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hello @ mooties and lovely followers, if you’re into superman (dc/marvel in general tbh the fandoms will prob grow), i have a new blog @kryptoclark if you’re interested !!
𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄 of working citizens outside in metropolis city, sidewalks packed and streets traffic jammed with beeping cars, the noise inside the daily planet isn't that far off.
there's a certain rhythm to the daily planet that contrasts the messy commotion of the outer world, especially in the morning. despite its chaos to anyone else who doesn't work there, there's a predictability in its chaos.
phones are ringing and there's no sign of that stopping. keyboards are clacking furiously, as if racing to a finish line. across the office, chief perry white is already shouting, the victim of it being the poor new intern carrying stacks of papers and running about – you give him four days until he either crumbles under the pressure or rises above it. someone's already spilled coffee on a copier and pretending he didn't by the way he whistles with an empty mug, with dried coffee running down the side, in hand.
you'd long since stopped to tune out all the noises inside the planet; in a way, it was too familiar to be uncomfortable after having spent so much time there.
you liked the energy of the office, even when it was overwhelming – especially when it was overwhelming. it was a type of high thta probably wasn't good for your nervous system but you don't seem to mind.
you weren't even a top reporter (yet!), but you'd been clawing your way up the career ladder from a mere intern for a while now. there's been countless coffee runs, countless rewrites, and a number of bylines buried on page ten to actually earn you some respect in and out of the office.
your eyes flit to the clock on wall above the elevator.
clark is late again.
an amused smile lifts your cheeks and you can't help but roll your eyes, picturing the overgrown man squeezing between pedestrians with a 'sorry ma'am' in a struggle to reach the office before perry chews him out.
clark kent had arrived a little over a year ago, fresh from smallville, kansas and wide-eyed as hell. everyone thought he'd get eaten alive in the office.
but then he didn't.
clark asked questions. yet, he listened more than he spoke. he wrote with a heart that was rare, nothing like the writers who'd come and go with machine-like brains whose only goal was to churn out the most recent news in the most theatrical of ways.
and somewhere along the way, you'd started sitting beside him in meetings, splitting cabs when perry sent a team out for a scoop, and staying up late helping him edit – and reedit – numerous drafts.
if you're being honest, you don't even remember when it changed from just being work.
all you know is that you had started saving (and sleuthfully stockpiling on) the good coffee pods.
that's what you're doing this morning, sitting at your desk with your coffee mug in hand, trying to work up the nerve to open a half-written draft you'd had writer's block for days now.
you're halfway thought a sip of your coffee when the elevator dings.
"i made the front page!"
clark's voice rings as he bursts out of the elevator, holding that morning's copy like it was a lotto ticket, practically glowing. the rest of the office continues around him, each with their own duties and agendas.
you grin, standing from your desk, pretending like the copy isn't already on your desk. "you what?"
he's already crossing the floor to meet you at your desk, tossing his briefcase haphazardly over his desk chair. "front page. my story. perry ran it above the fold!"
his face lights like a child on christmas, his boyish grin making your expression mirror his. he presents the newspaper in front of your face like a kid during show-and-tell at school, pointing directly at the romanized font of his name on the byline beneath the title.
"clark that amazing–!"
and then suddenly, you're off the floor.
"clark!" you laugh, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he spun you in a dizzy circle, newspaper crinkling between you. "what are you–"
"thank you!" he said, half-laugh, half-shout, as his strong arms held you maybe a little too tight and maybe a little too long. his glasses briefly slipped down his nose. your coffee, still in your hand nearly spills over his dress shirt. somewhere, someone wolf-whistles.
as if realizing, he sets you down carefully, face flushed and blinking.
you're a little frozen, one hand holding onto one of his biceps and your other wrist pressed against the other for balance, recovering from the spin.
clark looks down at you, bright-eyed and a little breathless himself, and he smiles down at you sheepishly.
"sorry... uh, got carried away," he murmurs, his voice growing back to its usual softness.
your heart hammers against your chest. "no i..." you trail off, laughing softly. "you're fine. i mean, congrats. front page! that's huge."
"yeah," he says, but his voice seems distracted now. his eyes keep dropping – first to your lips, then flitting back up to your eyes. "i was excited... and couldn't wait to thank you."
your brow quirks at the latter of his words.
sensing your confusion, he continues. "for helping me edit... and the occasional motivation booster when i attempted to scrap it."
"ah," you muse with a nod. "no problem, clark. you do the same for me," you remind him with a soft beam. it's true that while you stayed up late helping him with his drafts, he also helped you with yours; never had to ask, he just did.
you finally pull your hands back, slowly and hesitantly, suddenly very aware of your close proximity.
he stepped back, too, like the realization that you're still so close hit him all at once. he coughs, readjusting and pushing his glasses up his nose. "uh–" he stammers, eyes flickering around for a conversation point, landing on your mug. "coffee. did you want a refill? i was gonna grab one before the morning meeting."
"oh. yeah," you say, blinking slowly, then rapidly, like you were coming out of a trance. "yeah, that'd be great... you know where i put the pods."
he gives you a quick nod, half smiling at the mention of your stash in one of your desk drawers.
you stood there for a second, staring at his retreating back, heartbeat still thumping against your ribcage in a way you believe you may need to consult a doctor for.
it's just clark. your dorky, impossibly kind, slightly scatterbrained and distracted coworker who still signs off all emails with 'warm regards.' the guy who insists on carrying your bag on top of his when venturing out for an on-site scoop. the one who knows your coffee the exact way you like it despite never telling him your order.
but clark doesn't look dorky to you right now.
not with the way his dress shirt clings to his back as he walks away. you watch as he rolls his sleeves slightly up his forearms, just enough to show the flex of them.
not with the way his curls are a little messy from the wind, as if he ran his fingers through it several times throughout his morning.
not with the way your body still feels warmth of his and the strength of his arms around you.
you exhale, a little too forcefully, and drop back into your chair with slumped shoulders, your fingers pressing against your temples as you struggle to force your brain back into work mode.
it doesn't work.
because all you can think of his hands on your waist when he set you down, his softened smile, his echoed laughter...
you love the chaos of the daily planet. but you don't know what to make of the chaos of the fluttering of your heart all to do with the dork in glasses who you always assumed was just a good friend.
everyone go thank superman (2025) for curing my writer's block <3
