flash fiction, man what are they called? drabble? clark tries to dress up in his high school quarterback gear for lois, and lois one ups him, inspired by random twitter post
clark shrugged on the letteman jacket he’d retrieved from storage since his highschool reunion a few weeks ago. he’d noted then, under the tacky gym room lights, how lois snuck glances up and down his shoulders and back, biting her lip subconsciously looking up at him, whilst sassing him for something else—something about the bad choice of yearbook photos on display.
he’d always kind of known that she liked him in the jersey though, when he was confident and uninhibited.
“maybe you should try out,” she had said back then, teasing in tone but with real challenge in her eyes, like she really saw him, like—you’re not just a meek farmboy, are you?
and to be honest he’d be lying if, even then, he wasn’t always tracking her, wanting her approval before he understood why, wanting her to be impressed with him, following her during a game, watching her slink away during half time to light up a cig under the bleachers, using his supervision catch the sliver of midriff below the stupid, tight tank tops she used to wear, before guilt sunk in and he remembered he had a girlfriend
but they weren’t teenagers anymore; and now he knew how to get her to shut up, just as much as he could get her to react, relishing in her squirming as she tried to cover up the effect he had on her. it was mutual anyway.
“what’s with the shoulder pads and jersey, are you trying to score tonight, smallville?” she waggled her eyebrows him. he rolled his eyes, and tamped down the agitation, she still always had a way of making him react.
“just reminiscing,” he said coolly, stepping closer and placing his hands on her waist. “I think I recall, despite the whole college drop-out delinquent thing you had going on, you seemed to like me all preppy in a jersey.”
“delinquent? i was a model of perfect behaviour, it did you good to be around me, i could have been, like, a cheerleader.”
he really laughed then, and pulled her closer. she pushed him back by the chest though—
“why, you don’t think I could be a cheerleader?”
he scoffed imagining it, his lois, anti-establishment, lois, tearing into a room like a hurricane and leaving destruction in its wake—a cheerleader performing for the bleachers? she’d have sooner docked coach jensen in the jaw than dance for some sweaty, high school boys.
“wait here,” she said, then stepped out of his arms and disappeared into her closet—the mysteries of which were still unrevealed to him.
she stepped out again, after some shuffling and swearing, in a barely there pleated skirt showing off all her long, lithe, toned legs, and a preppy crop top with “crows” stretched out across her breasts—
and fuck, the same, tanned midrift teenage him thanked god for his kryptonian photographic memory for, kept locked up, only savoured and indulged in for the guiltiest wank—
he watched as she squared her shoulders, pasted on a big grin and looked up at him with puppy dog eyes.
“please, clark, please help me out and take me home after the game?” she asked sweetly.
clark wasn’t sure how, but he knew instantly that this had backfired on him. his face felt hot, and he could feel his cock start to swell, and all of a sudden his knees were too weak to hold himself up, like he might just fall to his feet in front of her, begging.
