âWe meet Matt at a real turning point in his career and then, very quickly, at a real turning point in his life,â he says. âItâs a horror, but itâs a thriller. It asks, How far would you go to reclaim your life that youâve built?â
Tom Rhys Harries photographed by Max Montgomery for EW (source)
SHARK BAIT.ââŠâ ( 1k / sfw )âlois lane and clark kent x fem, shark!reader.
lois and clark have a run in with the managing editor (âsharkâ) of the daily planet <3 + masterlist.
âŠââ THEREâS A HIERARCHY at the daily planet, a tried and true social system that ensures all articles get published on time and without errors. thereâs the reporters, the little minnows that dart about their desks like tiny fish along a reef. thereâs section editors whoâre a little bigger, floating around with less urgency than the reporters but certainly more urgency than the editor-in-chief, the kraken. while perry white is mythical in his power, thereâs a much more relevant and closer predator that works daily to keep the little reporters in line: you, the managing editor and shark of the daily planet.
âhere comes the shark now,â lois murmurs under her breath, straightening up against the small, wooden wall of clarkâs desk area as soon as she hears the familiar sound of your heels clicking along the daily planetâs floors.
normally, kent would be inclined to convince her not to call you that, but the nickname was all too appropriate. heâd met women with teeth before, but heâd never met a woman as openly ruthless as you. youâd climbed the newsroom ladder before he was ever hired; maybe you had to be cutthroat, then, to get ahead. clarkâs not sure. all he knows is to keep his head down as the sound of your heels grows louder. you were walking a clear path, a sign that you smelled blood (or, in less metaphorical terms, youâd sensed a finished article). he had blood.
he had a finished article, too.
âis this a party i didnât know about?â you ask, your tone already biting. âwhy is lane at your desk?â
the sound of your voice forces kentâs head up, his eyes meeting yours carefully. lois glances at him, then speaks. âi was just reviewing and editing clarkâs article. he just finished it today, before deadline. i think itâll meet your standards.â
your eyebrow twitches vaguely, a sign of annoyance or maybe interest. no one can really tell. âiâll be the judge of that. kent, email me the article. now, please.â
heâs nodding before you can even say âpleaseâ, fumbling to open his inbox. âyes maâam.â the sound of clicking fills the room once more, and although the source is clarkâs computer keys rather than your heels, people still find themselves on edge. âitâs sent.â
âi know. i watched you, kent,â you remark dryly, folding your arms as you continue to linger. âinteresting title.â
âyou like it?â kent asks, head tilting back so he can see your face. heâs not sure why, not sure what he expected: a radiant smile? a sudden blush? the expression youâre wearing is the same âyouâre lucky iâm listeningâ look you always seem to sport when talking to reporters. perry white seems to be the only person at work who can coax something less intimidating out of you.
âthatâs to be determined. itâs eye-catching, at least. interesting,â you reply, âyour work or laneâs?â
âa little bit of both,â lois answers, slipping her hands into the pockets of her work pants.
a scoff escapes you. âitâs a title, not a baby. iâm guessing itâs yours, then, lois. sounds like your work, anyways.â you pause, only to allow your lips ample time to curl into a smirk while your eyes sharpen. âi think itâs cute, how you help kent. really, i do. you make a good team.â
âcute?â clarkâs eyes widen in surprise, his cheeks warming. his eyes dart to laneâsâdoes she knowâŠ?
meanwhile, lois busy trying to relax her suddenly tense jaw, her gaze focused on yours. sheâs never been shy about eye contact; youâve always silently enjoyed that aspect of her. âthank you.â
âjust donât get too dependent on each other, i donât want your writing voices blending. iâd hate to split you up,â you go on, gesturing to a desk far off, âkent somewhere over there while you stay here, lane. iâd hate that. you know?â your shoulders move animatedly as you suck in a short breath, breathing in the tension more than the oxygen in the room. âgood thing i wonât have to. you two always listen, donât you? you both tend to take feedback well.â
âthank you,â lane repeats, replying just as clark says thank you as well, forming an accidental unison.
your smirk grows. no, no, kentâs sure itâs softened, now. lois notices, too. your tone is still sharp, but your lips are curled with less malice and more amusement. âiâll have my notes on the article sent to you by tomorrow morning, kent. lane, please see olsen about those photos for your upcoming front pager. itâs a promising piece; iâd like promising photos to match it.â briefly, you look at clark. then, at lois. then, youâre off, stalking towards another reporterâs desk to remind them of a rapidly approaching deadline.
âhow many compliments was that?â clark asks, allowing himself to slouch as he turns to lois.
lane gives a quiet hum, her brows furrowed in reflection. âthree? and a threat, technically. she even smiled, kind of. i didnât think she could do that.â
âi saw that, too,â kent murmurs. he sits up a little when he hears your heels again, although this time youâre merely passing by on your way to the second floor.
the couple happens to fall into an accidental synchronization again as you return to your office upstairs, their eyes landing on your back before trailing down. motion always attracts the human eye, and the nearly knee length pencil skirt youâre wearing has no issue with showing off the natural movement of your hips and ass as you walk. lois and clarkâs heads tilt to the side simultaneously, clarkâs eyebrows knitting while lois squints slightly, their gazes focused on your backside.
lane finally swallows. âthatâs a nice skirt sheâs wearing today.â
âyeah,â kent breathes out, the word almost inaudible as it leaves his lips. âthatâs a nice shade of⊠black.â
âright. rightâŠâ
whatâs the saying? hate to see you go, love to watch you leave?
thereâs a hierarchy at the daily planet, a tried and true social system that ensures all articles get published on time and without errors. thereâs lois lane, a clever woman whoâs never met a challenge she couldnât handle and whose pieces oftentimes spark waves of social commentary⊠thereâs clark kent, a kind man who sees the good in everyone and gets to the (typically local) heart of issues more easily than most⊠and, above them both, thereâs you, the shark of the daily planet that they canât help but find interesting.
managing editor âsharkâ reader... let me know if you're fucking with it, i'll drop a moodboard & write more for her. i kinda like the office cunt vibes and i love writing lois & clark x reader.
âËàż summary: A grounded flight unexpectedly brings you back to your ex-boyfriendâs home.
âËàż tags: smut (oral, f receiving) exes to lovers!!, yearning, fluff, making up, light angst. one shot
âËàż w/c: 3.3k
HeyÂ
Bold of me to assume that you still have my number but....Â
Are you currently in Kansas right now?Â
Clark: 1 missed callÂ
The car ride is silent. Well, not completely. Your mind is anything but quiet; thoughts racing like a chipmunk on speed. Clarkâs got the radio on at a sensible level, the drawl of the singer somewhat audible over the rickety sound of the wheels of the tow truck. Or maybe itâs the engine? Youâre not a mechanic. The grey vehicle is currently humming down a wide, seemingly endless stretch of road as nothing but barrels of hay and the occasional cow pass you by.Â
If the sound from the truck wasnât enough, then the wind tunnel youâve somehow concocted is â air flowing across your face as you lay your head against the edge of the headrest, staring out of the window as nothing passes you by. Itâs humorous, really â under 72 hours ago you were on a plane, yet only now you were only feeling motion sickness.
Your hand squeezes your temple in frustration. You hope Clark doesnât notice, though he probably does. He seems to notice everything. Â
Of all the ways to run into your ex after a year long breakup, this was probably the worst. It was supposed to happen like some 80s teen movie â skin glowing in the sunlight as you walked down a shopping district without a care in the world. Or maybe at a bar; inebriated and sultry whilst swaying your hips to music. Something incidental. Â
Instead, you were in the same clothes from two days ago, and no amount of your carry-on perfume could hide the scent of burnt rubber and baby food on your clothes. Â
Rather humbling, actually.Â
âSorry about the sound,â Clark slowly began as he cleared his throat. His eyes were focused on the road ahead but he was noticeably squinting. You knew it certainly wasnât due to poor eyesight. âOne of the next tasks on my To Do List is check to get the engine checked.âÂ
âYou donât sayâŠâ you mumbled into the window. God, you sure had a problem â mouthing off to your current knight in shining armour who'd just saved you from a seedy motel and another two days of overpriced terminal food. With a heavy exhale, you rolled your shoulders, turning sideways to mull over the man in the drivers seat. So cool, so calmâŠcompletely at home on the open road as he drove effortlessly with one hand.
One very muscular hand.Â
Perhaps more defined than theyâd been a year ago. Â
âThanks for coming to get me,â you sighed, breaking the ice. You gnawed on your bottom lip. âI know youâre with your family and all...âÂ
âItâs not a problem,â he replied quickly, this time lending you a glance. âThey understood as soon as I told them.âÂ
How was he so casual about this? This was the first time youâd seen each-other â spokenâ in a year, and now you were on your way to play house at his home, right under the roof belonging to two of your (previous) biggest supporters. Clark Kent didnât have a vindictive bone in his body; so it wasnât as if youâd be walking into any scrutiny from his parents, but you were the slightest curious as to what heâd told them.Â
ââŠDo they know that itâs me, or am I an unnamed friend?âÂ
âThey know itâs you.âÂ
Plainly put. No agendas to his words, just the facts. But there was an undeniable weight to them, even if it was possibly and most likely self inflicted. The Kentâs were just good people who hadnât a negative thing to say about anybody, but they seemed to have an intuitive way of knowing things.Â
Theyâd probably be able to sniff out the apprehension in your bones upon your arrival. As where Clark stood in all this? You werenât sure. He was just being his usual, good natured self, but that was often the tricky thing about good people â sometimes, theyâre never really honest about what theyâre thinking.Â
âRightâŠâ you whispered, wanting the cushions to swallow you up entirely. âGood to know.âÂ
Clark looked over at you again, his Adamâs apple bobbing as he swallowed. His gaze was seconds longer than before, gentle blue eyes roaming over you, racing with a particular emotion that you couldnât quite place.
âYou took a pretty big swing checking to see if I was hereâŠâ he chuckled half-heartedly. On the surface the question seemed rhetorical, but judging by the way he was side eyeing you, he genuinely wanted to know how. You wanted to laugh it off as you being psychic, or just an act of fate â but your answer turned out to be somewhere in betweenâŠsurprisingly telling.
âWell, it was,â you began with a shrug, âbut I remembered that you always go home at the start of tornado season to make sure everythingâs okay with the house and stuffâŠYouâre not really one to break tradition.âÂ
He blinked in response, pink bottom lip pouting as he nodded silently in acknowledgment. The car was slowing down now; and sure enough you were coming into view of the painfully familiar red slated roof and bricked exterior, a calf floundering about its day in the field as the truck pulled up alongside it, screeching to a halt once it reached the end of the driveway. Â
Clark didnât seem to mind as you lingered in the passenger seat for a moment, quick to hop out his side of the vehicle and grab your suitcase from the back. With the house only a couple of steps away, you trailed behind him, admiring the freshly cut bushes out front, and the tiny calf that seemed intent on chewing at a wildflower. If Clark wasnât so intent on carrying your bags, you were certain he wouldâve intervene. He was knowledgeable like that. He cared like that.
Once you were greeted with the familiar mesh screening on the front door, it was like stepping into a time machine. Ma and Pa were by the doorway, huddled together as they laid eyes on you.Â
âHi Mr and Mrs Kent,â you mumbled sheepishly, wrapping your arms around yourself, though it was far from cold. âIâm sorry to barge in like thisâŠâÂ
âNot to worry, sweetheart,â Jon said, the corners of his ageing eyes crinkling in familiarity. âClark said the been at a bus stop for hours. We're just glad youâre alright.â
Martha stepped forward.Â
ââ I can heat you some leftovers? I made chilli.âÂ
âChilli sounds great, Mrs Kent,â you smiled weakly, suddenly overwhelmed by the aggressive, but completely genuine hospitality. âIâd really love to take a shower firstâŠâÂ
Everything was coming back to you; the intermittent creak of the floorboards whenever six foot something Clark tried to shuffle around like he were a mouse, the hum of the fridge that definitely hadnât been changed since he was a teenager, the lingering scent of cinnamon and cloves in seemingly every inch of the house from Maâs inherent goodness...all back to welcome you as if youâd never left. Like a warm hug, but also a stab in the back. Â
How could you have left?Â
The question plagued your mind, unrelenting as water droplets rained down on your face, steam unclogging the dry air and plane fumes from your nose, your pores, your hair â every inch it festered. Youâd only been without a shower for a few days â people had survived much worse â then why did it feel as if you were trying to scrub away the past year of your life? It hadnât been miserable. It had been pleasant. A year in a different city across the country, trying new foods and meeting new people and spending months agonising over your thesis; hypothesising, interviewing, researching â book after book after book just to compress it all into a tiny PDF and press âuploadâ.
A year of knowledge and expansion, yet a year without Clark. Â
The Kents had given you the privilege of eating in front of the television, legs crossed as you squeezed onto the end of the couch, hunched over a hot bowl of chilli whilst reruns of The Price is Right flickered before you. Clark had seemingly disappeared; rather impossible for such a large man in a tiny house, at least until you retired to his bedroom for the evening and noticed that the sheets had been freshly ironed, neatly tucked into the corners of the mattress.Â
Youâd been in here before, yet it felt new â and suddenly you were noticing things you hadnât before. His uneven bangs in a family photo. A small scratch mark on the side of his dresser. The snow globe you'd bought him from Canada before finding out he could travel anywhere he wanted. Still there, just like everything else.Â
There was a knock on the door. Swiping a hand over your mouth you were quick to compose yourself before answering.
Hesitantly, Clark poked his head in.Â
ââŠHey.âÂ
âIs it awkward knocking on your own door?âÂ
âA little,â he acquiesced. âI brought cocoa.âÂ
Your nod was an invitation for him to enter, shoulders hunched in a failed attempt to make himself smaller.
Top button undone, he was wearing a navy blue Henley that was at least a size too small, whilst looser chequered pants sat around his waist. Paired with his tousled hair, it made you nostalgic for a time  you hadnât even been with him for; though you were very much thrust back into the present as he sat upon the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. Humorously, the scent of baby powder wafted above the chocolate.Â
âThanks,â you smiled weakly, âIâm sorry youâve got the couch.âÂ
Clark shrugged.Â
âItâs not the worst place to sleep. You havenât slept in days, I imagine.âÂ
âI got forty minutes of shut eye on the Greyhound before it broke down. Even then I was paranoid somebody would steal my bag.âÂ
âYou guarded it well.âÂ
âIâm a fighter,â you beamed, curling your fingers around the mug before you nodded in the direction of the headboard. ââŠDid you plump my pillows?âÂ
He didnât reply, but his cheeks turned pink as he delved into his cup.
âHowâs the grant going?âÂ
âDonât change the subject.âÂ
Clark pouted and slumped his shoulders.Â
âFine. I did, but only because nobody likes a lumpy pillow,â he replied, matter of factly. He shifted on the bed, moving only the slightest inch closer to you and cocked his head. âIâm serious. I want to know all about it.âÂ
You told him about your friend Dinah; who loved trash TV but was actually only in the city because of a situationship with some guy, about a curious professor youâd met in the library who carried around a hard drive the size of the Ark of the Covenant â the finite details on everything, except for your research. The very thing youâd broken up with him for.Â
âI wish Lois could hear this,â he chuckled, placing his empty cup on the nightstand. âShe says thereâs nothing in Star City except tech bros and dry air.âÂ
âTechnically she isnât wrong.âÂ
âSheâs biased. She hates anything to do with California.âÂ
âExcept San Fransisco, right?â you retorted, a small smile coming to your cheeks at the memory. Clark had brought you to the staff Christmas party, initial awkward greetings shifting into a lengthy, wistful discussion on bucket lists and hopes for the year ahead. Lois wanted to travel, Jimmy wanted to finally be able to catch a foul ball at a Meteorâs game without some asshole pushing him, and, when the spotlight had landed on Clark, heâd glanced down at you, only able to say, âIâm pretty happy right now.âÂ
That was why itâd been so difficult to tell him that you needed to focus on your studies. Opportunities like those didnât come often.Â
âAnd howâs the research?â Clark said, pulling you from your thoughts. âHow many words have you written? Jimmy and I added up how many we write in a year, itâs got to be more than that, right?âÂ
Pausing, you gnawed on your lip for a few moments.
âItâs going great. Too great. I submitted my final paper early, actuallyâŠâÂ
Clark blinked, and if there were any feelings of betrayal in his mind they didnât show. Instead, he smiled, one that reached his eyes and cheeks and made the tips of his ears turn red.Â
âThatâs amazing! When does it get published?âÂ
âI donât know, in a month or two? I have so much free time now," you sighed, playing with your fingers. âItâs weird. Iâm waiting until the end of the agreement on the apartment is done. I was only flying back to surprise my parents, and thenâŠâ you trailed off, gesturing to the room around you, to which Clark raised his brows.
You probably would never tell him you chose to fly back on a random day in May because you'd hated to have accidentally run into him in the streets of the city. Â
ââŠIâll be back in Metropolis someday, I suppose.âÂ
The words struck the air like ammunition. Even if Clark was bulletproof, he felt their weight, their bluntness all the same. Puffing his cheeks, he hung his head and swiped a tongue over his lips. He was toying with a dark blue throw, fiddling; something he only did when he was five minutes out on a deadline and couldnât find the right synonym. Urgency. A now or never situation. Â
 âWould you ââ he began, clearing his throat, âcould weâŠdo this all over again?âÂ
Slowly, you set your cup down. The drink had long gone cold.Â
Dating. Relationships. The immovable elephant in the room. The conversation youâd been dreading ever since your hands had reluctantly typed out your plea for him to save you.Â
It was all too tempting, the hours or so youâd been in the Kent home reminding you of what youâd missed; his hospitality, his scent, his beautiful blue eyes, always soft and never piercing â but it was also so soon. In truth, youâd never really thought about what would've happened after youâd completed your paper, one expecting that you'd become a professor, perhaps dedicate your life to some great mission, but that option didnât feel right. Not like you. Naively, you supposed you thought youâd return to Metropolis and somehow never cross paths with Clark again â but that was a fallacy, because in truth you never really moved on from him.Â
The professor with the hard drive? Well, outside of age it always reminded you of Clark and his satchel, that was somehow always half open, closure flapping in the air as heâd rushed out to work, never forgetting to give you a kiss.Â
That was the beauty of Clark, and in tandem, the beauty of life. There was whimsy even in the menial.Â
âClarkâŠâÂ
âI-I just have to ask. We never really decided before, and I couldnât stop thinking about if Iâd ever see you againâŠâ he spoke sincerely, voice wavering as he pushed a loose curl back from his forehead. âI understand if you donâtââÂ
You cut him off with a kiss; light, tender and fleeting, but enough to raise the hairs on every inch of your skin. Enough to remind you of what youâd left behind. Â
âI hope that was okay.âÂ
âGollyâŠâ he stammered. âItâs more than okay, honey.âÂ
You barely had a moment to share a smile before you kissed him once more. Clark slid his large hand down your back and placed it firmly around your waist, followed by the feeling of being pressed down; slowly, resisting the urge to use all of his weight on you as you were lowered onto the mattress. As you sank into the pillows he momentarily pulled away, adrenaline coursing through your bodies as you admired the sight of eachother.Â
âWe can stop if you think Iâm moving too fast,â he said earnestly. âI know itâs only been a few hours ââÂ
âClark,â you cut him off. âI donât want to stop.âÂ
He chuckled, exhaling softly from his nose.  Lips colliding, he deepened the kiss with tongue, your grip around his curls tighter, forceful; clinging onto him as if he were your lifeline. Clark peppered kisses along your cheek, your ear, right down the nape of your neck in his journey towards your chest, the button of your shirt threatening to pop open. Â
âIâve missed kissing youâŠâ he murmured breathily as his teeth grazed your skin. Greedily, he didnât allow you to respond, swallowing your voice with his own mouth, hips slowly bucking against your thigh. Instinctively, you spread them, allowing for his erection to press against your sensitive mound. His hands found the waistband of your pyjama shorts and slid them down with ease. Comically, Clark placed them to the side rather neatly.Â
âYou canât be serious.âÂ
âYouâll need them to go to sleep.âÂ
Playfully, rolled your eyes, skin tingling as his soft palms caressed your ankles. They moved up towards your calf and thighs, rubbing soothing circles, all for your blood to rush straight to your thighs and towards your core; hot, wanting. With a gentle hand on your knees he parted your thighs and began to trace the outline of your folds. You let out a sudden moan, the sound prompting Clark, whoâs voice was muffled from below.Â
âIâve missed touching youâŠâ he crooned, hooking his fingers around either end of your panties before sliding them down, discarding them at the bottom of the bed. His fingers found your folds once more, teasing as his thumb pressed on your sensitive hood. Â
âMost importantly, I miss tasting you.âÂ
He delved between your thighs, his licks deliberately drawn out as his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you. The stretch, though not the one of his girth, was encompassing all the same, familiar â taking you back to tangled sheets and the feeling of ascent, literally. Â
Clark hadnât forgotten the map of your body. He knew to keep a steady hand on your thigh because of how much they would tremble. He knew the deepest crevices that made you squirm; how you liked it when he placed kisses to your hood and flicked his tongue against your clit. It was second nature to him, even when your back arched with pleasure, he knew to press against your lower stomach, holding you down â not out of force, but in the chase relieve you. Â
âFuck, Clarkââ you whined, eyes squeezed shut as his nose nudged against your hood. You could only grip your fingers tighter around his hair, wanton as you began to buck your hips against his face. Â
âYou want me to keep going, honey?â he questioned, momentarily breaking for air. His face was flushed and lips glistened with your arousal. He knew you were close. He just wanted to hear it.Â
âP-PleaseâŠâ you crooned, legs beginning to buckle around his shoulders. Your heels were digging into his back, thighs trembling as you clenched them around his head. He was devouring you completely, your distinct taste a familiar sensation on his lips as you came around his mouth. For a man as gentle and unassuming as Clark, the sounds he made were obscene, thirsty; but wholly satisfying. Â
You cupped his cheeks as he slowly rose from his position, smearing your thumb along his clammy skin. Â
With your limbs melting into the mattress, fatigue rushed across your body â the one thing keeping you from sinking completely being Clarkâs weight against yours- back where you longed for eachother to be. Â
