zel

did you hear about the girl that lives in delusion?

[lovelornfc]

"I called."

"What?"

"'I didn't hear from anyone while I was gone.' That's what you told Dana."

You don't look at him. You can't.

"...but I called." You hate that you can't hide the hurt from your voice. Or maybe it's anger. Whatever it is, it's too much emotion reserved for someone that's been gone 10 months.

For a moment, he just watches you. You hold your breath.

"You're not just anyone."

Your eyes meet his before you can stop yourself. Neither of you speaks.

He looks at you like he knows he doesn't deserve to but chooses to allow himself the selfish moment anyway.

It's too much. You glance at the floor before up at him again.

"I'll see you around, Dr. Langdon."

You walk away and you wonder if he can see how much it pains you to do so.

frank langdon has consumed my thoughts so here's a little piece of a potential fic x

[lovelornfc]

and if I get burned, at least we were electrified

clark kent x situationship!reader

summary you're sick. clark shows up uninvited. you're not dating btw. but he's really good at playing doctor and you're really good at pretending it doesn't mean anything

could be read as a part 2 to this

author's note this is short and it kind of sucks and definitely not proofread. but i needed it out of my drafts. enjoy x

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

“What are you doing here?” The grimace that follows is immediate, your throat still sore despite the innumerable amount of cough drops and herbal remedies. 

“You’re sick,” he answers from his place in front of your stove. His tone is light and casual, so matter-of-fact. Like no other explanation is needed. 

You try not to scoff at his response, eyes burning holes into his back, willing him to face you. 

He doesn't. His large figure continues to move effortlessly around your shoebox kitchen, unflinching. You try not to get distracted by the way his muscles flex under his shirt. 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you press, harsher this time. 

Again, Clark ignores you. This time you don’t hide your scoff. No. It’s loud, purposely so, and evidently one of annoyance. Clark ignores that too. 

“Where do you keep your bowls again?” 

He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply and you don’t bother giving one. Sometimes you think he knows the layout of your apartment better than you do. You’re proven right when not even seconds later he’s pulling out a pair of identical bowls you’ve never seen before. He did do most of your spring cleaning after all. 

You dig your nails into your palm to ground yourself. 

You want to blame it on the chronic cough you’ve had this past week but it’s the domesticity of it all that causes the pain in your chest. His suit jacket is thrown carelessly on your couch, tie hanging loosely from his neck. His shoes are by the door next to yours and his glasses are placed gently on the counter next to your keys.

In front of you stands a version of Clark Kent no one but you gets to see. 

He has always trusted easily. But this is different. You don’t know when the shift happened, when Clark threw all caution to the wind and gave you access to the most intimate parts of himself. He’s a journalist—meticulous, deliberate,  and a stickler for detail. Every article he writes is perfect, completely faultless to an almost pathological degree. Even his worst drafts are exceptional. 

And yet, he gives you the unpolished, unedited, honest to God version of himself. 

He chooses to do so and you can’t recall when he decided you were deserving of seeing the real him—of knowing him in ways others couldn’t even fathom, of having him in ways they never would. 

 Above all, you can’t wrap your head around why you’re the one with the privilege. 

You're rooted to your spot as you watch him, mentally cursing him for his casualness, for acting like this kind of normalcy is something you two are allowed to have. It’s too much and you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try to dismantle everything he’s trying to build.  

“Why did you come, Kent?” You don’t know if it’s your biting tone, or the way you use his last name as a defense mechanism, that finally gets him to turn around. 

You can practically feel the tension rolling off his body. His blue eyes lock onto yours, the flickering frustration making them appear darker than they are. 

“You don’t need me to spell it out for you.” His voice is rough like gravel, sharper than you’re used to, but never loud, never mean. 

You can’t breathe. The intensity in which he’s looking at you stops you from forming any kind of response. It all feels too real now. You press your arms into your sides to hide your shaking hands and he notices because of course he does. His stance shifts. His whole body relaxes, softening immensely, and you hate the way your stomach does backflips at his subtle way of comforting you. 

“You’re too smart…” he murmurs, his gaze warm in a way only reserved for you. 

You freeze, mulling over his words. He simply watches you. 

Why are you doing this to me, you almost say. Why do you refuse to stay at arm’s length? 

In that moment, despite his words, you question your intelligence. Because yes, you know what this is. You were sick. He was worried and now he’s here, making you soup…acting out a role you refuse to give him the title of holding. 

You know why he’s here. You understand that he came for you. That’s not it. 

You question your intelligence because he’s here breaking the rules of your “no strings attached”, boundary-heavy relationship—an unwritten…once-spoken…kiss-bound agreement that you promised yourself you would follow strictly. 

He’s marking over the boundaries you highlighted in a bright, neon yellow.

Like a kid drawing in permanent marker, he’s tarnishing the walls—the tall, brick walls you’ve built around your heart. 

He’s coloring outside the lines and it just does not make sense how a neat freak like you can like the mess so much. 

You squirm at your silent admission.

“How’d you get in?” you ask, a perfectly-timed deflection. You’re looking for an out and he gives it to you without hesitation. 

Because when it comes to you, Clark Kent is like a dog without a bone. He latches on like you're a lifeline, hungry and surviving off scraps of your affection. No dog tag, no one to claim him, or to claim his. Just eyes full of hope and an itch to belong. 

So he fakes offense at your question. 

“Pfftt…come on,” his finger drawing an invisible ‘S’ on his chest. 

Right, Superman. 

You giggle and he bites the inside of his cheek to not smile too hard at the sound. 

You take a moment to really look at him and you pretend that him looking right back does not affect you. 

“Is this a good idea?” The words come out before you can stop them. 

“It’s just soup,” he answers.

Except it’s not just soup and you both know it but you've both got really good at pretending.

You’re making your way over to him before your anxiety can talk you out of it. You savor the little oomf he lets out as you kiss him with an intensity that might have embarrassed you if he hadn’t responded just as eagerly.

You pull back reluctantly, just enough to breathe. 

“You’re a terrible liar, Clark Kent” you whisper against his mouth before pressing your lips to his once more and kissing him harder. 

When you finally pull away, you can’t keep the smile off your face. 

“Thanks for the soup.” 

Clark’s face matches yours. His grin is wide and boyish, eyes sparkling. 

“You’re welcome,” he teases, “Ma’s recipe. It should work like a charm… but maybe we should try a different remedy first?”

In the blink of an eye, he’s hoisting you up onto the counter and situating himself between your legs. His lips are on yours before you can form another sentence. 

[lovelornfc]

i’m obsessed with the pitt and have too many thoughts on frank langdon. i need to write asap

[lovelornfc]

and if I get burned, at least we were electrified

clark kent x situationship!reader

summary you're sick. clark shows up uninvited. you're not dating btw. but he's really good at playing doctor and you're really good at pretending it doesn't mean anything

could be read as a part 2 to this

author's note this is short and it kind of sucks and definitely not proofread. but i needed it out of my drafts. enjoy x

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

“What are you doing here?” The grimace that follows is immediate, your throat still sore despite the innumerable amount of cough drops and herbal remedies. 

“You’re sick,” he answers from his place in front of your stove. His tone is light and casual, so matter-of-fact. Like no other explanation is needed. 

You try not to scoff at his response, eyes burning holes into his back, willing him to face you. 

He doesn't. His large figure continues to move effortlessly around your shoebox kitchen, unflinching. You try not to get distracted by the way his muscles flex under his shirt. 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you press, harsher this time. 

Again, Clark ignores you. This time you don’t hide your scoff. No. It’s loud, purposely so, and evidently one of annoyance. Clark ignores that too. 

“Where do you keep your bowls again?” 

He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply and you don’t bother giving one. Sometimes you think he knows the layout of your apartment better than you do. You’re proven right when not even seconds later he’s pulling out a pair of identical bowls you’ve never seen before. He did do most of your spring cleaning after all. 

You dig your nails into your palm to ground yourself. 

You want to blame it on the chronic cough you’ve had this past week but it’s the domesticity of it all that causes the pain in your chest. His suit jacket is thrown carelessly on your couch, tie hanging loosely from his neck. His shoes are by the door next to yours and his glasses are placed gently on the counter next to your keys.

In front of you stands a version of Clark Kent no one but you gets to see. 

He has always trusted easily. But this is different. You don’t know when the shift happened, when Clark threw all caution to the wind and gave you access to the most intimate parts of himself. He’s a journalist—meticulous, deliberate,  and a stickler for detail. Every article he writes is perfect, completely faultless to an almost pathological degree. Even his worst drafts are exceptional. 

And yet, he gives you the unpolished, unedited, honest to God version of himself. 

He chooses to do so and you can’t recall when he decided you were deserving of seeing the real him—of knowing him in ways others couldn’t even fathom, of having him in ways they never would. 

 Above all, you can’t wrap your head around why you’re the one with the privilege. 

You're rooted to your spot as you watch him, mentally cursing him for his casualness, for acting like this kind of normalcy is something you two are allowed to have. It’s too much and you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try to dismantle everything he’s trying to build.  

“Why did you come, Kent?” You don’t know if it’s your biting tone, or the way you use his last name as a defense mechanism, that finally gets him to turn around. 

You can practically feel the tension rolling off his body. His blue eyes lock onto yours, the flickering frustration making them appear darker than they are. 

“You don’t need me to spell it out for you.” His voice is rough like gravel, sharper than you’re used to, but never loud, never mean. 

You can’t breathe. The intensity in which he’s looking at you stops you from forming any kind of response. It all feels too real now. You press your arms into your sides to hide your shaking hands and he notices because of course he does. His stance shifts. His whole body relaxes, softening immensely, and you hate the way your stomach does backflips at his subtle way of comforting you. 

“You’re too smart…” he murmurs, his gaze warm in a way only reserved for you. 

You freeze, mulling over his words. He simply watches you. 

Why are you doing this to me, you almost say. Why do you refuse to stay at arm’s length? 

In that moment, despite his words, you question your intelligence. Because yes, you know what this is. You were sick. He was worried and now he’s here, making you soup…acting out a role you refuse to give him the title of holding. 

You know why he’s here. You understand that he came for you. That’s not it. 

You question your intelligence because he’s here breaking the rules of your “no strings attached”, boundary-heavy relationship—an unwritten…once-spoken…kiss-bound agreement that you promised yourself you would follow strictly. 

He’s marking over the boundaries you highlighted in a bright, neon yellow.

Like a kid drawing in permanent marker, he’s tarnishing the walls—the tall, brick walls you’ve built around your heart. 

He’s coloring outside the lines and it just does not make sense how a neat freak like you can like the mess so much. 

You squirm at your silent admission.

“How’d you get in?” you ask, a perfectly-timed deflection. You’re looking for an out and he gives it to you without hesitation. 

Because when it comes to you, Clark Kent is like a dog without a bone. He latches on like you're a lifeline, hungry and surviving off scraps of your affection. No dog tag, no one to claim him, or to claim his. Just eyes full of hope and an itch to belong. 

So he fakes offense at your question. 

“Pfftt…come on,” his finger drawing an invisible ‘S’ on his chest. 

Right, Superman. 

You giggle and he bites the inside of his cheek to not smile too hard at the sound. 

You take a moment to really look at him and you pretend that him looking right back does not affect you. 

“Is this a good idea?” The words come out before you can stop them. 

“It’s just soup,” he answers.

Except it’s not just soup and you both know it but you've both got really good at pretending.

You’re making your way over to him before your anxiety can talk you out of it. You savor the little oomf he lets out as you kiss him with an intensity that might have embarrassed you if he hadn’t responded just as eagerly.

You pull back reluctantly, just enough to breathe. 

“You’re a terrible liar, Clark Kent” you whisper against his mouth before pressing your lips to his once more and kissing him harder. 

When you finally pull away, you can’t keep the smile off your face. 

“Thanks for the soup.” 

Clark’s face matches yours. His grin is wide and boyish, eyes sparkling. 

“You’re welcome,” he teases, “Ma’s recipe. It should work like a charm… but maybe we should try a different remedy first?”

In the blink of an eye, he’s hoisting you up onto the counter and situating himself between your legs. His lips are on yours before you can form another sentence. 

[lovelornfc]

clark kent baby blurb

i can’t get him out of my head. if you can’t either, pls fill my inbox with thoughts on him. anyway, here’s this x

warning, not proofread.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

clark is SO the type to talk to his mom about girls. not intentionally but inevitably…and excitedly. he doesn’t mean to. he never means to. but clark doesn’t have crushes often. they come once in a blue moon. honestly, he doesn’t even know if he can classify them as crushes. crushes are fleeting, child-like, and surface level. and clark…well, he can be intense.

not in a “you consume my every thought” creepy, obsessive kind of way.

maybe a little bit like that.

no, clark’s crushes are painfully innocent. they don’t crowd his entire mind but they do take up space. quietly. reverently. in a i wonder how you take your coffee or what’s your favorite book kind of way. there’s an itch to know the silly little things, a gentle curiosity.

again, clark kent does not crush often. so when he does he gets a little giddy. just a bit. in a cool way of course. he’s 6’4 for goodness’ sake.

he does not spare you a glance every chance he gets. he does not ask lois random questions just to be closer to your desk. and he DEFINITELY does not plan to need copies every time he sees you make your way to the printer. it just happens.

fine, so maybe he’s a bit of a loser. but that’s exactly the point. he can’t talk to his coworkers about you. they already think he is one. he doesn’t need to prove it.

and so when he calls his mom to get a recipe, he doesn’t mean to let your name slip. it just does. she asks how he is and he tells her about the cat the barista drew on the side of his cup. he talks about how busy the train was and of course, he mentions another one of his articles making the front page again. briefly, indifferently. like it’s nothing.

she catches that. and she definitely catches how he proceeds to ramble on about the pretty coworker that smiled at him in the elevator this morning. like it was the highlight of his day. like you looking at him for less than five seconds is the greatest thing to ever happen to him.

the sharp squeal in his ear tells him he’s messed up. embarrassment washes over him and he blinks at the cabinets in defeat.

“Ma—”

“Oh my—Oh Clark, this is wonderful,” her Southern accent even more prominent.

“She’s n—Everyone’s pretty!Jimmy, Lois, STEVE!!!”

WOW. He really is a mess. He knows his attempts are futile but he tries anyway.

Eventually, he gives up and lets her go on a tangent about the girl that’s stolen her boy’s heart and lets her plan their future trip to Smallville.

He doesn’t have it in him to tell her you barely even talk to him. Or that you have a strict no dating coworkers rule. OR that you’re WAY out of his league anyway.

He doesn’t say any of that. He stays silent.

But when his Ma finally catches her breath and asks, “So what’s she like?”

That’s where Clark Kent is unable to shut up.

“Ma… she’s so—and her eyes they just—don’t get me started on…”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, here’s another piece by me. Enjoy!

[lovelornfc]

clark fic ideas, give ‘em to me now. i could write about this man forever

[lovelornfc]

clark is so the guy that forgets how to tie a tie just to have you do it for him. pupils dilated, he’d stare down at you with those big blue eyes of his. a faint cheeky grin on his face. what a perfect excuse, he’d think as he attempts to commit every inch of your face to memory. he’d lean in a little closer than necessary and if he’s feeling a bit greedy, he’ll mention that it’s a bit too tight. anything for you to fuss over him a little bit longer. and it’s clark kent so of course he’d be so grateful. he’d lean down and press the softest of kisses to the corner of your mouth, letting it linger too long to be nothing but pulling away too quickly for you to question everything.

[lovelornfc]

clark kent baby blurb

i can’t get him out of my head. if you can’t either, pls fill my inbox with thoughts on him. anyway, here’s this x

warning, not proofread.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

clark is SO the type to talk to his mom about girls. not intentionally but inevitably…and excitedly. he doesn’t mean to. he never means to. but clark doesn’t have crushes often. they come once in a blue moon. honestly, he doesn’t even know if he can classify them as crushes. crushes are fleeting, child-like, and surface level. and clark…well, he can be intense.

not in a “you consume my every thought” creepy, obsessive kind of way.

maybe a little bit like that.

no, clark’s crushes are painfully innocent. they don’t crowd his entire mind but they do take up space. quietly. reverently. in a i wonder how you take your coffee or what’s your favorite book kind of way. there’s an itch to know the silly little things, a gentle curiosity.

again, clark kent does not crush often. so when he does he gets a little giddy. just a bit. in a cool way of course. he’s 6’4 for goodness’ sake.

he does not spare you a glance every chance he gets. he does not ask lois random questions just to be closer to your desk. and he DEFINITELY does not plan to need copies every time he sees you make your way to the printer. it just happens.

fine, so maybe he’s a bit of a loser. but that’s exactly the point. he can’t talk to his coworkers about you. they already think he is one. he doesn’t need to prove it.

and so when he calls his mom to get a recipe, he doesn’t mean to let your name slip. it just does. she asks how he is and he tells her about the cat the barista drew on the side of his cup. he talks about how busy the train was and of course, he mentions another one of his articles making the front page again. briefly, indifferently. like it’s nothing.

she catches that. and she definitely catches how he proceeds to ramble on about the pretty coworker that smiled at him in the elevator this morning. like it was the highlight of his day. like you looking at him for less than five seconds is the greatest thing to ever happen to him.

the sharp squeal in his ear tells him he’s messed up. embarrassment washes over him and he blinks at the cabinets in defeat.

“Ma—”

“Oh my—Oh Clark, this is wonderful,” her Southern accent even more prominent.

“She’s n—Everyone’s pretty!Jimmy, Lois, STEVE!!!”

WOW. He really is a mess. He knows his attempts are futile but he tries anyway.

Eventually, he gives up and lets her go on a tangent about the girl that’s stolen her boy’s heart and lets her plan their future trip to Smallville.

He doesn’t have it in him to tell her you barely even talk to him. Or that you have a strict no dating coworkers rule. OR that you’re WAY out of his league anyway.

He doesn’t say any of that. He stays silent.

But when his Ma finally catches her breath and asks, “So what’s she like?”

That’s where Clark Kent is unable to shut up.

“Ma… she’s so—and her eyes they just—don’t get me started on…”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, here’s another piece by me. Enjoy!

[lovelornfc]

you could call me babe for the weekend

situationship!clark kent x reader

summary clark gets hurt. you're not dating but you show up at his apartment anyway

author's note this is my first fic EVER. please be gentle. the ending's a bit of a mess but i hope you guys enjoy. thank you x

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

It’s not the sound of his footsteps or the drop of his keys on the counter. It’s the hitch in your breath and the erratic beating of your heart that alert you of his presence. With the way your body just knows when he’s around, sometimes you think you’re the one with superpowers. 

The view from the high-rise building is long forgotten as your body tenses on his couch in his apartment. The spare key he gave you now feels heavy in your pocket as you wait for him. You’re completely still, not because of fear or nerves but in anticipation. 

You hear him now. A deep sigh followed by a groan in pain. More importantly, you hear the way he hesitates by the front door, likely noticing the shoes tossed to the side carelessly, casually. Your shoes. He stalls only for the briefest of seconds before he’s quickening his pace and turning the corner into the living room. 

You don’t have time to compose your thoughts before his gaze lands on you. All of a sudden, Clark is looking at you, really looking at you in a way that not even Pulitzer-Prize Winner Lois Lane could put into words. You’re warm all over as you hold his stare. It doesn’t last long before the intensity of it has you looking away nervously. Instead, you choose to let your eyes wander over his body, noticing the way his shoulders are stiff and how he’s awkwardly leaning on one side. 

He breaks the silence first. 

“I didn’t know you would be coming over.” 

His voice is quiet, just above a whisper. You almost smile at his attempt to preserve the peaceful atmosphere. However, your sudden anxiety stops you from doing so. Doubt and insecurities start seeping in at his choice of words. 

You didn’t know you would be coming over either. Really, you didn’t. You were in your own apartment, freshly showered and in pajamas when you saw the news that Superman was fighting a new threat downtown. Except you didn’t see Superman getting attacked. You saw Clark, your Clark (if you could even call him yours) and he was hurt. In hindsight, you didn’t think any of it through. You threw on your coat and bolted out the door, letting panic drive your actions. You hailed a cab to his place and used a key to his apartment that you shouldn't have. 

After all, he’s not even your boyfriend.  

The thought leaves a bitter taste on your tongue and regret washes over you. Your journalistic instinct to act on impulse has invaded your love life. Now, here you are throwing all judgment out the window and rushing to check on a guy that you barely acknowledge at work despite spending more nights in his bed than your own. 

Stupid, stupid Clark Kent with his stupid glasses and stupid smi-

“Nice sweatshirt,” he says, fingers pointing at the oversized material covering your upper body. His sweatshirt. The one you found in his closet, in his bedroom. A room you easily navigated to as if it was your own, as if you were meant to be there. 

You meet his gaze again. He’s gotten closer now. He’s leaning against the back of the same couch, staring down at you with a smug grin he fails to contain. 

Your eyes quickly snap to the coffee table before you. Your thoughts only get louder. 

This was a mistake. You should not be here. There’s lines that should not be crossed and this is one of them. These were lines you drew when this whole thing with Clark started, and here you were stepping over every single one of them. 

Stupid, corny, idiotic loser. 

You should be at home right now. You have a stack of dirty dishes in the sink and the article you promised Cat you would proofread remains untouched. Not to mention, the pile of laundry on your bed that needs folding. Really, you should be anywhere but here. 

Genuinely, you could not be more embarrass-

“Hey…” His voice interrupts your thoughts once again. 

You look back at him and this time you can’t look away. His eyes bore into yours so intensely you find yourself wishing you could sink into the couch completely. You feel so exposed, so vulnerable as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

You unwillingly let out a shaky breath and search his face. For what? You’re not sure. The conviction in his voice is unmistakable. Like he doesn’t want you to question it. Like he knows it’s what you need to hear and it is. The intrusive thoughts in your head die immediately. 

“It’s a welcome surprise,” he says as he comes around the couch to sit beside you. So close but somehow still not close enough. 

“Yeah?”

You absolutely despise how breathless you sound. You blame it on the delicate brush of your shoulders and the warmth of his thigh pressed firmly against yours. 

“Yeah.” 

“Took you long enough…” you tease gently, the glint in his eyes mirroring yours. 

“You know me and my need to make an entrance every time,” he jokes. 

You snicker softly in response. You can’t offer much else. Not when he’s begun to cradle your face in his giant palm. Not when he’s tenderly brushing his thumb along your jaw. His touch is feather-light as if you’re something fragile, as if holding you is a privilege and he was given the honor. You resist the urge to melt into him completely. 

“I would have been home sooner but I had to return to the office to finish a draft Perry has been nagging me about.” 

That explains why sitting before you is Clark Kent and not the other guy. His crisp suit and glasses replace the red and blue attire and suddenly, the reason you came over in the first place hits you like a truck. 

The news. Superman. Downtown. Superman getting hurt. Clark getting hurt. 

You turn your body to face him completely, startling him. He sees the panic swimming in your eyes and you open your mouth to voice your worries but he’s quicker.

“I’m fine,” he tries. You shake your head unconvinced. 

“I was watching the news… You wer-...it was bad…” you trail off. Your voice comes out smaller than you intend but you can’t find it in you to care right now. 

He grabs your jaw again, gentle as ever but firmer this time, and forces your eyes to meet. 

“I’m okay. I promise,” he says it slowly as if to help it sink in. “Do you believe me?” 

You don’t. He knows you don’t. Your eyes search his looking for anything that will give him away but he doesn’t let up. His eyes are calm, a cold contrast to how you feel right now. 

In a surge of confidence, you swiftly swing your leg over his body and straddle him fully. Under other circumstances, you would have giggled at the noise of surprise Clark lets out. Not today. Today, you proceed cautiously. You place your hands on his shoulders, refusing to rest your full weight on him. You don’t want to hurt him. He tries to tug you down completely, desperate to close the distance between you two, but you resist. His hands settle on your waist instinctively but not before letting out a grunt in disapproval at your refusal to be closer. 

“What’re you do—” “Shhh,” you cut him off sharply and he listens, like he always does. 

You take a careful glance up at him and see he’s already watching you, mesmerized. You look away as your hands slowly start making their way down his body. From his shoulders, down his arms, to his chest. His breathing gets heavier, his blinking more rapid. You gauge his face for any discomfort. You continue down and your hands find their way to his stomach. He tenses, almost imperceptibly, but you notice. Your eyes snap to meet his and without breaking eye contact, you warily press your fingers into his side. 

He winces, eyes fluttering shut. The reaction leaves as quick as it comes but it’s too late. 

Clark tries to sit up from his slumped position on the couch but you're quick to place your hands on his chest and push him back down. He opts for rubbing your shoulder soothingly and mumbling reassurances you both know you’ll ignore. 

“It’s nothing,” he tries. 

“Shut up.”

Your own breathing gets heavier and your hands hastily reach for the buttons on his now wrinkled, white collared shirt. You’re shaking, unsteady, your fingers unable to undo the buttons. 

“Relax, I’m okay.” 

“Clark…” your voice stern with warning. 

“Just-just let me help.” The fight slowly drains from your body as he covers your hands with his own and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

The sight before you has your breath hitching and no matter how hard you try, you cannot fight the knot that starts building in your throat. His stomach is littered with deep blue, yellow bruises. The marks stretch all over his abdomen, embedded into his skin harshly. A testament to the brutality he just faced. 

“I’ll heal,” Clark urges, trying to meet your eyes but you can’t look away. Horror is painted all over your face and he wants nothing more than to erase that expression. He would do anything to see even a sliver of a grin. 

He would never say it out loud, already too aware of his every move to not scare you away, terrified to lose the small part of you you let him have. But he finds solace in your smile, and after the day he’s had, he could really use one. 

“That’s not the point Clark,” a frustrated sigh leaving your lips. 

“I know, babe, I know.” 

When he pulls you to lie against his chest, you don’t fight it. You nestle your face into his neck and let the scent of his cologne wash over you. It grounds you. 

He’s here. He’s okay. He’s safe. 

“I hate this. Don’t make it a habit,” you mumble into his neck. It’s too vulnerable, almost pathetic, and it’s SO unlike you. You hate it but you also mean it. So you settle for pressing further into him to stop your brain from acknowledging how deep of an effect he has on you. 

Clark stifles a laugh. You’re so adorable. His heart swells at your angry grumbles and the concern you don’t have the energy to hide behind your usual sarcasm. 

“I’ll do my best,” his tone is impossibly soft, one reserved just for you. However, unlike you, he welcomes the realization that he likes you more than he should. More than you would allow. He pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind and presses the softest of kisses to your hair. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms. What you do know is that it’s Clark who pulls away first. Not fully. Not even an inch. Just enough to look at you. 

Because he’s selfish, impatient, and he’s had a long day. Honestly, he’s surprised he’s been able to hold back this long. He just fought an alien a hundred times his size and won. He also managed to save a squirrel while he was at it. He deserves it, he thinks, he does. 

You seem to think so too because when his lips finally brush yours, you sigh in relief, tangling your fingers into his hair to pull him impossibly closer. The kiss is unlike any you’ve ever shared before. It’s slow, tender, and overwhelming in the best way. Each press of his lips is a confession he’s not ready to say and you’re not ready to hear. 

You’re both panting when you pull away but that doesn’t stop Clark from chasing your mouth. His mouth finds yours again and again and you can’t ignore the way your heart feels as if it’s about to lurch out of your chest. You respond just as eagerly, just as hungrily till your lungs beg for air and you begrudgingly push at his chest. At least, you think you’re trying to. You’re still clutching at the collar of his shirt, unwilling to separate. 

“Cla—” Kiss. “We need to—” Kiss. “Breathe—”. Kiss. 

You end up giggling into the kiss and that’s what slows him down. 

There it is, he thinks. 

He pulls away for the briefest seconds to observe the smile now gracing your face. His eyes are swirling with an emotion you’re scared to name but you don’t have time to dwell on it before his lips are on yours in a final kiss. It’s messy, teeth clash, and there’s no rhythm but that’s to be expected when neither of you can stop smiling. 

Clark would not have it any other way. 

Like clockwork, you and Clark end up in bed together. But for the first time since this began, there’s no sex. It’s safe, warm, and ridiculously intimate for two people who are not in a relationship. It’s easy to let your mind lull you into a false sense of security when Clark’s arm is wrapped securely around you.

You both pretend you won't start distancing yourself once morning comes, Clark more delusional than you.

[lovelornfc]

oh wow. i really did not expect this to get any notes at all. thank you truly for all the support. please know that feedback is more than welcome and 100% appreciated. AND PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE feel free to send me all your clark kent thoughts and ideas. i would LOVE to talk about him and write more about his character. don’t be shy, let’s be friends :) thank you again x

[lovelornfc]

you could call me babe for the weekend

clark kent x situationship!reader

summary clark gets hurt. you're not dating but you show up at his apartment anyway

author's note this is my first fic EVER. please be gentle. the ending's a bit of a mess but i hope you guys enjoy. thank you x

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

It’s not the sound of his footsteps or the drop of his keys on the counter. It’s the hitch in your breath and the erratic beating of your heart that alert you of his presence. With the way your body just knows when he’s around, sometimes you think you’re the one with superpowers. 

The view from the high-rise building is long forgotten as your body tenses on his couch in his apartment. The spare key he gave you now feels heavy in your pocket as you wait for him. You’re completely still, not because of fear or nerves but in anticipation. 

You hear him now. A deep sigh followed by a groan in pain. More importantly, you hear the way he hesitates by the front door, likely noticing the shoes tossed to the side carelessly, casually. Your shoes. He stalls only for the briefest of seconds before he’s quickening his pace and turning the corner into the living room. 

You don’t have time to compose your thoughts before his gaze lands on you. All of a sudden, Clark is looking at you, really looking at you in a way that not even Pulitzer-Prize Winner Lois Lane could put into words. You’re warm all over as you hold his stare. It doesn’t last long before the intensity of it has you looking away nervously. Instead, you choose to let your eyes wander over his body, noticing the way his shoulders are stiff and how he’s awkwardly leaning on one side. 

He breaks the silence first. 

“I didn’t know you would be coming over.” 

His voice is quiet, just above a whisper. You almost smile at his attempt to preserve the peaceful atmosphere. However, your sudden anxiety stops you from doing so. Doubt and insecurities start seeping in at his choice of words. 

You didn’t know you would be coming over either. Really, you didn’t. You were in your own apartment, freshly showered and in pajamas when you saw the news that Superman was fighting a new threat downtown. Except you didn’t see Superman getting attacked. You saw Clark, your Clark (if you could even call him yours) and he was hurt. In hindsight, you didn’t think any of it through. You threw on your coat and bolted out the door, letting panic drive your actions. You hailed a cab to his place and used a key to his apartment that you shouldn't have. 

After all, he’s not even your boyfriend.  

The thought leaves a bitter taste on your tongue and regret washes over you. Your journalistic instinct to act on impulse has invaded your love life. Now, here you are throwing all judgment out the window and rushing to check on a guy that you barely acknowledge at work despite spending more nights in his bed than your own. 

Stupid, stupid Clark Kent with his stupid glasses and stupid smi-

“Nice sweatshirt,” he says, fingers pointing at the oversized material covering your upper body. His sweatshirt. The one you found in his closet, in his bedroom. A room you easily navigated to as if it was your own, as if you were meant to be there. 

You meet his gaze again. He’s gotten closer now. He’s leaning against the back of the same couch, staring down at you with a smug grin he fails to contain. 

Your eyes quickly snap to the coffee table before you. Your thoughts only get louder. 

This was a mistake. You should not be here. There’s lines that should not be crossed and this is one of them. These were lines you drew when this whole thing with Clark started, and here you were stepping over every single one of them. 

Stupid, corny, idiotic loser. 

You should be at home right now. You have a stack of dirty dishes in the sink and the article you promised Cat you would proofread remains untouched. Not to mention, the pile of laundry on your bed that needs folding. Really, you should be anywhere but here. 

Genuinely, you could not be more embarrass-

“Hey…” His voice interrupts your thoughts once again. 

You look back at him and this time you can’t look away. His eyes bore into yours so intensely you find yourself wishing you could sink into the couch completely. You feel so exposed, so vulnerable as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

You unwillingly let out a shaky breath and search his face. For what? You’re not sure. The conviction in his voice is unmistakable. Like he doesn’t want you to question it. Like he knows it’s what you need to hear and it is. The intrusive thoughts in your head die immediately. 

“It’s a welcome surprise,” he says as he comes around the couch to sit beside you. So close but somehow still not close enough. 

“Yeah?”

You absolutely despise how breathless you sound. You blame it on the delicate brush of your shoulders and the warmth of his thigh pressed firmly against yours. 

“Yeah.” 

“Took you long enough…” you tease gently, the glint in his eyes mirroring yours. 

“You know me and my need to make an entrance every time,” he jokes. 

You snicker softly in response. You can’t offer much else. Not when he’s begun to cradle your face in his giant palm. Not when he’s tenderly brushing his thumb along your jaw. His touch is feather-light as if you’re something fragile, as if holding you is a privilege and he was given the honor. You resist the urge to melt into him completely. 

“I would have been home sooner but I had to return to the office to finish a draft Perry has been nagging me about.” 

That explains why sitting before you is Clark Kent and not the other guy. His crisp suit and glasses replace the red and blue attire and suddenly, the reason you came over in the first place hits you like a truck. 

The news. Superman. Downtown. Superman getting hurt. Clark getting hurt. 

You turn your body to face him completely, startling him. He sees the panic swimming in your eyes and you open your mouth to voice your worries but he’s quicker.

“I’m fine,” he tries. You shake your head unconvinced. 

“I was watching the news… You wer-...it was bad…” you trail off. Your voice comes out smaller than you intend but you can’t find it in you to care right now. 

He grabs your jaw again, gentle as ever but firmer this time, and forces your eyes to meet. 

“I’m okay. I promise,” he says it slowly as if to help it sink in. “Do you believe me?” 

You don’t. He knows you don’t. Your eyes search his looking for anything that will give him away but he doesn’t let up. His eyes are calm, a cold contrast to how you feel right now. 

In a surge of confidence, you swiftly swing your leg over his body and straddle him fully. Under other circumstances, you would have giggled at the noise of surprise Clark lets out. Not today. Today, you proceed cautiously. You place your hands on his shoulders, refusing to rest your full weight on him. You don’t want to hurt him. He tries to tug you down completely, desperate to close the distance between you two, but you resist. His hands settle on your waist instinctively but not before letting out a grunt in disapproval at your refusal to be closer. 

“What’re you do—” “Shhh,” you cut him off sharply and he listens, like he always does. 

You take a careful glance up at him and see he’s already watching you, mesmerized. You look away as your hands slowly start making their way down his body. From his shoulders, down his arms, to his chest. His breathing gets heavier, his blinking more rapid. You gauge his face for any discomfort. You continue down and your hands find their way to his stomach. He tenses, almost imperceptibly, but you notice. Your eyes snap to meet his and without breaking eye contact, you warily press your fingers into his side. 

He winces, eyes fluttering shut. The reaction leaves as quick as it comes but it’s too late. 

Clark tries to sit up from his slumped position on the couch but you're quick to place your hands on his chest and push him back down. He opts for rubbing your shoulder soothingly and mumbling reassurances you both know you’ll ignore. 

“It’s nothing,” he tries. 

“Shut up.”

Your own breathing gets heavier and your hands hastily reach for the buttons on his now wrinkled, white collared shirt. You’re shaking, unsteady, your fingers unable to undo the buttons. 

“Relax, I’m okay.” 

“Clark…” your voice stern with warning. 

“Just-just let me help.” The fight slowly drains from your body as he covers your hands with his own and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

The sight before you has your breath hitching and no matter how hard you try, you cannot fight the knot that starts building in your throat. His stomach is littered with deep blue, yellow bruises. The marks stretch all over his abdomen, embedded into his skin harshly. A testament to the brutality he just faced. 

“I’ll heal,” Clark urges, trying to meet your eyes but you can’t look away. Horror is painted all over your face and he wants nothing more than to erase that expression. He would do anything to see even a sliver of a grin. 

He would never say it out loud, already too aware of his every move to not scare you away, terrified to lose the small part of you you let him have. But he finds solace in your smile, and after the day he’s had, he could really use one. 

“That’s not the point Clark,” a frustrated sigh leaving your lips. 

“I know, babe, I know.” 

When he pulls you to lie against his chest, you don’t fight it. You nestle your face into his neck and let the scent of his cologne wash over you. It grounds you. 

He’s here. He’s okay. He’s safe. 

“I hate this. Don’t make it a habit,” you mumble into his neck. It’s too vulnerable, almost pathetic, and it’s SO unlike you. You hate it but you also mean it. So you settle for pressing further into him to stop your brain from acknowledging how deep of an effect he has on you. 

Clark stifles a laugh. You’re so adorable. His heart swells at your angry grumbles and the concern you don’t have the energy to hide behind your usual sarcasm. 

“I’ll do my best,” his tone is impossibly soft, one reserved just for you. However, unlike you, he welcomes the realization that he likes you more than he should. More than you would allow. He pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind and presses the softest of kisses to your hair. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms. What you do know is that it’s Clark who pulls away first. Not fully. Not even an inch. Just enough to look at you. 

Because he’s selfish, impatient, and he’s had a long day. Honestly, he’s surprised he’s been able to hold back this long. He just fought an alien a hundred times his size and won. He also managed to save a squirrel while he was at it. He deserves it, he thinks, he does. 

You seem to think so too because when his lips finally brush yours, you sigh in relief, tangling your fingers into his hair to pull him impossibly closer. The kiss is unlike any you’ve ever shared before. It’s slow, tender, and overwhelming in the best way. Each press of his lips is a confession he’s not ready to say and you’re not ready to hear. 

You’re both panting when you pull away but that doesn’t stop Clark from chasing your mouth. His mouth finds yours again and again and you can’t ignore the way your heart feels as if it’s about to lurch out of your chest. You respond just as eagerly, just as hungrily till your lungs beg for air and you begrudgingly push at his chest. At least, you think you’re trying to. You’re still clutching at the collar of his shirt, unwilling to separate. 

“Cla—” Kiss. “We need to—” Kiss. “Breathe—”. Kiss. 

You end up giggling into the kiss and that’s what slows him down. 

There it is, he thinks. 

He pulls away for the briefest seconds to observe the smile now gracing your face. His eyes are swirling with an emotion you’re scared to name but you don’t have time to dwell on it before his lips are on yours in a final kiss. It’s messy, teeth clash, and there’s no rhythm but that’s to be expected when neither of you can stop smiling. 

Clark would not have it any other way. 

Like clockwork, you and Clark end up in bed together. But for the first time since this began, there’s no sex. It’s safe, warm, and ridiculously intimate for two people who are not in a relationship. It’s easy to let your mind lull you into a false sense of security when Clark’s arm is wrapped securely around you.

You both pretend you won't start distancing yourself once morning comes, Clark more delusional than you.