was you.
You waved cheerfully when you spotted him. “Oh hey, Javi!”
Scott’s head snapped up immediately. “Javi,” he said flatly. “Don’t.”
But Javi was already backing away from the truck, grinning like a man who’d just discovered the world’s best gossip. “You brought your wife?!”
Dani turned. “Wait, what?”
And then all of Storm Par was looking. At Scott, at the truck, at you.
You rolled down the window sheepishly. “Hi, everyone! Surprise.”
Scott closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell anyone yet.”
“Scott,” Dani said, eyebrows raised, “she’s very pregnant.”
You smiled, one hand resting lightly on your stomach. “Almost due, actually. Any day now.”
A beat of stunned silence followed.
“Any— any day now?” Javi repeated, voice cracking. “Like—” he gestured vaguely, “baby arriving during tornado season any day now?”
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “She insisted on coming.”
“I didn’t want to be away from him when the baby comes,” you said quickly, guilt creeping into your tone. “I know it’s crazy, but I just— I couldn’t stand being home while he’s out here. I’d rather be close.”
Scott sighed, turning toward you with that combination of frustration and fondness he’d perfected over the years. “You hear that?” he muttered to the others. “I tried saying no.”
Javi leaned toward Dani. “He definitely didn’t try very hard.”
Scott shot him a glare.
“Don’t worry, I’m not chasing with you,” you said quickly when Scott’s expression darkened. “I’ll stay at base, or at the motel, or wherever’s safest. I promise.”
Scott crossed his arms, muttering under his breath, “I swear, you’re gonna send my blood pressure through the roof before the baby does.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you said brightly.
“Alright,” Scott said finally, his voice somewhere between resignation and protectiveness. “You stay in the truck. Don’t move unless I say. Don’t look at a radar without me. And if a single cloud starts spinning—”
“I’ll text you,” you finished for him.
He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “You think I’m joking?”
You smiled sweetly. “I think you love me too much to stay mad.”
That earned a quiet chorus of laughter from the crew as Scott turned away, muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable.”
Javi elbowed Dani. “Man, if this baby doesn’t come out during a tornado warning, I’ll be shocked.”
Dani smirked. “If it does, I’m not the one telling Scott.”
Meanwhile, Scott climbed into the truck, sitting beside you with an exasperated groan. “You realize you’re gonna give me gray hair before I hit forty, right?”
You reached over, resting a hand gently on his arm. “You already have a few. I think I’m winning.”
Despite himself, he huffed a quiet laugh. The kind only you ever managed to pull out of him. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.
You leaned your head on his shoulder. “And you love me for it.”
He didn’t argue.
-
Dark clouds were starting to build in the distance, a bruise spreading across the sky, and Storm Par was loading instruments, calibrating radars, and arguing over wind shear readings.
Scott was standing near the hood of his truck, headset on, running through coordinates with Dani and Javi. His voice was clipped and efficient.
You sat quietly in the passenger seat of the truck, windows rolled down, trying to ignore the tightening in your stomach that had been coming and going all morning. It wasn’t unbearable, just… noticeable. You pressed a hand gently against your belly and took a steadying breath.
Not now, you thought. It’s probably just Braxton Hicks contractions.
You’d told yourself that half a dozen times since sunrise.
Dani approached, juggling a tablet and an energy bar, hair in a messy ponytail. “You good?” she asked lightly.
You smiled, though it was tight. “Peachy. Just, uh… stretching a little.”
“Uh-huh.” Dani’s brow furrowed as she looked closer. “You’re doing that thing. The breathing thing.”
“What breathing thing?” you asked, wincing slightly as another mild contraction rolled through.
“That thing people do when they’re trying to pretend they’re fine but they’re definitely not fine.”
You gave her a sheepish smile. “It’s fine, really. I think it’s just Braxton Hicks. Happens all the time lately.”
Dani’s expression said she absolutely did not believe you. “Uh-huh. And how long have you been having these totally-not-contractions?”
Dani’s eyes went wide. “Breakfast? You’ve been feeling like that since breakfast?”
“Dani,” you whispered urgently, “please don’t tell Scott. He’ll lose his mind, and there’s literally a tornado forming forty miles out—”
Too late. Dani had already turned around and was power-walking toward him.
“Dani!” you hissed, trying to reach for her.
Scott was mid-sentence, pointing toward a set of coordinates on a map when Dani cut in. “Hey, boss? We’ve got a situation.”
Scott blinked. “What kind of situation?”
“The baby kind,” Dani said bluntly.
That got his attention. His whole posture shifted, the clipboard dropped, headset half-off. “What?”
Dani pointed toward the truck. “She’s been wincing and breathing weird since breakfast. Says it’s just Braxton Hicks, but I don’t think so. She looks like she’s timing contractions in her head.”
Scott’s head snapped toward the truck so fast Javi swore he heard a neck crack.
“Are you kidding me?” Scott barked, already striding toward you.
You sat up straighter, plastering on a smile. “Hey, honey.”
“Don’t ‘hey, honey’ me,” he said, voice a low growl of panic. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because it’s probably nothing,” you said quickly. “Really. I didn’t want to interrupt—”
He opened the passenger door, crouching down beside you. “You’re having contractions. That’s not nothing.”
You waved your hand dismissively. “It’s just practice ones. They’re not that close together—”
As if to prove you wrong, another contraction hit, sharp enough that you inhaled through your teeth. Scott’s eyes went wide, panic flooding his face.
“That’s it,” he said immediately. “We’re going.”
“What? No! The team—”
“Can chase the damn storm without me.” He turned toward the others, already in command mode. “Javi, you’re lead. Dani, coordinate with the NWS out of Stillwater. I’ll call when I can.”
Javi blinked. “Wait, what’s happening?”
“She’s in labor,” Dani said, already tossing Scott the keys.
Scott caught them one-handed, muttering under his breath. “Unbelievable. You pick today.”
You tried not to laugh, but another contraction made your face scrunch. “Trust me, I didn’t schedule it.”
Once you were buckled in, he jogged around to the driver’s side, fired up the truck, and peeled out of the dirt lot in a spray of gravel.
Behind you, Javi watched the truck disappear down the highway. “Well,” he said, “guess the storm’s not the only thing going into rotation today.”
Dani smacked his arm.
-
Inside the truck, the radio still buzzed faintly with storm chatter, but Scott ignored it completely, one hand gripping the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours. His knuckles were white.
“You okay?” he asked, voice strained.
You nodded, breathing carefully through another contraction. “I told you it’s probably—”
“If you say Braxton Hicks again, I’m pulling over and calling an ambulance,” he said flatly.
You tried not to smile. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m married to you,” he shot back, eyes flicking to you for half a second. “Dramatic comes with the territory.”
Despite the pain, you laughed softly, squeezing his hand. “You’re doing great, by the way.”
He let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. “I’m not the one about to have a baby.”
“Yeah,” you murmured, leaning your head back against the seat. “But you’re still the one freaking out more than me.”
He didn’t deny it.
He just tightened his grip on your hand and pressed the gas pedal down a little harder, the storm forgotten behind him as he drove through the gray afternoon, chasing the only thing in the world that mattered more than the weather.
-
The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon cleaner, that too-clean kind of smell that always made Scott’s skin itch. You were propped up in bed, pale but steady, breathing through another contraction while a nurse adjusted your monitor. Scott stood right beside you, hovering like a man who wanted to help but had no clue how. His hand was gripping the rail of your bed, the other rubbing the back of his neck.
You were doing your best to stay calm. He’s here, you kept reminding yourself. You got here safely. Everything’s fine.
But Scott’s eyes told a different story. His gaze darted from you to the door every few seconds, jaw working as though he was preparing for a different kind of collision.
And right on cue, the door slammed open.
Marshall Riggs stormed in like an approaching squall, hat still in his hand, shirt half untucked, his weathered face flushed with irritation. “Scott,” he barked, “what the hell were you thinking?”
Scott froze. “Not now, Riggs.”
“Yes now,” Riggs snapped. “You abandoned the team! That cell was moving straight through Pawnee County. Javi said it could’ve been an EF3. You were supposed to be leading the intercept!”
Scott exhaled sharply, keeping his voice low for your sake. “I told Javi to take lead. They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine without you,” Riggs shot back, his voice echoing off the tile. “We’ve got half a million in sensors sitting idle because you went soft over a woman with a bellyache!”
That last line landed like a slap.
You winced, not just from the contraction. The nurse glanced at Riggs with barely concealed disgust and quietly excused herself.
Scott straightened slowly, his whole posture changing from worried husband to something colder, taller, unmovable. His jaw flexed once before he spoke.
“Watch your mouth.”
Riggs sneered. “Oh, don’t give me that righteous act, kid. You’ve been distracted all season. I told you bringing her around was a mistake. And now, right when the team needs you, you’re playing chauffeur instead of doing your job—”
“My job,” Scott cut in sharply, “is making sure she and the baby are safe.”
Riggs scoffed. “You think that’s noble? You’re throwing away your credibility! The investors want results, Scott. You walk away from a chase, you walk away from—”
“From what?” Scott’s voice thundered suddenly, loud enough that it startled even you. He took a step closer to Riggs, eyes hard. “From tornadoes? From data? From you yelling at me about money while my wife’s in labor?”
Riggs blinked, taken aback.
“She’s not some distraction,” Scott continued, voice low now but sharp as broken glass. “She’s my wife. And she’s about to give birth to our kid. You think I’m gonna sit out here and let a storm take priority over them?”
Riggs’s expression twisted, half disbelief, half disgust. “So this is it, huh? You’re letting her ruin your career.”
That did it.
Scott stepped forward until he was toe-to-toe with his uncle, his voice so low it was almost a growl. “Say that again.”
Riggs looked ready to retort. But one look at Scott’s face stopped him cold. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the steady beep of the heart monitor and your breathing.
“Get out,” Scott finally said. “Before I forget you’re family.”
Riggs hesitated, then muttered something under his breath and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with leftover tension. You were breathing fast, clutching the sheets, watching him.
Scott turned back to you instantly, his entire demeanor softening. “Hey, hey,” he said, kneeling beside the bed, his large hand finding yours again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
You squeezed his fingers weakly. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered, even as another contraction tightened your chest.
He brushed a stray hair from your face, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that. None of it.” He stopped, staring down at the hospital floor for a moment before looking back at you. “Sometimes I wonder if all this shit—Storm Par, Riggs, the sponsorships, all of it—is even worth it anymore.”
Your breathing slowed between contractions, enough for you to reach up and cup his cheek. “You love chasing,” you murmured. “It’s who you are.”
He shook his head faintly. “Yeah, but it’s not everything I am. Not anymore.”
You smiled softly, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. “That sounds like something a dad would say.”
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh, pressing a kiss to your hand. “Guess I’m catching on fast.”
taglist - adding those who specifically asked to be tagged to all david corenswet character fics!
summary: you know you shouldn't feel this way. and yet clark kent- steady, older, infuriatingly attuned to every inch of you- turns every "kid" and "good girl" into fire against your skin; leaving you dizzy, flustered, and desperately wanting more.
clark kent x slightly younger ! reader
themes: age gap obviously, you're yearning this time! clark being a gentleman, domestic bits, heavyyy 'i want to / but i can't' vibes. enjoy!
Truthfully, you hated yourself for allowing this to be your Friday night.
It wasn't like you. You liked home, the comfort of it all, the lit candles and the perfectly brewed tea and the radio on low in the background. But you figured, you had to be this at least once, or you'd live forever curious. Or however that saying goes.
Sitting in a dingy bar with the rest of your co-workers, head ducked, nursing something far stronger than you'd asked for. Thankfully, Jimmy said he'd catch the train home with you when you were ready, so you didn't have to worry too much about the amount of alcohol in your system.
Except you'd been ready for the past thirty minutes, and there was no sign of the man anywhere.
For a brief second, you wondered whether he'd up and left, forgetting about you completely. But then you remembered Eve's flirty hand on his arm, dragging him somewhere hidden yet also very easy to get to, and immediately you knew he was close by.
Your shoulders slumped. At least someone's getting laid tonight.
If you were being completely honest, no part of you even wanted to be here tonight. It was a celebration of all sorts- someone's birthday meshed with six months of hard-hitting news- and when Lois dropped a packet of Advil on your desk the night before, claiming 'you're gonna need this for Saturday, because you are coming', well, you couldn't really say no.
That- and for some annoying, unbearable reason- a part of you was hoping that Clark would be here, too.
Not that it would change anything. No, you were sure of that; Clark Kent was completely off the table. Not even a contender in your dating scene; the bone dry, barren waste land that it was.
It was no secret to everybody but him; you liked him. Deeply. Achingly. He was your type; tall, dark, handsome- a cliche in many ways yet you adored him because he carried it well regardless. And you would have asked him out months ago, too (that had never been something you'd delayed in the past) if it wasn't for the fact that he simply did not see you that way.
You could feel it, like a constant blur in the air around you. The way he smiled softly at you whenever you spoke, urging you to keep going, like a teacher did with a difficult student. How you'd overheard him telling Perry that you were a good girl, always eager to learn, a genuine asset to the team when your boss grilled him on your work ethic. The way he spoke about you like you were twice the slight age gap between you both and then some.
How his smiles were always short and clipped, always quick, far too fleeting to find anything other than pure friendliness.
All patience, all praise- zero passion.
You’d tried once- really tried. After weeks of him bringing you coffee, staying late with you, insisting on driving you home, you’d finally started to let yourself relax around him. One particularly exhausting night, a careless step on a fallen sheet of paper sent you slipping- and Clark was the one who caught you. Who pulled you in too close, breathing the same fragile inch of air you were.
You’d closed your eyes. He’d swallowed hard.
And then- without warning- he jerked back like your touch had shocked him.
“Let’s get you home…” he muttered, already retreating. He didn’t meet your eyes for weeks after that; truthfully, neither of you were quite the same.
He’d always held himself back around you, but after that night it was different- sharper, almost deliberate. Even his voice changed, softer and steadier, like the real one was reserved for adults and he wasn’t quite sure you qualified.
At first, you thought you were overreacting. But then one day, you'd thanked him for helping you with an article- all batted eyelashes and a lip glossed smile and he looked at you, square in the face and said, 'No problem, kiddo. I'm here if you need me.'
Ugh.
Thinking about it now made you want to grab both eyeballs out and pull, hard.
It wasn't like you were looking for anything serious. You didn't even mind if he didn't flirt back- though that would be nice. You just wanted him to be normal with you, like he was with everybody else.
He'd crack jokes with Jimmy, both of their laughs in sync. He'd ask Lois for help with his articles, completely captivated by her amendments. He'd even listen to Cat's quips about Steve's dire fashion statements- all polo shirts and light washed jeans that should have been left in the 2000s.
Chasing, wanting, satisfied with their approval.
But with you? None of that. He'd see you coming and pull your chair out for you, sure, but the silence that hung above you both felt like complete torture after the conversations you heard on the way. He felt like a babysitter to you more than anything, one that was promised a bonus if he kept you happy and contempt.
Ever the gentleman. He grew up on a farm, that much you knew; only that Kansas charm seemed to stretch to everybody but you.
No amount of hiked up skirts, burgundy heels and vanilla perfume made Clark Kent look your way. You thought he had, once- when it was just you two in the bullpen on a Friday night, working on the same project.
A mix of tired delirium and hope had you believing that Clark's low lidded stare had anything to do with the way you'd bent meticulously over his desk throughout the night. Turns out, he was just really tired, and you were getting hot and heavy over his exhaustion.
"Don't stress, hon," Cat had cooed, the one time you opened up to her about how things were going at work. "You're just new, is all. You're a little baby, and he's a gentle giant,"
"Cat, I'm twenty-four," you'd frowned. Her smile didn't let up, as soft and comforting as ever.
"And Clark's, what? Thirty-something?"
"Thirty-three." you mumbled.
"Give him a break, sweets. He probably just goes into Dad-mode whenever you're around."
You wanted to throw up. As well as gouge your eyes out. Because although that made perfect sense, you hated it, hated that you'd not only been friendzoned- but family-zoned.
By Clark Kent! The only decent man in this city, built like a Greek God, written by a woman and adored by anyone and everyone- had family-zoned you of all people. All because of a few years between you where he'd unfairly been alive first.
"I don't think he likes me very much." you'd frowned the one time during lunch, fork stabbed upright in your salad as Lois picked at her own.
Her eyebrows had been raised for most of the conversation- as if she knew something you didn't- but also like she disapproved of the very discussion you were having; one that proved every Bechdel-test theory she despised right.
"Don't overthink it. He's literally just Clark."
You groaned, head heavy in your hands now as your previous differing conversations with both women crossed your mind. You hadn't noticed that your drink was gone until you felt something nudge towards you.
"Hey," Jimmy frowned, lips pursed tight as he watched you. "You okay?"
"I'm grieving."
"Oh. Cool," he shrugged lightly, and it was then that you caught the fain lipstick mark on his polo shirt collar. "Want some company?"
"Sure."
You liked Jimmy for that reason alone. If the office was really playing into the whole family dynamic, then he'd definitely be the big brother you never had; unhinged, insane, gave you snacks you didn't really like so he could eat them instead, yet still be able to feel like he did something good that day.
He nudged a second cocktail your way- something darker in colour and far more dangerous than the first- and you took it without a second thought.
"What is it?"
"Uh... I don't really know. It came straight from the bar though, so I know it's safe."
You drank it anyway, your mind so pre-occupied with your frustration to cringe at the taste.
The rest of the night unfurled like that. You, saying you didn't want to drink anymore but ultimately finishing whatever round you'd been dragged into.
It wasn't until your fifth beverage in that you sensed it - the sudden shift in the room. Like a light had turned on, and everybody could suddenly see in picturesque HD.
"Kent! Hey, Clark, over here!"
Jimmy grinned as you felt your pulse quicken.
He was late. So late, you'd given up on the idea of him showing up at all.
Yet here he was, dressed deliciously in a white t-shirt that clung to every ridge and muscle and bicep; navy flannel slung over his shoulder. It was worn in that farm-boy, days out in sun-soaked fields sort of way; delicious, tempting, and genuine.
You gulped. Your teeth crunched down on an ice cube as you stared- practically drooled- at the man before you.
"Sorry I'm late," Clark said sheepishly, "Something, uh... came up."
"Well, you're here now, buddy! Can I get you something to drink? It was my round, just."
"Uhm..." with a quick glance at the bar, Clark shrugged, "Just a water's fine,"
"Water? Dude-"
Clark dangled a pair of keys between his forefinger and thumb then, apologetic, "Sorry. Designated driver."
"Ugh, you're always the designated driver. You're no fun," Jimmy started shaking his head, about to head off when he paused- gaze darting towards you.
You willed him not to say anything, wanting nothing more than to disappear between the dingy cracks of the seats.
Unfortunately, Jimmy seemed to have a talent for embarrassing you in front of Clark without even trying. Once, he asked- far too loudly- if you were “doing alright” at the exact moment Clark leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, completely absorbed in his article; oblivious to your clenched jaw and crossed legs.
Everyone within a five-mile radius heard him. Clark included.
It took a lot of snacks you actually liked to get Jimmy out of that one.
"Do me a favour, watch her. She's like... four Disaronno doubles deep."
"Five." you slurred, holding up six fingers.
Clark stared at you in amusement, though there was something else in his eyes that you couldn't quite read. For a split second, you swore he stole a glance at your legs- flesh, bare, exposed by the too-short skirt you wore that had definitely been created with only standing occasions in mind.
But again, it was probably just wishful thinking.
As Jimmy walked away, you could feel it; that same, heavy atmosphere again- identical to the one that inhabited the air around your desks at the Planet. Immediately, Clark straightened. His eyes softened.
And you groaned.
"Are you okay? Can I get you a water?" he asked, politely, hovering next to you even though there was plenty of space to sit down.
You shook your head. "No, thank you, Clark."
He nodded. You traced shapes on the condensation of your empty glass, willing him to leave you alone, willing Cat to come and save the both of you with gossip about people you didn't even know.
Usually, you'd tune her out, try not to absorb any unwarranted information; but you promised yourself that, in this instance, you'd even take notes if you had to.
But she never came. And Clark didn't move. His eyes flickered constantly between the crowd and you, the glass in your hand, the way your fingers danced against the droplets.
These moments were the worst. He was always so careful, so calculated, so aware of everyone around him. It felt like being under a microscope; if a microscope was beautiful, six foot five and had the bluest eyes known to man.
After what felt like forever, you decided you'd had enough. You pushed yourself upright, body slinking somewhat-gracefully out of the booth.
Clark barely had enough time to register what you were doing before you knocked into him; knees wobbling, heart racing, the drink travelling up and down your body now that it had sensed some movement.
Swiftly, he steadied you, large hand wrapped around your elbow, another steady on your waist.
"Woah- hey, now. You alright?"
"Whoops," you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks, filling the spot in your chest. "Sorry. I didn't- I didn't realise how..."
"Drunk you are?" he finished for you, smile polite yet very obviously finding this very funny.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
"I am not drunk,"
"Okay, sweetheart," he chuckled, and your stomach flipped at the nickname- a threatening move on your part- but Clark didn't seem to notice. "Whatever you say. Where are you headed?"
You assumed he meant where in the bar; to the toilets, over to Lois and Cat, to join Jimmy at the packed front. But you'd had enough, and the intoxication was starting to hit, and in your mind there was no time for a mirage of goodbyes.
You just had to get out. Fast. Clark was starting to look far too good and his voice was far too deep for you to justify torturing yourself in his presence any longer.
"Home."
He blinked. A beat passed where you expected him to convince you to stay, briefly, but would ultimately shrug and watch you amble towards the door by yourself.
But before you could open your mouth to contest, he was already leaning over the booth, hand on your lower back.
When he pulled back, your coat was slung over his arm, your tiny little clutch engulfed in his hand.
"Let's go, then."
"No-"
He said your name then- in that stern yet soft, commanding yet hesitant way of his. The same voice he used to remind you not to be so hard on yourself at work, the same one you dreamt about in more ways than one.
"Let me take you home. I wouldn't feel right leaving you out there alone like this."
It was torture. Agonising, debilitating torture.
Yet as Clark led you out of the bar, a respectful hand hovering where you wished he'd just touch, you didn't stop him.
When he opened the car door for you and you slotted in, head falling back against the head rest, willing yourself not to close your eyes- you didn't fight it.
You just watched as he slid into the driver's side, brow furrowed at the temperature of the vehicle.
"Are you cold?" he asked, worry taking him over.
You shook your head truthfully, the alcohol now creating a haze where a permanent giddy feeling stayed snug in your chest- waiting for the perfect opportunity to come out.
Uh oh. That usually meant that you'd probably have a very difficult time remembering anything past this point tomorrow.
You welcomed the thought with bubbly, open arms. And a giggle. Always a giggle.
Regardless, Clark turned the heating on; full blast, his sensible pick-up a box of hot air as it barrelled down Metropolis' empty streets. You often wondered how he got it all the way here from Smallville- it didn't exactly have much life left in it for even a full hour's trip.
"You didn't-" hiccup. "You didn't have to do this you know, Clark. I woulda been fine on my own,"
"Mm," he hummed, watching the road, unconvinced. "I'm not too sure about that. You had what, six drinks? Doubles?"
"Five." you held up four.
"Five," he smirked slightly, "Glad to see you can still count while drunk,"
"I am not drunk! I told you- I only had five!"
He tried to stifle the laugh threatening to escape, the amusement tugging even more at the corners of his lips. You realised, this was probably the most normal Clark's ever been around you.
"Still too much for you, kid. You gotta pace yourself next time."
And there it was.
He turned the corner. Your heart broke at his words.
Kid.
That god-awful, disgusting, annoying, god-awful (did you mention it was awful?) word that meant you would never, ever, in this world or any other- be anything more to Clark Kent than an intern.
A silly little girl who had no chance- with both him and the world beyond.
"I'm not a kid." you muttered, so faint he barely heard you. The bubbly high faded faster than it came.
It was stupid. It wasn't a big deal. If you were sober, you'd probably be able to brush it off.
But right now, in the heat of the moment, you couldn't stop yourself.
While sober, your crush ran deep, but it was always controllable. Fixed with a pint of ice cream and a steady twenty minute window of full, uninterrupted yearning, a moment to recharge.
But now, with liquor in your veins, sat in the darkness of his pick-up and the very reason for your spiral sitting so comfortably next to you- you just couldn't stop it.
“You’re not even a whole ten years older than me, you know.” You muttered, the alcohol threatening to slur your words even more than it already had.
Buildings blurred into sidewalks as Clark sped past them, quick yet controlled. You watched the way his hand gripped the top of the wheel, the wrist of his other resting gently on the gear stick.
Lord help me.
He smiled, “I know.”
“So why do you call me a kid so much?” your eyes narrowed in accusation, though you knew he couldn’t see it.
He gave a small shrug, “Never thought about it. Just seemed… fitting,”
“So you do think I’m a child,”
“What? Gosh, no-“
“And you do hate me.”
“Hate you? What on earth-“
“Just admit it,” the theatrics came out of you then; a heavy, heaving sigh spilling out of your lips as you fell back into the seat. The entire car smelled like bubblegum, the familiar pink and blue freshener swinging haphazardly from the rearview mirror. “You hate me, Clark Kent.”
He paused for a second, all traces of amusement now wiped off his face. You felt a flip in your stomach at the very sight of him so serious.
“I really can’t tell if you’re joking, or not.” He said, exasperation clinging onto every word.
It was your turn to shrug, “I say what I see.”
“Oh, yeah?” he turned another corner, knuckles white against the wheel. “And what do you see?”
It was getting warm now, you realised. The heating had been blasting on full power and your body had adjusted more than twenty minutes ago.
“You don’t speak to me,” you said, a faux nonchalance hanging off your tongue. In reality, your heart was thudding so hard, you were afraid he could hear it. “Not anymore, at least. And you don’t look at me.”
“I look at you,” he said defensively.
You cocked your head to the side, eyes burning calm holes into the side of his head.
“Not the way I want you to.”
That got him. Your eyes settled on the way his jaw clenched, the slight shift in his seating.
“What do you mean?”
In all honesty, not even you had any idea what you meant by that.
In hindsight, you probably shouldn't have left with Clark. Up until this point, you'd done a terrific job at admiring him from afar, a distance safe enough to wonder from.
You didn’t need to be doing any of this, to be saying half of it. You could have lived the rest of your life with this ridiculous, unrequited crush, and he would have been none the wiser.
But the four-five-six cocktails in your stomach were finally mixing, an intoxicating feeling blooming throughout your entire body. You were pretty sure it had taken over every inch of your bloodstream, so much so that they'd began to pull on your tendons; as well as your voice box.
You felt lighter. Easier. Like you just had to get the words out- any words, no matter how incriminating.
“You know what I mean,”
“I… I really don’t,” his eyebrows furrowed and he braved a glance your way. “Are you feeling oka-“
“God, Clark. How many times do I have to pull my skirt up and bend over your desk for you to get it?” you almost-snapped, patience wearing thin, non-existent now that the liquid courage had hit.
Clark made a noise so strange you briefly wondered if he was about to sneeze, crash the car, and combust all at the same time.
"W-Wha-"
"Oh, Clark," you groaned into you hand, "Please, I am begging you, to get there faster."
“You didn’t… actually say that,” he said, voice thin with denial, though he very much had heard you.
You slumped even deeper into the seat, annoyed and buzzing and far too hot from the heat. “See? This is the problem. You’re always pretending I didn’t say things.”
“I’m not pretending,” he insisted. “I’m- uh, processing. I'm trying my best, believe me,"
“Mm.” You watched him carefully. “Your best involves acting like I don't exist most of the time.”
He blinked at the windshield like it had personally insulted him. “I don’t ignore you.”
“Yes you do,” you countered. “You ignore me at work. And you ignore me at meetings. And you ignore me when I’m right in front of your face.”
“That’s not-” His jaw worked for a second before he tried again. “I don’t ignore you.”
“Then what do you call it?”
He let out a sigh, the kind an overworked teacher gives a student who has somehow turned in an essay written entirely in glitter pen. Which, in all honesty, was a very you thing to do. “I’m not ignoring you," he repeated, "I'm just... trying to handle things the right way.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You definitely don’t do half the things you do for me for anyone else. But then you’re not as relaxed with me as you are with everybody else, either. So, what is it?”
His grip tightened again, knuckles pale. “I do plenty of things for everyone-”
“No, Clark,” you cut in. “You really don’t.”
You weren’t yelling. You were just irritated, in that sharpened way alcohol gave you. The part of your brain that usually let things slide decided tonight wasn’t the night.
You continued, ticking things off as you spoke. “You pull out my chair. You help me with every article I panic over. You drive me home the second you think I shouldn’t be walking alone, even if you’ve barely been at the bar long enough for your coat to get warm. And don’t get me started on the ‘good girl, asset to the team’ comment.”
His face went scarlet so fast it was almost impressive. “That- you weren’t supposed to- I mean, it wasn’t-”
“And Jimmy told me you bought him a cab home last month,” you added. “You didn’t drive him.”
“That was a different situation-”
“He sprained his ankle!”
Clark let his forehead rest very briefly against the steering wheel, muttering something that sounded like a gentle plea for strength.
When he sat upright again, he said, “Okay, fine. You’re upset with me. I can tell.”
“Well,” you gasped dryly, “congratulations. You finally noticed something about me.”
His shoulders fell a little. Not in an offended way- more like someone who’d just realised they’d dropped the ball on something important. “I notice a lot of things about you.”
The car fell briefly quiet.
You weren’t sure what expression you made, but something in it made him backpedal instantly. “Not in a weird way,” he added. “Just in a… a careful way.”
You looked at him for a long moment, taking in how he was- tense, earnest, fumbling in that Clark Kent way that made everything he did both irritating and unfairly endearing.
“See?” you said at last. “This is exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You’re careful with me,” you said. “Since that night- God. I don't know what it is, but you've been acting like I’m made of literal glass-”
“You’re not made of glass.”
“Then stop acting like it!”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, then tried, “I just- look, okay, there’s lines-”
“Whose lines?” you challenged.
He hesitated. “Mine. And I don’t want to cross them. It wouldn’t be right,”
You let out a breath, surprised by how tired your voice sounded when you asked, “Why are you so afraid of me?”
His eyes widened- like he’d never, in his entire life, considered the possibility that someone might see it that way. Him, Superman, known for facing the universe's biggest threats and everything in between- scared of you, your burgundy heels, your tequila fuelled, leopard print-purse wielding body.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said, too fast.
You raised a brow. “Clark. You’re terrified.”
He ran a hand over his face, glasses shifting slightly.
“It’s- no, it’s not that. I’m not scared of you. I just… there are things I shouldn’t do. Things someone like me can’t risk. And I...I don’t want to make things weird for you.”
“You already do,” you pointed out. He winced at that.
You stared out the window as he pulled up to your building, the street outside washed in that soft, late-night glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.
When he put the car in park, the silence settled differently- heavier, but also expectant.
Clark turned off the engine and shifted toward you just slightly, enough that his knee bumped the console.
“I don't mean to ignore you,” he said quietly.
You let him speak, eyes scanning the faint glow coming from the window of your apartment. You always liked to leave the hallway light on; it made coming home feel a lot less lonely.
He leaned his forearms onto the wheel again. “You’re not someone I can ignore.”
The honesty slipped out before he could stop it, and you felt something in your chest pull- tight and confusing. Yet, you didn’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, you turned to him fully, and he swallowed when he saw the steadiness in your eyes. You might’ve been tipsy, yes, but your thoughts had never been sharper.
They always were when you were around him.
“You act like you don’t notice me,” you started, “But you notice everything.”
He didn’t deny it. Of course he didn’t.
If anything, Clark looked absolutely stunned by the truth of it. In that moment, you wondered whether he'd ever believed differently; whether those nights spent together meant a lot more to him than you thought.
You studied him more openly now- how his jaw clenched, how his Adam’s apple bobbed, how the curl of hair at his forehead always tried to escape when he got flustered.
And he was definitely flustered. Maybe more than you’d ever seen him.
“So what are you trying to do here, Clark? Be noble? Be the older mentor who keeps me in line?”
He straightened a little, uneasy. “I’m trying to look out for you.”
“Who decided that?” you asked. “Because it wasn’t me.”
Clark rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the windshield. “It just feels like the right thing to do. I can't... gosh, I'm not supposed to-”
"Supposed to what?" you interrupted, but his worlds were already tumbling out before he could stop them.
“-I'm not supposed to want you."
The car went quiet.
He didn’t look at you at first, as if avoiding your face would undo what he’d just said altogether.
Your heart thrummed hard, so hard that you could feel it travelling down to the pads of your fingertips. Suddenly, breathing became difficult; your chest unable to fall into a steady rhythm next to him.
You glanced up at your apartment window. At the people walking past, fists shoved in coats, heads ducked down like Clark's currently was. Anything but the interior of the car; anything but him.
When he finally turned his head, there was no denial in his expression, no attempt to smooth it over.
Just the uncomfortable, undeniable weight of what he’d just admitted.
Clark's lips parted, just slightly, as if he was about to say something of actual substance that would derail the conversation, make it better. But he didn't.
He didn’t have to.
Because suddenly the air felt far too thick, and the space between you felt far too small, and the car felt like the kind of place where something could happen if either one of you breathed wrong.
You blinked at him, swallowing back a a sickly, stunned feeling.
You'd imagined this very thing before; telling him, hundreds of times. You'd imagined it happening in hushed whispers in the Archives, at his apartment, maybe even driving home after a long, gruelling day at work. But you never imagined it like this.
You weren't sober. Nowhere near. And he was tired, exhausted, probably annoyed that you'd started something that wasn't quite so easy to finish. You were angry and snappy and frustrated, when all you wanted to be was soft and kind and understanding when the time came that your not-so-secret crush finally came to light.
Suddenly, thoughts weren't coming to you as easily. Words even more so. You just leant forward, ever so slightly, enough to smell his cologne and hear the irregular pattern of his breathing.
Not much. Just enough. Enough to fill the too-big gap between you both.
Clark froze- not in alarm, but in that bracing way a man does when the thing he’s spent months trying not to want suddenly turns and looks him in the eye.
His gaze flicked to your mouth.
Just once. Half a second, if that, before his wide eyes found yours again and you saw a slight plead in them. But it was enough.
He leaned in, too- slowly, like someone trying very hard not to scare a wild animal. His lashes lowered slightly, breath growing shallow, the smallest shift of his weight bringing him closer, close enough that you felt the warmth of him, close enough that you knew-
He would let you.
He would absolutely let you.
After months of restraint, no control on your part and a ball that had definitely always been unmoving in his court- you finally had the perfect opportunity to get what you wanted.
Which was exactly why- to your own bewildered disbelief- you didn't take it.
You weren’t going to. Not tonight.
You stopped just shy of him- just shy of that groundbreaking, earth-shattering kiss you’d imagined since you first felt his hand brush against yours- and tilted your head, watching the realisation flicker across his features.
Then you let the faintest, saddest hint of smile curl at the edge of your lips.
“Goodnight, Clark.”
His eyes widened, and you felt a dull, painful spark of unearned triumph settle oddly in your chest.
You pulled back before he could fully recover, fingers already reaching for the door handle. Your balance wobbled just a little stepping out of the car, but you didn't care. You just had to get out; had to leave. You got what you wanted. And it didn't feel like enough.
You didn’t look back at him as you shut the door lightly behind you, though you could feel his gaze anchored to you like gravity itself had shifted.
You walked toward your building with a slght confidence that had nothing to do with the drinks and everything to do with knowing- finally, undeniably- that Clark Kent wanted you.
Behind you, in the quiet car, he sat stunned.
Heart pounding. Breath uneven. Watching as you waltzed into your apartment building without so much as a glance back.
And even though he shouldn’t have leaned in, even though he absolutely knew better, even though tomorrow was going to be complicated- he still hoped you’d remember it all in the morning.
she enjoys sketching him and likes to chat with him but he’s super cold to her sometimes and blows her off even tho he likes her he’s just oblivious to her feelings and after Javi and Tyler point out how much she likes him he confesses his feelings to her
Heyyyyyy. So sorry I fell off the face of the earth. Really hope this still finds you and you enjoy!
Silly Drawings
Scott Miller x Reader
Artist reader goes down a more “responsible” path and is an intern with StormPAR.
CW: mentions of alcohol, mostly fluff, disgruntled Scott
"Is this all the data from this morning?"
"Yea," you casually tossed over shoulder-
"WAIT!"
Scott's eyes bulged as if you grew an extra head as you lunged at him, hands going to the small book on the bottom of the stack.
"Not- not this one," you clutched the sketchbook close to your chest. Scott followed your fingers as they tightened around the red canvas bound booked. It wasn't larger than 5"x5", frayed at the edges from years of use or maybe just from being carelessly tossed from van to van. Graphite dust smeared across the cover.
He didn't have to speak for you to know what he was saying.
What the fuck?
You responded with a sheepish smile and gestured towards the rest of the papers.
"It's good- the data. This morning gave us good data." Your throat resisted as you swallowed nervously.
Scott stared for another moment, his eyes flicking from yours to the book, back to yours. Then, with a curt nod, he was off.
"Goodnight!"
Your face contorted into a pained wince as you leaned against the van. The sketchbook made a dull thud against your forehead. Find a way to directly tell your brain that you needed to be more careful where you left it.
——
"Yo! Mr. Scott. Have you seen our favorite StormPAR intern?" Boone skidded to a halt in front of Scott just as he was about to enter his motel room. Tyler was following not far behind.
He didn't need to confirm your name to know who they were referring to. All the times he had seen you chatting with one of them over breakfast. Waving when you crossed paths on the road. The frequent interactions often made his skin bristle.
"Yea," he huffed. "She's-"
No longer by the van.
Tyler bit his tongue watching Scott's eyes now scanning the crowded motel parking lot with the subtlest pout. He knew that look. The edge that crawled up someone's spine when the safety of the person they cared about was now unconfirmed. It was instinctual, protective, not possessive.
It was sappy.
It was funny as hell to Tyler.
"Aw, damn," Boone pouted as he clocked Scott's face now, too. "We were supposed to go over mockups for our next t-shirt."
That made Scott look back down. Why were you doing merchandising with another team? Why were you doing merchandising?
Tyler stepped forward before his questions could be answered.
"Hey, let me ask you something."
Scott waited with a blank face.
"How long have you known her?"
"She started interning this spring," Scott replied with a quirked eyebrow. This was common knowledge. You were graduating with a Bachelor of Science. You had taken a few years off after high school. This was your first job on the field, gaining more experience before applying elsewhere. Despite the lack of experience, you were a good addition to the team. You were diligent, capable, beautiful—
Common knowledge.
"Really? You just seem like you've known each other for longer. You ever..." Tyler's voice trailed off and Scott's jaw ticked. Tyler's hands immediately went up in innocence, his charming laugh echoing. Even he couldn’t help but be rattled by the cold chill that erupted from Scott's stormy gaze.
"Didn't mean nothing by it. You just fit well together is what I’m saying. She’s clearly likes you.”
Something else brewed underneath the stormy gaze. Scott’s grasp tightened around his papers before adjusting his hat.
“That’s not- She’s- No.”
Tyler’s eyebrows shot up. A bark of a laugh exploded from a few feet away. Javi stood by a cooler, blatantly eavesdropping as he opened a beer.
“Relax, man,” he called over.
“She’s just doing her job,” Scott justified lowly.
“Yea, I don’t think the way she looks at you is a part of her job,” Javi retorted. “She doesn’t look at me like that.”
Scott simply shook his head. “I’m going to bed. And you should, too.”
The conversation ended with the slam of his motel door.
——
Your heart lurched the next morning at the knock of the side of the truck. Then lurched again when your eyes met blue ones. You had your feet up on the dash, doors open, and sketchbook in your lap.
“Scott-“ you gasped.
“Morn-“ his voice caught when he glanced down at your lap. A very realistic drawing of very familiar eyes caught his attention first. Then the nose. The same jawline he saw in the mirror this morning peaked through your fingers as you tried to casually hide the image.
“Is that me?”
You looked down at your trembling fingers. With a shaky laugh, you moved them to reveal more. No use in hiding it now.
“Um, yea. It is. Scott-“ He was pulling the book gently from your lap. “Scott.”
He cradled the book in his large hand, more delicately than you had ever seen him. He flicked through the previous pages. Other members of the team. Renderings of coffee cups and barns. Him. More him.
“You did these?” His voice was quiet, like he didn’t want a scared animal to run off.
“Yea,” you whispered. You barely heard it over the blood rushing in your ears. “You’re kind of beautiful, you know that?”
There was a lull of silence between you. His eyes met yours and you excepted to see annoyance, rejection. But instead it was a softness, clouded slightly by the calculations whirring through his head. Calm slowly started to ease back into your body. He tilted his head down, breaking your gaze, before he spoke again.
“What are you doing here?”
“Look, Scott, I’m sorry. I won’t waste anymore time with my silly drawings-“
“No.”
You blinked at him. He was looking at you again. He had the same look of stubbornness he usually did when something wasn’t right and he knew it.
“You do good work here. That’s undeniable. But this…"
He shook his head as if the words failed. Scott, so intelligent, so articulate, could not find the words to describe the sketch he held in his hand.
“What are you doing here? Why be out here chasing tornados when you should be clearly doing something else?”
“I tried,” you shrugged. “I wasn’t good enough.”
“That is not-“ your eyes widened slightly at the growl in his voice. He restarted with a deep breath. He shook his head again, chuckling at an unspoken joke before handing the sketchbook back to you finally.
“I’m not going to pretend I know shit about art. But if I know anything it’s that you’re good enough.”
You’re perfect.
There was another comfortable lull as your ears went red at the intensity of his gaze. His tongue flicked over lips in a nervous tick. Before you could register what was happening, his lips found your cheek. Gone quickly but the tingle on your skin remained. His large frame filled the truck’s doorway as he leaned over you.
“Ride with me today?” He asked.
“Sure. I’d like that,” you responded with a coy smile. The corner of his own mouth ticked upward in a lopsided grin. He leaned away with a short nod and he was gone.
Aside from someone swiping your parking spot in the morning, something much more peculiar was afoot. And it involved one, six-foot-something somebody, boring holes into your back like he might actually beam lasers into you.
Which, in this particular case, was possible. Not that you knew.
Clark couldn't help himself, really. But this was the only natural response. He'd been hovering around you, wary and unsure when he could strike up a conversation. It wasn't that he was a hindrance for you, per se — his proximity helped, mostly in the getting people out of your personal space aspect when you'd gotten on the elevator to get coffee, with him following you like a shadow and effectively blocking everyone else.
Even that hadn't crossed the odd territory. Because you'd always gotten coffee with Clark Kent.
Except this time, he was friendlier-than-necessary.
You'd noticed it first when you walked into the building.
He was already there, all leaned up next to the receptionist counter, chirping happily with Jenn. When he sees you, he greets you with the same, dorky sweet smile felt far too bright for the current hangover you were dealing with.
"How are you so…bright at 8 am?"
Clark looks over to you, a confused look taking over his expression. "Bright?"
You stare at him deadpan, wincing at the metaphorical rays growing even more blinding at the taut smile that curls at the corner of his lips, two deep indents furthering your point.
"… Never mind."
The folders that were stacked in your arm were quickly lifted off you, purse coming off next. You blink and watch the taller man beside you awkwardly shuffle the straps of his messenger bag to make space for the feminine intruder.
"Don't worry about it." He assures, pressing the lift door open for you.
Huh. It felt weird not carrying anything.
His odd behaviours hadn't stopped there.
Clark was always nice to you, but this felt much. Territorial even. Sure, you appreciated him offering to help edit your copy.
But…
"Kent. Quit following me."
He jerks upright behind you — sounds of paper crumple in his fists.
"I-I'm not!" He protests, looking at the papers he just so happened to be carrying, lifting them like a trophy, far too excitedly. "I'm just…we're headed the same way. So."
You frown as you look ahead to the door marked for the Copy Room, and a far too smug Clark who saunters in ahead of you, keeping the door open for you with the heel of his shoe.
"Right. Sorry." You mumbled, awkwardly shuffling past him. He shuts his eyes, and you don't notice how he'd taken a quiet inhale of your fluttering scent.
Maybe you were imagining things.
[2:20PM]
Clark Kent: I bought you the pastries you liked. Come to the pantry!
[2:25PM]
Clark Kent: Did you take them?
[2:30PM]
You: No.
You: I think Olsen is eating them.
"Gosh-darnit. Olsen!"
You snort at the voice that rings in the bullpen as you grab your usual gear after setting your phone to airplane mode — recorder, notes and a phoney smile in preparation for your 3 pm interview.
[3:10PM]
Clark Kent: Bought them again…Andie told me you were at a meeting.
Clark Kent: Left them on your desk. 😬
[3:30PM]
Clark Kent: Covered the box it in the blue post-its so no one steals them.
[4:10PM]
Clark Kent: Are you free after work?
Clark Kent: I know somewhere quiet we can grab a bite.
Clark Kent: Saved the owners before.
Clark Kent: I mean. I know them. From somewhere.
[4:30PM]
Clark Kent: Anyways, let me know. 🤯
[4:40PM]
Clark Kent: Scratch that. I'm sure you're tired.
Clark Kent: I'll walk you home instead.
[5:02PM]
Clark Kent: <2 Missed Calls>
…Maybe not.
The second you'd turned your phone back on, it damn near buzzes out of your hands. What must've been ten text messages in barely an hour — and a now flashing contact image of Clark dressed as Big Bird for the Halloween Party lights up. You click on the green button.
"Hello?…"
"Hi! Gosh. Hi, sorry. You weren't answering, so I thought I'd.."
"I just wrapped up. De-brief took long. Did you need something?"
"No…—…yes. Have you…um, seen the messages I sent you?"
Your gaze darts to your desk, squinting at an ominously blue Post-it-covered box. Slowly, you peel it off the plastic to reveal pastries neatly tucked in it.
"…How could I not? They were covering my lock screen entirely."
He snorts out a rather unglamorous laughter, and then it dies down abruptly, "sorry…I don't like texting. I wanted to walk you home."
"….Why?"
"I think…it's what boyfriends do, right? I haven't done this in a while."
You pause, pulling the phone away from your face. Staring at it blankly.
"Be down in ten."
Boyfriend?
Slowly, you back into your desk, slumping into your chair with a dazed look. Crap. It was about yesterday, wasn't it?
"L-Look, I need to be clear before I — mmph, do this!"
Think. Think harder.
Shaw's. Lots of tequila. Bathroom.
"Get. Em. Off." You'd rustled the larger man against the sink, yanking his belt off with such force that he jerks forward.
Between the heavy panting into each other's lips and the dire need you had for his pants to be on the ground, you were pretty sure you just agreed to whatever he was saying at that point. But what exactly was it?
You rub your forehead in concentration.
"P-Please. Wait. I want to do this properly. T-The orders — haaahh…a little…messed up."
Nope. Not that. Fast-forward.
"D-Does this mean…we're together? Mm?"
"Yes, god," you moan brokenly, drooling over the fingers he had stuffed in your mouth, fucking you hard into the sink from the back. "— ngh, Clark, yes, yes, yes!"
…In your defence, who asks someone something like that in that sort of situation?
Clark's face lights right up when he spots you leaving the building. Crossing over to you in a few long strides. He's quick to take your purse off you, and you feel a twinge in your chest.
There was no letting him down easy. It was a bandage-ripping-off sort of situation at this rate. Because this? This was like looking at a child right in the face and telling them that Santa doesn't exist or that Christmas hype was merely a scheme created by greedy men profiting off the holiday industrial complex.
You hadn't even realised you both had walked all the way up to your front door when he finally stops, bouncing at the balls of his feet.
Eager to be let in.
Oh fuck it.
"Look…Clark, I —"
"I-I know you think I can't keep up," he interrupts. Taking a step forward with a white knuckled grip around the straps of your purse. "That…I could be too soft. But…I want to learn you. What you like, i-if you'd let me."
You quirk a brow.
"…Clark…I don't exactly think we're on the same pace."
"Why…not?"
Damn him and his dejected puppy dog look.
"I'm more of a fuck on the first date sort of girl." You admit. He visibly stiffens at your words, moving like a doll to make way for you as you open your door.
"And you're sweet. I'd hate to lose you as a friend."
When you don't hear a peep from him, you'd safely assume he somehow understood.
"So…"
What you don't expect is how quickly he has arm snaked around your waist before you can even register it. Lifting you up and crossing the thresholds of your apartment.
The lock clicks shut, the purse thudding to the ground when all semblance of his politeness snaps away. You'd instinctively gripped around his shoulders in surprise. Blinking.
Clark leans in, slow enough to give you time to say no. But you lean forward instead, giving him the answer he so desperately needed.
He grunts into your lips with a familiarity — the sounds rumbling into your throat at the prolonged hum of content.
Then, he pulls back breathlessly, looking at you.
"I can keep up." He promises, placing a peck and another.
His glasses gently bumping into your nose every single time he tilts his head to get a deeper kiss. It felt far too good, and far too natural for your body to reject the notion, so you melt into him completely, curling your arms around his broad back.
