[snoopysupe]

⋆˚꩜.ᐟ koolie’s kool file ! — twenty-seven. she/her. cancer moon & sun. isfp-t. free palestine!

the land of husband!clark kent. take a seat.

koolie writes for : clark kent, ryland grace, bucky barnes, tasm!peter parker, and tlou jesse. requests are slow but welcome!

ai slop is not welcome! support art in its rawest form.

masterlist free palestine carrd pinterest ao3 tiktok

⋆˚꩜koolie out.ᐟ 4 now .

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husband!clark kent and always being on that damn phone to his wife ft. snoopy

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I mourn the fact Clark Kent doesn’t exist. Not even Superman, just Clark. Like he’s so perfect in every way, why can’y he be real 😭😭

me too anon. a pit in my stomach every morning when i wake up and realise he’s not real

[snoopysupe]

I love him sooo bad my heart would’ve bursted knowing my husband’s empathy saves lives :’)

“I’m sorry our honeymoon plans got postponed. Well, part of me isn’t sorry, because the people of Jarhanpur need help. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the honeymoon entirely with that thought in the back of my head…Anyway, here—”

!!!!! he really is the best husband

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also something i love so dearly is when someone drops an ask into my inbox and it starts with koolie. feels like ur reading my name tag at work i love it

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*tapping a microphone before holding it up* koolie how does it feel to be the koolest writer and most talented. the people want to know.

[writers-bane]

How it feels to finally string 5 coherent sentences together after a writing block

[oscar-piastri]

David Corenswet | BBC Radio 1

[snoopysupe]

Omg soo excited for your knight!Clark fics!! Will he still have his powers? Or are making that part different?

tysm pookie!! i think there will be elements of his powers but not the full thing. his helmet is the replacement for his glasses to conceal that identity 😭

[snoopysupe]

loved princess ! reader … she’s up there with my girl elasticgirl! reader for sure

AN OG!!!!! omg thank you so much

[snoopysupe]

the college au was adorableee i love how clark didn’t want their first kiss being a pretend one 😭

he said these lips will lock with honesty ONLY

[snoopysupe]

can’t believe i abandoned my johnny storm fic so quickly

[astrotheyge]

Ryan Gosling as Ryland Grace Project Hail Mary (2026)

[therealcalicali]

Excalibur, 1981

[kryptidfiles]

Starving

Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x gf!Reader | 3.75k Summary: Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most. Tags: 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, praise kink, oral (m receiving), kinda cock worship?, deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, reader wears a dress, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)

took all day to write this, frantically with one hand. i'm sorry I don't have it in me to edit. you get whatever my lil brain gives. Thank you @honey-on-your-tongue for talking some sense into me to just write

main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries

You’d been waiting for Clark to come home for two agonizing hours.

Your little black dress miraculously hadn’t wrinkled despite your nervous pacing, dramatic sighs, the way you kept sinking onto the couch only to stand again, too restless, too warm, too annoyed to sit still for more than thirty seconds.

Every slow lap from the couch to the tall windows and back again only made the ache between your thighs grow slicker, more insistent, your body winding itself tighter around his absence.

By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.

The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.

Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.

Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.

You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.

Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.

You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.

Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.

Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.

His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.

In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.

Nothing big or expensive.

Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.

But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.

A slow turn in the hallway.

A sharp, lifted brow.

Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.

You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.

Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.

Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.

Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.

It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.

You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.

And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.

Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.

You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.

If there was a reason, he would tell you.

If there was blood, he would hide it badly.

If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.

-

You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.

Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.

Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.

Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.

Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.

Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.

"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?

At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.

It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.

Then guilt struck his features like lightning.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"

He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.

That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.

His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.

The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.

But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.

“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”

You frowned, worried.

Of course you were.

Always, when it came to your Clark.

But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.

Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.

Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.

A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.

“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.

He stopped mid-stride.

You pointed. “Flowers?”

He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.

"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"

Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.

Shit. You wanted him now.

"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"

"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.

The rambling died in his throat.

His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.

Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.

Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.

"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.

Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"

He nodded, still staring.

"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."

"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"

"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."

Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"

"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Shut up."

You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.

For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.

Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.

His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.

The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.

Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.

One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.

God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.

You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.

“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”

Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.

The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.

Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.

Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.

Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.

Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.

Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.

"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.

A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.

"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.

"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.

"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”

“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”

His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."

"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."

The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.

You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, pumping him a few times before notching the fat head between your parted lips. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm, made your mouth water with primal anticipation.

Leaning in and parting wider, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of attention.

Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.

"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."

Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.

For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.

Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.

“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.

The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.

"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"

You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.

"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”

Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.

“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.

The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.

His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.

"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"

Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.

His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.

"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”

You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.

Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"

His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.

With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.

Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along the shaft.

You kept sucking gently long after, lazily nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, blissful whimpers slipped from his lips.

Only then did you pull off his massive length with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.

Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you caught your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection that made your cunt clench and squirm to once again chase that heat.

Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.

"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.

"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."

The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.

Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.

And the night had barely even started.

.

.

Tags: @sphynxx @untilmynextstory @sevinaqia @animegamerfox @dreaming-starlet @catsdenia @friedunknownphantom @garfieldhollander @httpstoyosi @alexandritte80 @may-machin @snowsgames @athenxt @kristne13 @nobeautywithoutstrangeness @wtfrudoinhere @thel0v3hashira143 @vanillapjm @doctorwhoandfairytaillover @marvel-hiddles-stark @foremma444 @yyiikes @kooquetre @niceforcum22 @tw1sters @strawbvrrystrgirl @pinksplace @ticklish-leafy-plant @crazycatchloe @clarknsun @rynwritesstuff @luvekent @lilypad-55449 @serenityrjd @stellarbstar @a-lumos-in-the-nox @thychuvaluswife @sparklingsin @punkrockrr @sunlightkent @thceseus @mollymal @thceseus @anon-188 @yesshewrites1 @ackleskisser-mp4 @maiamore @rh1nestcned @planet-cutieee

[snoopysupe]

JUST WANNA BE WITH YOU | Clark Kent

pairing: clark kent / f!reader.

word count: 6.3k

content: college au. two idiots in love. yearning. theatre kid!reader and very hsm/off-campus coded. mild angst. some miscommunication & kissing. from this request!

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST

“She said it was one audition!”

Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen exchanged a look.

Their close and personal friend, Clark Kent, with an armful of folders and books, was exasperation incarnate and had been for—and Lois had been counting—the ten minute walk on campus to their shared class.

He was outwardly flapping. Over an issue he had put himself in by being a lovesick idiot with a hard time telling you ‘no.’

Or, ‘no thanks’ you know…if you were Clark Kent levels of polite.

You. His best friend since the sandpit in kindergarten, the one with her head in the clouds with Clark giving you the boost up to touch them. The epitome of chase your dreams until you’ve built enough stamina in order to catch them. The one who pushed Clark Kent’s boundaries, enticed him into the Met U with the meaty bait of journalism and some leafy theatre auditions on the side.

It was safe to say you were central to Clark’s gravity, which made it a hard case to reject your proposition when you came bounding up to him, post extracurriculars with a pink pamphlet scrunched in your hand and a grin that reached your ears.

It was meant to be one audition. You wanted the lead for the Spring Musical, and the catch was: you needed someone to audition with.

So, with some gentle coaxing and a flutter of your lashes, Clark caved and agreed to be your partner in the one audition. He knew firsthand how deep your love ran for theatre and, if it meant it could project you into the lead role…well, Clark was there to assist your already glowing personality with some lines that sort of made his head dizzy with romantic tension.

Plus, he’d never miss an opportunity to watch you to shine at the centre of a stage once you snagged the lead.

One audition. He had repeated, over and over.

You waved him off with a roll of your eyes, knowing deep down, Clark Kent loved the stage just as much as you did behind all that murky journalism talk. It took a week to rehearse the lines, go over the tone of the scenes that the Drama Department had hand selected to find the stars of their Spring Musical and reassure Clark that he’d survive a ten minute audition if he just kept his eyes on you.

(Plus, you promised to buy him a greasy pizza afterward.)

The audition process went as smooth as it could go. With or without Clark, you were a star in the making. Your talent shone bright in the empty auditorium, and you remained as professional as ever when Clark forgot his place because, really, you were distracting.

In a, I’m-deeply-in-love-with-you, wish-this-was-my-reality, way.

So much so, Clark didn’t notice the side glances and subtle nods between the production’s director and his band of student directors and department faculty members.

It took a week to find out.

You had sprinted across campus in shoes that weren’t made for a muscle burning sprint. Wide-eyed and practically jittering with excitement, it took everything in you to not burst through the doors of the lecture Clark had been sitting in. Once the class was dismissed, you were an immovable object stationed in the middle of the doorway, other students brushing past you with judgemental stares as you paid no mind to them. You craned your neck in search of one person: your potential love interest in the Spring Musical.

When you had told Clark that you both had received a callback for a chemistry read, well, he visibly paled.

“But, I didn’t…I didn’t even sign up for it.”

You were vibrating on the spot from the adrenaline.

“Yeah, but isn’t that amazing? You were so good, they signed you up anyway!” you squealed, “Clark! It’ll be like that one play we did in kindergarten, remember? You cried when you had to kiss me, even though that is the whole point of Princess and the Frog.”

“Yeah, and it was the last play I ever did.” Clark mumbled at the thought. You and him on the rickety stage in front of a sea of parents. Clark drenched in green paint and a frog head, and you in a Princess dress with puckered lips. Never again.

You dropped your head back with a groan, “Come on, Clark! Where’s your sense of adventure? I know it’s in there, big guy. You loved theatre before you decided to become a gossip.”

“Journalist.” Clark corrected.

With his feet firmly planted on not taking the audition further to a chemistry read, Clark watched you begin to deflate, shoulders dropped, the most memorable smile dimming as the realisation set in that he wasn’t going to walk alongside you in this.

You began to pout.

Oh good. He absolutely hated when you did that.

Your eyes dropped to the callback sheet in your hands, “I just thought…it would be fun to do it together again. Just like old times. You know, in your treehouse.”

Golly gosh, you were made for acting.

Tugging at the one heartstring that had Clark Kent fold like a lawn chair. Whilst he was playing checkers, you were play chess. And, boy, did you know how to win.

Clark exhaled through his nostrils. “Fine. Fine! I’ll do it.” you shed your misery, perking up as Clark pointed a finger at you, “This is the last time, Ham. The last time.”

(It wouldn’t be. He also occasionally called you Ham when you chewed the fat out of a scene.)

You took an exaggerated bow. “And, scene.” You then clapped your hands together before wrapping them around Clark’s bicep and giving him a shake, “You won’t regret this, Smallville. I’ll get you a copy of the script, callback is on Friday, we can rehearse the whole kissing scene after my shift tonight. I gotta go. Love you!”

Clark stopped listening after the word ‘kiss’ got involved and you left him in the dust to run back to the other side of campus for your own class.

Kiss?

Clark suddenly became aware of his skin. And, how tight it felt.

That’s where Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen found him. All frigid with his lips parted, as if he had just been delivered the most earth-shattering news.

“You okay, buddy?” Jimmy waved a hand in front of Clark’s face, looking back to Lois with mild concern for their friend.

After Clark was pulled back into the present time, he then unleashed a slew of verbal panic onto his friends who were more than aware of his die-hard feelings for his best friend. Hands gesticulate, waving around with little regard to spacial awareness, Clark found himself worrying over the physical contact he had dreamt of having with you.

Just not like this.

“Clark.” Lois interjected at a stopping point in Clark’s hysteria. She started, “Think of it like this. You are a journalist in the making.” Clark nodded, “And what do journalists do? They take advantage of opportunities! This could be your moment to tell her how you truly feel.”

Jimmy agreed. “Yeah, man. This could be your Troy Bolton moment.”

Lois and Clark stared at him.

“Is that what you watch in your spare time, Jimmy?” Lois asked pointedly with an amused smile growing on her face.

The easy answer for a college student would have been porn. Not some starry-eyed high schoolers with a love for the theatre.

Jimmy went for the latter.

“This is a safe space, right?” He winced.

“Guys, please.” Clark pleaded, “I really thought it was one audition to help her out. Not—Not get cast myself and have to kiss her. Without feelings getting involved. I can’t seriously separate that. She can.”

Lois sipped at her sugary coffee, “How do you know that, though? Have you asked her?”

“No!”

With the doors to the class within reach, Lois tossed her half-drunken coffee into the trash and stopped at the door with a less than impressed look. Clark and Jimmy could always count on Lois Lane to cut the shit and tell them how she really felt about their issues.

It was sort of evident that she was bored of Clark’s inability to use his words to get him places.

So, she decided to level with him. In a really mean way. (He’d thank her later.)

“Then don’t. Let someone else take your spot, let them take the opportunity to do the chemistry read with her. Kiss her.” she shrugged, “Perhaps she’ll catch feelings for them with it being so close proximity and all. I’ve met her. She wants a movie-like romance. And guess who would do that?”

Clark scrunched his nose up. “Really good actors?”

It’s as if he hadn’t been listening at all.

“Opportunists, Clark.” Lois patted his back,“Get your big boy pants on and break a leg.”

𓈓

After a less than eventful shift at the local college bar, you trudged out of the building with a pizza box in your grasp, waving to your co-worker before finding Clark Kent leaning against the lamppost opposite the bar, hands in his pockets and a dimpled smile.

Handsome. He looked ridiculously handsome.

You crossed the road and strolled up to your friend who graciously slipped the tote bag off of your shoulder, throwing it over his own.

“Here. For my pizza loving co-star.” You encouraged the warm pizza box into Clark’s hands. You were quick to add when he opened the lid, “Made fresh. Definitely not leftovers pushed together to make a new pizza.”

Clark chuckled and shut the lid, “The mismatched pizza cuts definitely don’t make it obvious.”

“You work with what you’ve got, Smallville.” You gave a shrug before brightly redirecting the conversation, “Oh—! I got you the script for the chemistry read. Do you want to go over them at mine?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Clark swallowed hard.

Clark went on autopilot for the rest of the walk. With the occasional nod and hum of interest as you waved your hands around, face beaming as you spoke about the plot for the Spring Musical, he managed to get away with minimal engagement in the conversation.

From what he did hear, he got the gist that the story of the play was about boy meet girl, boy falls first, and falls harder. Fantasy style. It all seemed apt, considering the circumstances.

You led him up to your two bedroom apartment, shared with your co-worker at the bar who also doubled as one of your closer friends from a different friendship circle.

That was something Clark admired about you, amongst other things. Your ability to walk into a room of strangers and leave with fifty new friends. Theatre kids just exude charisma, he supposed.

You’d do great at networking.

With your friend giving you the clearance of the whole apartment—she was busy with her hockey boyfriend—you and Clark entered the cosy apartment, where you and your friend really utilised every corner of the tiniest apartment known to man.

It was all fairy lights, pastel paper chains that you had made whilst watching Hamilton, and other vibrant decor that screamed two young women creating a safe space for themselves.

As you dropped your keys into the trinket dish, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

“That’s probably my roommate.” You mumbled as you fished your phone out. The screen lit up to reveal your lockscreen of a photo-booth scan of Clark and you, smooshing your faces together with silly expressions.

The text was from your roommate.

It read: good luck in getting some!!!

You had never swiped a notification so fast.

“You wanna eat in my bedroom?” You turned to Clark to shake the heat crawling up your neck.

Part of you realised how that sounded. A double entendre to some sick individual—including yourself. But, this was Clark Kent, your best friend who wouldn’t understand a sexual innuendo, even if it smacked him hard in the face. Trust, you’ve tried.

None the wiser, Clark gave a curt nod, seemingly a little more on the quiet side since walking to your apartment with a—now—lukewarm mismatched pizza in his grasp.

Once in your bedroom, you sat comfortably on the floor across, but not distant, from Clark who was horizontal on his side, head propped up on his hand that was curled into a fist. You carried the conversation, for the most part, talking over the counter gossip that happened at the bar, and how you got hit on twice by two different men whilst they were sat right next to each other.

Clark didn’t like that part. It made his stomach churn something awful.

The conversation soon turned to the script that you happily pulled from your tote bag with greasy fingers. You handed a copy to Clark, and straightened your posture as you began to flip through the pages of the upcoming scene you were required to perform at the chemistry read.

Clark stared at the script as if it had three heads. In fact, it would’ve been easier to wrangle if it had been some type of three-headed beast tormenting a city. His fingertips brushed the corner of the front page, the inside of his cheek chewed between his molars at the inevitable kiss scene that lay within.

“Alright. So, we can just bounce off of each other with the lines, sort of iron out the mood we want to go for, how we’re going to move around each other.” you flicked through the pages as you spoke, “And, obviously, the kissing part.”

Clark gulped at that. “So…is, is the kiss on the mouth? I can’t—” he rapidly turned the pages, “—I can’t see where they’re supposed to kiss. Are you sure that’s in here?”

You leant across the now empty pizza box, your citrus blend perfume intoxicating to Clark who openly stared at your facial features whilst you stared at his copy of the script. When you tapped the second last page, it broke Clark out of his trance.

You gave him a smile that made him realise he was behaving odd, and not so much as the best friend just hanging out in your room.

What you said next would project Clark Kent into uncharted territory with zero navigation skills to remove himself safely.

“We can just get the kiss part out of the way.” You spoke with part of a pizza crust in your mouth. “It’ll be easier if we nail that. The production director is a real stickler for convincing kisses and all that PDA sort of stuff. Make the audience believe it!”

Clark let out a short, and false chuckle to smother the nerves boiling up inside him. He felt like a pressure cooker on the verge of being, well, too pressurised. Internal temperature at an all time high, Clark stood from his spot on the floor—his hands tugging at his curls—before he sat on the edge of your bed with a seasick paleness to him.

The theatre kid in you felt the need to reference Wicked by saying: ‘You’re green!’ with a gasp. It might’ve made him laugh.

Logically speaking, Clark didn’t look as if he was in the mood for Wicked references.

“Talk to me, Smallville.” You chose to say, because as you grew up, you had learnt that there was a time and a place for your passion for the theatre.

Clark rubbed at his chest, “I just—” he shook his head, “—I don’t think I can do it.”

You blinked.

“Okaaay.” You drawled, “Do you want to regroup tomorrow? Was it the pizza? I know it was sort of gross to piece different slices from different plates into one but—”

Clark cut you off, “No.” he paused to look up at you, “Can we just skip the kissing part for the time being?”

Shit, you were feeling so desirable right now.

Your shoulders dropped, “Clark, come on. It’s not real, none of this is real…Plus, I’m really trying to take this whole method acting approach—”

You continued your definition of what method acting meant to you, lost in your own little world, you weren’t hearing your friend’s gentle protests.

As he spoke, you spoke too.

”I can’t do it.”

“—I mean, not the Jared Leto as the Joker type of method acting, something more subtle—”

Clark said your name sharply.

You paused and watched him pull his lips into a thin line.

“Look. I get it,” you sank onto the mattress next to him, “The beauty about acting is you can close your eyes and pretend it is anyone else but me.” your smile faltered, “Although, not to blow my own horn, but I am a pret-ty good kisser.”

Oh, he didn’t doubt that part.

The part Clark doubted was his own ability to compartmentalise his almost decade long crush on his best friend, when it came to kissing her for the love of the theatre and not because you two had come to the conclusion that you were two peas in a pod. A match made in heaven. All the good stuff that Clark thought about on a daily basis, and knew you wouldn’t be able to see past a script that forced a kiss rather than welcomed it.

This was ultimately your craft. A soon-to-be actress that had the strength to kiss co-stars without latching onto the way they held you, or how their lips lingered against yours as they pulled away.

If you went through with the kiss, Clark feared he wouldn’t be able to differentiate between what was real or fake with you.

When the silence grew wider, you spoke again, unaware of the gasoline you were throwing on an open fire.

“Hey.” you nudged him with your shoulder, “Am I really that repulsive?”

Clark whipped his head to the side to look at you, “No. That isn’t what this is about.”

“Okay…then—Ooh! Just could just act like you’re kissing Lois instead of me! She’s pretty. You guys seem to get along.” You put on a brave smile, your voice quieter towards the tail end on your proposition.

(You had alread been rejected once by Clark Kent, dressed as a green frog and you, an obnoxiously pink princess. You’d be able to handle a second rejection. You think.)

Clark stood up from your bed. And quick.

“Enough!” He snapped and it made the room grow two sizes too small for the both of you to be residing in. His nostrils flared as he spoke, “I don’t want to kiss Lois. I don’t want to kiss you. Not like this.”

You frowned, “Not like this? What are you—? What does that mean?”

“This was a mistake.” Clark said quietly, gathering his belongings in one large palm, “I’m sorry. Find someone else to do the callback.”

𓈓

“So, he just left after that?”

The umbrella to your Piña Colada stabbed at the crushed ice as your roommate debriefed with you over some mediocre cocktails at the college bar you worked at. You were off the clock. She wasn’t.

Drink was on the house. (What your boss didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.)

She leant against the sticky bar top, face dripping with the same concern she had when you burst through the doors to the bar, thirty minutes after she sent you the good luck text.

Part of her thought she might’ve been the bad omen to all of this.

“Poof. Gone.”

Alright, maybe it wasn’t the first drink on the house. Maybe the second, or third-th? You were a lightweight. And, the menu behind your roommates head was starting to look a lot more like alphabet soup.

You dropped your head to the sticky wood and groaned.

“I’m un-kissable.” You mumbled.

Your friend patted your back, “Not true. Half the hockey team pester me for your number.”

“God!” You ignored her previous statement with your fists pressed into your eyes, “I’ve never seen Clark so upset! I must’ve hit a nerve when I said he could pretend he was kissing Lois.”

“…You said that?”

With your fists removed from your eyes, you peeled one open, “Yeah.” A wooden spoon smacked you in the middle of the forehead with a neat little ‘thwack!’ You let out a yelp, “What the hell was that for?”

“You have been crushing over this guy for how long? This was an opportunity, which by the way, you created, in order to speed up the process!” you took a long sip of the watered down Piña Colada as she chastised you, “And you tell him to think of another woman?”

She was right.

The whole reason Clark had been roped into the callback was down to meticulous planning on your behalf. You planted a few seeds here and there, meddled in some forgery of signatures, and tipped the student director of Clark Kent’s extensive background in theatre, despite him burying it under a mound of dirt to chase his journalist dream in Met U.

Love made you do weird things. Desperate, clinging to false hope, type of things where you jeopardised a life-long friendship on a what if?

It just seemed as if history had repeated itself. You had done the same in kindergarten—at a much lower level of tenacity—so Clark could play the frog that you kissed.

And then he burst into tears on the stage.

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” You finally spoke, “And, then he said something like—” you deepened your voice and squared your shoulders to re-enact as Clark, “—Not like this. Like what does that even mean? He’s so annoying.”

You dropped your chin into your palm, chasing the pink straw in the glass with your mouth. Eyes heavy with the alcoholic buzz, you missed the blatant look of disbelief that your roommate wore. If you weren’t however many Piña Coladas deep, you might’ve prodded at that look. Instead, you closed your eyes; your roommate chuckling to herself as she wiped down the counter around you.

𓈓

The next few days were a blur.

You aided a mighty hangover on the Wednesday, helped with props in the Drama Department on the Thursday, and by time Friday rolled around; the mere thought of the callbacks gave you a stomachache.

This was your dream! Lead roles, an auditorium filled to watch you perform, the costumes, the set design, every fine detail that created the immersive storytelling was engrained in your DNA to make you thrive in it.

So, why didn’t it feel that way?

You had arrived at the auditorium with some wishful thinking set aside that you could flash a wicked smile at one of the tech guys, and have them miraculously accumulated enough magnetic spark with you that it was convincing to the overseers of the production.

At least you could count on your sense of optimism to have your back.

It was so undeterred by things such as reality.

You paced the backstage, listening to the two other contenders for the lead roles who had been called before you for their chemistry read—Lex and Eve—who had been a popular Met U couple for months now. Eve was on the brighter end of the spectrum, whimsical and bubbly, everything needed for the Drama Department. Lex was…he was there. To be really shallow, he wasn’t much to look at—your type was more tall, dark and Clark—and you never appreciated how he treated the epitome of sunshine and flowers beside him; so you allowed yourself the surface level judgement.

They were great. You were sure they had got it in the bag, being a couple and all. Chemistry just falls naturally with that.

Part of you was biased, because you knew all the people who strived for the same goal as you at Met U. You had always waited for that Hollywood greed, where you would happily step on a few heads to get to the top. So far, it hadn’t reared its ugly head.

Once they had wrapped up their audition, one of the artistic director found you backstage with a large question mark over her head.

“Where’s your partner?” She asked, not in an accusatory way, but you still shrunk under her gaze.

Clark had gone radio silent on you. Which, even when you had argued in the past, was out of character for him. He was hanging you out to dry. (You were also sure he had received the three voicemails you had drunkenly left him, telling him off for being such a confusing heap of ass.)

Probably didn’t help your case.

That’s karmic retribution for you.

It was a life lesson. Don’t meddle with the arts. They’ll just meddle back. In a much meaner way.

“He…took a rain check?” you say. Unconvincingly.

The older woman jutted her hip out and tilted her head. “You know this is a two person audition. You can’t do the callback if you don’t have a partner.”

“Heard. But, let me pitch this. Isn’t the art of performance to convince the audience of something produced from our imaginations?” you followed the director down the narrow corridor, “The story follows a knight who falls in love with a nymph. He sacrifices his old life to drink from the river of eternity, in order to spend the rest of his days with her. That’s ridiculous, we all know men don’t sacrifice anything but women.” you winced at the stare down you were given for your choice of wording, “He can be a figment of her imagination! She’s crazy! I can do crazy.”

“No partner, no audition.”

You groan, “Look, I really want this lead role. I’ve made peace with not getting it, if you let me just do the callback.”

The director shook her head sympathetically, “Sorry, hon. You know the rules. Your partner bailed…” she watched you deflate, “Maybe try for the Winter Musical.”

“Yeah.”

She began to drag a red line across your name, when her train of thought was interrupted.

“Wait—!” A third voice entered the dampened atmosphere of rejection, making you both turn in the direction that it came from. Clark Kent stood with the script scrunched in his hands like a wet rag, his ears flushed pink from the two sets of eyes pinned to him. He cleared his throat, “—I’m here. For the callback.”

His blue eyes remained on you as he sheepishly approached.

“No.” You crossed your arms as a last line of defence.

The director averted her gaze to you, “No?”

“No!” you repeated, “No, you don’t just get to—to waltz in here and do the callback with me.” a finger pressed into Clark’s chest. Shit, he was solid, “You bailed on me.”

Clark nodded, “I know. I was an ass.” he licked his lips to moisten them, “This is your dream right? The stage, the scripts, the audience there for you.” you nodded along, “Well, you once told me to chase my dreams until I’ve built enough stamina to catch them. I think—I think we both know that I’ve got enough stamina to keep chasing you and your dreams for the rest of my life.”

You blinked at him, rendered speechless; which was a rare commodity.

(He was right about the stamina thing. You had witnessed it firsthand when he outran a whole field of athletes without breaking a sweat.)

And just like that, you were back to loving Clark again.

“I, uh—” You looked to your trusted director for some…direction.

She gave you a smug smile with her brows raised, “You have two minutes until you need to be on stage.” she sized Clark up as she turned, “Think knight desperate for love.”

Without another word shared, you and Clark stumbled back to the costumes that had been hung up on a clothes rail. There were spots in your vision—and not out of nerves for the audition—as you slid the hangers across the metal poles to find some accurate costume design that screamed ‘a yearning knight.’

You threw fabric at Clark, who bent at the waist to jump into trousers whilst you tossed a velvet royal blue cape around his broad shoulders, with the plastic sword to match the aesthetic.

He looked you up and down in your own costume. A headband of flowers glued onto metal wires that had been warped to make it seem as if the flower heads were floating and a dress that cinched in at your waist, accentuating your body shape in ways that had Clark’s mouth watering a little.

He gave you a dimpled grin, “You look so good.”

(What the hell was going on?)

“Shut up.” You mumbled.

Your names were called from the wings and you shot up, wide-eyed and swallowing the anxieties that clawed their way up your throat. You could do this, even with your eyes closed. The auditorium was your stomping ground and this callback? Was a piss in the breeze.

Well, it was supposed to be.

Until Clark showed up with a more upfront approach on complimenting you.

“It’ll be okay.” Clark whispered as you walked in unison into the wings, “This is what you do, what you were always meant to do.”

You grasped at his wrist, “Did you even memorise your lines?”

“Yes.” Clark said bluntly, “Just—Just look at me.”

“That’s the whole point of a chemistry read, Clark.” You seethed.

Clark mockingly nodded along, his fingertips coming to brush your hips and—gently—manhandle you, so you were on the side closest to the end of the stage as you walked out. You gave him a quick glance, close to bringing the back of your hand to his forehead to see if he was running a fever; since he was behaving completely out of character.

Soon the worry for your friend’s mental state swirled down the drain as you stepped on the mark across from him, the production team sat together with the script laid in front of them and a clipboard each to take notes on the performance.

You took a deep breath, the type that filled your lungs to full capacity whilst Clark reassured you silently with a simple nod and a subtle thumbs up beneath the fabric of the cape.

The scene began, and as expected, you had learnt the script inside out. The mood of the scene deconstructed and put back together in the most impressive way, that had you flowing around the stage as if you were living the reality created from ink on a paper.

One of the team—unbeknownst to you—had written on his clipboard: As if I had shaken the book, and she dropped out.

Clark watched you dazzle, fingernails pressed hard into the flesh of his palm to keep him grounded to the scene. Seeing as his moment was coming up, he needed to shake the distraction off of him.

“But, knight.” you gestured to him, “I cannot let you sacrifice all that you have…for me.”

(Give him a moment. That was his queue.)

Clark coughed, “Uh,” he let out a short laugh, his brows furrowed, “It is not a sacrifice, if I love you.”

You affirmed his words with one bob of your head.

Clark straightened as he looked at you, realisation beginning to seep into his bones as he took a breath. “I love you. From the moment you put grains of sand in my hair in the sandpit—” Oh no, “—and from every moment onward. Even dressed as a frog, with you awaiting your kiss and I cried, because I couldn’t do it. I loved you, even then.”

With a shake of your head, you gritted your teeth to attempt to telepathically ask him what he was doing, whilst the production team in the audience siphoned through the script to try find the place where the knight referenced a sandpit.

You glanced at them from your peripheral, sweat beginning to bead down your spine.

“I have this great heap of love and admiration, with nowhere to put it.” Clark added, losing himself in the confession that had been a longtime coming. He sniffed, “I want to put it all with you. Not—Not in a friendship way anymore. More…more in a Suddenly Seymour type of way.”

Oh. The ball dropped in your head.

Clark wasn’t sabotaging the callback. He was confessing. Movie-style.

He stared at you with raw emotion, “You know? From—”

“Little Shop of Horrors. Yeah.” You interjected, suddenly blind to the audition at hand.

Your best friend chuckled, “Yeah. Of course. Musicals.” His face dropped into a sort of pained expression of longing, “Golly. I love you. I just want to be with you. I—I wanted to kiss you. Just—”

“Not like this.” you interrupted again and your boots carried you a few metres to meet him in the middle. Arms thrown around his neck, you pulled Clark down to kiss him.

Now, you’ve had kisses before. Some staged, some at the bar with a few drinks knocked back. They weren’t bad, but they weren’t this good.

Clark wound his arms around your middle, large enough that his whole body encased you as he melted into the kiss that you had initiated. A low groan of content, elicited from the back of his throat when you threaded your fingers between his curls with one tug and a smile against his lips. Martha Kent had raised him respectful, but the way you kissed had him conjuring up a few scenarios in his head as he kissed you back.

He pulled you flushed against his own chest, the burning desire that had been harboured for years, finally unleashed; and he had no intention of letting you slip through his fingers again.

Eventually, you pulled back with a couple of pecks, noses nudged with smiles as wide as the Cheshire cats.

“Ahem.”

You broke apart with a shove to Clark’s chest.

The head of the department peered over her glasses at you both, her expression unreadable as she stood with the rest of the team with scripts and clipboards in hand, and the intention of scrubbing their eyes clean from the graphic kiss they had just witnessed on stage. Probably.

With your breath laboured, you pressed your fingertips to your swollen lips and quietly apologised.

“You’ll hear from us in a week.” The director advised with a tone that came across rather aloof. As she began to leave, she called over her shoulder, “Turn the lights off once you’re finished.”

The lights were turned off after two hours together.

Thump, thump, thump!

“FBI! Open up!”

Clark startled from his sleep, all bleary eyes and in a daze as he scrambled to put on his glasses. And a shirt. He needed a shirt. The incessant hammering against his door continued as he slid on his socks through the apartment, losing a fight with a sweater sleeve.

He rubbed at his eyes beneath the frame of his glasses, one eye scrunched shut so he could peer through the spyhole.

There you were. Stood in nothing but pyjamas and ridiculously large slippers shaped like dinosaur feet. You were bouncing on the spot, pink pamphlet gripped in your hand as you awaited access to Clark’s dorm room.

“What’s the password?” your head shot to look at the spyhole from the other side of the door, head dropped to the side in impatience. Clark grinned at that.

You banged on the door with your fist, “Let me in, Clark.”

“I don’t know. I think the whole dorm needs to see those slippers.” His hand reached for the latch slowly. You were glaring at him through the door now.

Arms folded, you pulled your lips into a frown, “Alright. You wanna play ball, Smallville?”

(Actually, no. He didn’t. You played dirty.)

The door swung open to prevent any of Clark’s little quirks being spread across the dormitory from his loud-mouthed girlfriend. Yes. There was little deliberation or time spent coming up with that label after he professed his love to you on stage. In front of your superiors.

Everyone heard it was a real tongue-fest.

You walked past him, only to be caught by your wrist and gently yanked back. Your protest smothered by Clark pressing a hot kiss against your lips, his own lips curled into a smile as he pecked you a handful of times.

“Good morning.” He mumbled against your lips.

You sighed happily, “Morning, big guy.” you regrettably pulled away, “I’ve got some news!” you said giddily whilst waving the pink pamphlet in his face.

The casting choices had been made for the Spring Musical. From your body language, Clark could only suppose it was good news, despite the derailing of the script. That was his bad. (He made up for it.)

He copied your glee—because you were simply infectious—before taking the paper from your hand and smoothing it out to read.

His eyes slowly dropped down the list of names and their role in the play.

Clark frowned.

“Baby, I’m sorry.” His eyes returned to your face, a little confused as to why you seemed so elated, “You didn’t get the lead role. This is my fault—”

“Did you read it?” you stood on your tiptoes to read the paper upside down. Your finger tapped aggressively at the very bottom line of the page, “Clark! We’re trees! In every scene!”

You gave Clark little time to react before you lunged at his body, legs wrapped around his waist—Clark quick to grasp as your backside to keep you from hitting the ground—as you squeaked in delight at the idea of having to stand for almost two hours in a cardboard tree design with your boyfriend by your side.

You gave his neck a tight squeeze with your arms before pulling back to kiss him.

“I love you.” Clark whispered into the kiss.

“You too, Tree Number 2.”

[novatheory]

smooth & flat. loki x reader

Summary: A picnic with Loki is not completely without accusing him of using magic. Tags/warnings: I tried researching bodies of waters but ended up giving up SORRY if any water experts want to chime in pls help, he/him pronouns for Loki, no gendered pronouns for Reader, no use of y/n for Reader, anything else - let me know! wc: 2k 𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ don’t forget — a reblog is a writer’s best friend! 

You pack everything up before you ask.

You figure that forgiveness is better than permission—and in any case, you don’t live in a world where Loki often tells you no.

Two sandwiches, a sleeve of chocolate cookies, a tall thermos of blackberry lemonade, all laid on top of a soft, multicolored quilt, all carefully packed inside of a wicker basket.

A fine selection for an afternoon picnic, if you do say so yourself. 

The only thing that seemed to be missing from your carefully crafted array was your plus one for the afternoon. 

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long for you to find him, stored away at the cluttered desk in his otherwise neat study—his head craned over a stack of papers, idly scribbling his ink pen. 

You approach softly, but not quietly, with hands sliding against the tops of his shoulders.

Loki leans back in his chair, the back meeting your sternum. 

“Ah. The fates have answered my call,” he murmurs, head tilting back. His blue eyes meet yours, the pretty green flakes around his pupils sparkling. He still looks tired, you think. Kept inside too long. "Hello."

You hum softly, squeezing his shoulders. The muscle feels tense underneath the soft fabric of his shirt. "Come on a walk with me,” you say. 

Not a question.

Loki scoffs. "My dear, I'm in the very middle of my work. You want me to leave to go on a walk?" He pauses, like he expects you to answer.  

You think about pinching him. 

A grin breaks out on his face. "I'll get my boots."

You duck over his shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Meet me at the front door!” 

000 

The weather’s unusually warm, a complete opposite from the nonstop rainy days that seem to have taken over the past month’s forecast.

But the breeze blows just enough to make it feel pleasant to be outside, and the trees that litter the path from home to river provide just enough shade that it doesn’t feel like your skin is on fire. 

Loki carries your basket underneath one arm. You’d protested initially when he took it, but it was nice to walk without the burden of the pack. 

Your face tilts upward towards the sun. “This is nice,” you say. 

“Indeed,” Loki replies. His cheeks already show a healthy, pink glow. 

You bump into his hip on purpose. 

Loki reaches out, hand brushing against your wrist. He lingers, then takes your palm against his, fingers gliding between yours. 

His skin is cool to the touch. An illusion, you think. A gift against the heat. You squeeze his hand once in thanks. 

000

The river looks exactly the same as the last time you trekked out with Loki. Clear water and beautiful weeping trees; grass overgrown to the point of comfort. 

Loki walks over to one of the taller trees, sitting the basket down at the base of its roots. He gives you an expectant look. 

It only takes a few steps for you to catch up to him, bending over to open the basket and mindfully pull the quilt out. With a few quick shakes, the blanket unfurls, expanding to let you place it against the ground. 

“Historically, a good spot,” Loki muses. He waits for you to sit before he follows, wasting no time in unlacing his boots. 

“I’m glad I picked it.” You stretch out on the blanket, palms pressing into the plush grass. You can just barely see the blue sky through the leaves. 

You don’t need to look over to know that Loki rolls his eyes at your comment, or that he has already settled against the tree like some ancient thing; you only need to feel the gentle tug as he moves your feet from the blanket to his lap.

“I was under the impression that we were a team.”

“We are.” You tilt your chin to look at him now—shaded by the tree, dark hair down in waves, long fingers tapping against your ankle. Peaceful. “I find the good spots. You carry heavy things.” 

“I recall you saying, at least once, that I’m also good at finding spots.” His voice has an edge of teasing in it—flirting, mixed with unashamed insinuation.  

You poke a toe into his abdomen. 

He laughs, circling your ankle with his hand. “Easy,” Loki murmurs. 

The last thing you see before you lay back on the quilt is that smugly satisfied look on his face. 

000

Eventually, the growling of your stomach prompts you to sit up again. Emptying the basket, you spread the food out between you and Loki. 

He picks up the thermos while you open the sleeve of cookies. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a frost forming around the curve of the container. 

“Dramatic.” 

“It’s a million degrees outside,” Loki retorts. 

“Like I said.” 

“I heard thank you.” Loki places the thermos back in its spot. “And you’re welcome.” 

You hand him a wrapped sandwich, quiet except for the small smile pulling at your lips. Loki takes it, unwrapping the paper with care. 

000 

At some point after eating, Loki’s head ends up in your lap. His eyes close not long after your fingers thread through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 

“Are you asleep?” Your fingers pause in his hair when you ask. 

“Mm. No.”

“You look like you’re asleep.” 

“Sleeping requires more silence,” Loki mutters, an eyelid cracking. He raises an eyebrow at you. You smooth a finger against it. 

You realize, not for the first time, how easily he lets you touch him. How often you want to touch him.

Just because. 

The heartbeat in your chest makes itself more known, a solid thumping that sounds like he’s still here—and that might be the crux of it. 

He is still here. He is still peaceful. Your peace. And it feels all too fragile. 

“You should let me pluck these,” you say. Your tone is higher than you intended it to be. 

Not privy to your thoughts, Loki closes his eyes again. “My eyebrows are fine,” he says, smooth and unbothered, “and will not be sacrificed for your amusement.” 

“You’re hardly in a position of power right now.”

“I am exactly where I prefer to be,” Loki answers. “Though perhaps you would prefer a different activity?” 

“Do you have a suggestion?” You ask, fingers idly returning to their task of raking through his hair. “Or simply speculation?” 

Loki tsks. “Neither, dear heart.”

000

The sky hits its highest point, making it almost impossible to stay still any longer. 

You weren’t willing to go home so soon.

Home was nice, yes—but being out in the open, with fresh sun, and with Loki, was a moment that you always wanted to hold on to for a little longer. 

You rise, step closer to the water. The waves are gentle, lapping at your toes; refreshing against the dry air. Reaching down, you grab the first stone that you touch. 

It fits easily between your fingers, a nice weight that tells you to throw it. 

The rock sinks. 

Not satisfying. 

You pick up another rock, more determined for it to skip, and throw. 

Again, it sinks straight down to the bottom of the river. 

Loki stands up, standing next to you without flourish. “What are you doing?” he asks. 

You look down to see that he’s rolled the legs of his pants up his calves so that he can step into the water. You pick up another rock, biting back a smile at the vision of Loki wading into the river. 

“Skipping stones,” you explain, straightening. “Or trying to. I’ve never made it past two skips.” 

Loki hums thoughtfully, reaching to grab a stone. “Show me.” 

You hesitate. 

Then, with the same technique you’d been using, you give the stone a toss. 

“Ah.” Loki watches as your stone soars several feet toward, then meets its tragic, anticlimactic fate. His thumb brushes over his stone; then, in one smooth motion, his elbow cocks back and his wrists flicks, sending the stone several skips ahead. 

Oh! Your brow furrows and you turn at him so quickly that the water splashes around your ankles. “Without using magic!” You protest, pointing a finger. 

Loki grins, holding both hands up in surrender. “I didn’t use magic,” he says. “Promise.” 

It’s worse if you believe him, because that means… you’re just not very good at skipping stones.

You frown, grabbing another rock from the water. “Do it again,” you say, holding your hand out. 

Loki plucks the rock from your palm. He turns his gaze back to the water’s surface, pausing. Like he was considering. Then, again, he goes through the motions to make the rock fly forward. 

It only skips forward three times, but it’s still one more than your personal best. More than enough to dampen your mood. 

He looks at you. Realizes your expression, his own joy faltering. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing.” You pick up a handful of rocks in one hand, tossing them into the river with the other, clearly not making an effort. 

Loki watches as the rocks sink. One, then another, and another. The silence between the two of you is noticeable. 

“It’s the stone,” Loki finally says. You throw one more, then pause. He’s looking into the water, concentrating, until he finds one that he likes. “It needs to be smooth. And flat. Maybe circular? But mostly flat.” 

You huff a breath of air, not easily caving to the patience in Loki’s voice. You watch the water, the way that it moves, rather than looking at him again. 

“Finding a good rock,” he continues, pulling his arm back, “is almost as hard as aiming it.” 

“And what made you an expert on skipping stones?”

“I had many afternoons of practice, dear heart. Hours when I would walk away and no one would find me until supper. Which was fine. Got a bit boring, though.” The stone skips into your view as he pauses. “I mastered almost every mindless task.” 

Loki is still staring forward when you look. You think that, maybe, your pouting was unwarranted. 

“Like what?” 

“Oh, to be told,” he replies, turning his head towards you. He looks still - much like the river you were standing in. Calm, but able to drag you under. “I can tell you the secret to skipping a rock, little mortal, but any more secrets? Those will have to wait.” 

“I’m going to push you in.”

“You are not.” 

You shove his side. It doesn’t move him. 

Loki lifts an arm, smoothly pulling you closer to his side. He pinches a rock from your grasp. “Shall we try again?” 

“You’re so annoying.” You duck your head against his chest for a beat, indulging in the closeness before you shuffle yourself away from him. The air was still too warm to be that close. 

“Perhaps.” Loki’s hand stays against your shoulder, even with the distance. “And yet—you stay.” A fact he knew you wouldn’t refute. “Now, the angle is what’s important—” 

000 

The sun is setting by the time you start to pack away the picnic. 

You throw the garbage in the bottom of the basket. Loki helps you fold the quilt in careful quarters. The thermos is back to a normal temperature when you place it in last. 

During the entire time you’d spent in the water with Loki, your stone never skipped more than four times. 

But—when Loki takes the basket from your hands, and you give it over without thinking about it, and you start the walk back to the house - you think about how you feel sated. 

You think about how he’d slipped in telling you a hobby he’s learned; how he almost fell over when a fish swam by, and how you had to grab his arm when the fish brushed by your ankle. 

You think about the sun on your face as you walk home, and how much lighter you feel than when you had left the house. 

Mostly, you see Loki. Not buried under paperwork or behind curtains and closed doors. You see him walking a very plain path to the home you share, without complaint.