jimmy olsen and the mystery of two idiots who are definitely not in love / 6.8k
tags. coworkers with history + the junleb trinity of stolen glances/pretend apathy/nosy friends. daily planet silliness
— i've been wanting to write a fic like this and david's sweet kind face said yes…. kisses 2 oomfs irl for beta <33
Jimmy watches as Lois throws her hands up, exhausted. “I'm killing someone after this.”
“Please don't,” Clark pipes up from the coffee machine. Darkness has set in over Metropolis, decorated with the year-round Christmas lights of traffic and skyscraper displays. It’s late enough that the graveyard janitors are starting their shift.
Clark scoots back over, gingerly balancing three steaming Styrofoam cups, sure to join the hundred others stacked up in the corner Lois’ desk. Jeez, she’s a great writer, but Jimmy’s kind of worried about her coffee addiction.
“You know who we need?” Lois asks, accepting the cup. She leans back in her chair, takes a sip and peers over the rim with her eyes narrowed down. Then she jerks her finger toward a desk, empty, but piled high with camera bags.
Oh. You.
Clark must be tuned into the same wavelength that Jimmy’s on, because they’re both sharing a look and adamantly shaking their heads.
It’s not that Jimmy hates you. In fact, you’re admirable, even though he doesn’t get the chance to talk with you much. He doesn’t know about Clark, but since you transferred from the Gotham Gazette, the office has been...weird.
You make a point to move if Clark sits a chair too close during meetings. And yeah, Clark can be clumsy, but accidentally hip-checking your desk on the daily is too suspicious.
Hell, when Cat Grant is making theories, it’s serious—I bet the lore is deep, she said at Mr. White’s surprise, in-office birthday party, like, plagiarism and CIA assassination deep.
Even if you and Clark weren’t mortal co-worker nemeses, the two of you are on opposite—no, completely different spectrums. For Superman’s sake, you’re a World Press nominee, one of the highest recognitions in photography. And Clark is...well.
Clark is just himself with all his slouched, ‘I’ve got a really weird intuition thing’ glory.
And he’s also Jimmy's best work friend, minus the fact that he’s MIA for what seems like half the work day.
“You know we need her,” Lois mutters bitterly, taking another slow sip. Clark looks anywhere but at her, shifty. “Come on, just for one photo. It’ll really help the exposé.”
She says it in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way, the subtle singsong tone she takes when she knows no one would ever think about disagreeing with her. It’d be great ifs and could you help withs, that’s Lois Lane. She’s used it plenty of times, mostly during interviews to get a quote she wanted.
Jimmy, an unwilling victim, has learned that Lois is very persuasive when she wants to be.
Eyes crinkled with mirth, she smiles at the two of them, close-mouthed. Jimmy doesn’t know how she does it, spending days hammering away at an article and still having the energy to throw her weight around.
“Just this once?”
He looks at Clark, who looks back at him. A kind of silent pact forges in their sidelong eye contact, trying to see how long they can go resisting Lois. Her smile widens by a fraction, knowing that it’s just a matter of time.
Clark breaks first, running a hand through his dark, unruly hair.
“Okay,” he sighs out, collapsing in the nearest chair. It creaks under his weight, threatening. Speaking of which, Jimmy doesn’t really get how the biggest guy on the block can still be a loser dork (affectionate). A mystery for the greats, he supposes.
“But,” Clark says, scanning Lois over the rims of his thick glasses. He tugs his collar by a smidge, faintly displeased, or uneasy, “I’m doing it tomorrow.”
“Fine by me,” she grins, reaching over to shut down her monitor. It goes dark, sapping the blue glow that Jimmy’s gotten so used to. He blinks a few times to get rid of the spots that dance in his vision, then stretches. “Take Jimmy with you. Some people just need a face like his for some convincing.”
Jimmy perks up at the mention of his name, arms still raised up. The idea of him being attractive to you is slightly scary. Even more so than the unanswered girls in his DMs, because you're like, the greatest of the greats.
...Okay, subjectively speaking. But he’s been subscribed to your photo collection for years when you were still with the Gazette. You’re the camera Superman of the modern generation to him.
So excuse him when he jumps for the chance, eager.
“Yeah, Clark,” he blurts. “I’ll help!”
Lois grins, smug. Aw, shit. Jimmy’s fallen into the trap for Clark—hook, line and sinker.
—
“So, what's the deal with him and…”
Hint-hint, nudge-nudge.
Jimmy doesn’t want to say your name too loud, lest Clark’s weird hearing picks it up. Even though said man is halfway down the street in the opposite direction, he’s heard stranger things from farther and louder places before.
A little bird told me, and all that.
On late nights like this, it’s customary for Lois to walk Jimmy to the station downtown since she lives there. It’s the nearest part of the central city to Bakerline, where the island and mainland are connected by bridge and underground train.
They worked out this routine months ago, and it’s well-oiled enough for Clark—the Midtown Man—to know that Jimmy is in safe-ish hands, if he doesn’t get baited into an impromptu investigation.
Lois exhales through her nose, amused. “You really haven’t seen it?”
“I mean,” Jimmy stutters, dragging the scuffed soles of his sneakers along the downhill sidewalk. A loose pebble of concrete skitters away, landing in a patch of weeds sprouting from between the pavement cracks. “I know they’ve got some weird thing. Cat thinks it’s gotta do with the CIA.”
She laughs, fuller and louder. Jimmy checks over his shoulder—safe. Clark, silhouette now smaller, is still walking straight on, probably whistling a tune to himself.
“Kind of. Not really. Cat thinks a lot of things,” Lois decides. Objectively correct: Cat drinks rumors for breakfast. Not enough for the front page, but enough that Steve has a crazy long browser history trail because he actually believes her.
She squints and tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Clark never really said much about it, but I did find a polaroid of them in his wallet. Captioned cider and cowboy, whatever that means.”
Ah, the perks of being an award-winning journalist. Clark probably forgot that ratty leather thing on his chair again, leaving Lois to stake her claim on the prime real estate of other people’s business. Jimmy wouldn’t be surprised if his own wallet had been in her hands. She probably knows more about him than even Clark does.
Jimmy whistles, “So, bitter exes?”
“Maybe from a long time ago,” she agrees, nodding lightly. “They looked pretty young, like high school.”
“Oh, bitter sweethearts.” That’s a hundred times worse. No wonder you both act like you’ll catch the plague being around each other.
Weirdly, he can imagine it. Clark, skinnier and in the threadbare red flannel from Smallville that Jimmy spotted one winter, layered under Clark’s suit jacket for warmth. You, probably with your arms around each other, in the same Midwest, buttfuck nowhere fashion.
“Mhm, that’s what I was thinking.”
Jimmy’s still trudging forward when he notices the weird silence. He glances back to see that Lois stopped ten feet away, a curious glimmer in her eyes, jaw shifting. She looks at Jimmy, that mastermind smirk already blooming on her face. Jimmy stares, questioning, and kind of worried.
She catches up with a full-blown grin and her hands in her pockets, posture too wound up to be casual.
“Why are you—oh no, don’t look at me like that. I’m not good bait!”
“How do you feel about a little case on the side?”
—
When Clark Kent enters the office, it isn’t without a wall of apologies as he squeezes between his coworkers. Almost six and a half feet, so he sticks out painfully, like Superman in a sea of civilians—except there’s no way he’s Superman, of course.
(It’s kind of ironic once you think about it, how big Clark is. You don’t really realize it until you’re turning away from a conversation and bumping those thick glasses right off his nose. How long has he been standing there? No one knows.)
Jimmy chases him into the revolving door, the lemonade he picked up from the bodega across the intersection sloshing around in its waxed, paper-plastic cup. Skidding to a stop, he catches his breath as Clark apologizes in a low voice for taking up space in the doorway.
They scoot forward, shoes squeaking against the marble tiles of the entryway. Foot traffic is slower than usual today, aggravated by the door. Jimmy thinks to tell the Chief that the rotator mechanism needs oiling, but he knows it’ll only get done six months after he brings it up.
“You’re not late this time,” Jimmy quips, inching along. The wings of the door finally open, washing a fresh wave of air over him. Thank god, he was about to start sweating through his shirt.
Clark lets out a breathy little laugh, not quite believing it himself. “Yeah.”
He looks kind of…excited? Kiddish, if that’s the right word. Posture finally having an effort put into it and head held high, like he’s searching for something.
Oh.
Did Clark get up extra early—or rush through his morning routine, or run instead of walk to work, et cetera et cetera—just ‘cause he finally has an excuse to talk to you? Jimmy can’t quite believe it either.
Clark Kent, the supposed bitter high school ex of yours doesn’t seem so bitter anymore, grinning wider than he has this entire week.
They squeeze into the elevator together, pushed against the back wall where the speakers croon corporate, scrubbed jazz into Jimmy’s ears. He grimaces at the artificial saxophone riff, too clean without the surrounding chaotic raff that he loves in improvised jazz.
“It’s just for five minutes,” Clark mutters, craned weirdly with his satchel clutched to his chest, shoulders titled at an absurd angle as to make sure Jimmy can hear. “Small talk, right?”
“Exactly. Nothing to worry about,” Jimmy replies, sloshing his lemonade around to see how much he has left. Half a cup, which will last him thirty minutes before he needs to run for the nearest vending machine. Maybe he could ask an intern instead—they like him a lot.
The mental plan to get hopped up on soft drinks for the whole day doesn’t deter Jimmy’s pondering about your and Clark’s relationship for long, though.
“...Do you hate her?”
Clark goes silent for a moment, pondering as a plucked bass melody joins into the sax’s fray. Quiet, “I don’t hate her. We just…haven’t spoken in a while.”
“Bitter breakup or something?” Jimmy tests.
Clark doesn’t scowl or push his hand up under his glasses for an eye rub. He just sighs, a heavy and burdened kind of exhale. Forlorn, gaze unfocused and directed at something on another plane entirely.
“Not really. I don’t know, maybe?” A defeated sigh. “I guess you could say that.”
The elevator lets out a pleasant ding when they get to their floor, and Jimmy dogs behind a slumped Clark.
Just a minute ago, he was all sunshine and smiles about you. Flipped the script and shot the plot, and now he’s moping his way into the office at the slightest suggestion of feeling hatred. Fuck, this guy’s a total sap.
“Come on,” Jimmy says. He slaps a hand onto Clark’s back, urging him along toward your desk. “Just think about it this way: if you start talking again, maybe you’ll be on better terms.”
Clark picks up speed, just a little. Still hiding the pep he wants to put in his step, but Jimmy can tell all the same.
Your desk hasn’t changed in the ten or so hours since he left last night. Still a whirlwind of organized chaos, every corner still stuffed with camera equipment.
Except, you’re there now, computer screen painting your face in bright blue light instead of the empty chair Lois had pointed at earlier. And the stupid thing is, Clark starts lagging behind Jimmy, suddenly enthused to stay the reserved man everyone thinks he is.
He stutters in his gait, runs his fingers through messy hair once, then twice, and then gingerly—so slow and delicate—unwinds his arms from around that old satchel. The leather bag peels off the front of Clark’s chest comically, like a poster slowly falling off a wall.
Jimmy almost snorts.
Lois is right. Once you start looking, you can’t unsee it.
(“I’m just saying,” she said last night, boots clicking against the pavement. Hands stuffed in her pockets, too restrained to really be casual conversation. Jimmy knows that look on her—she’s hooked on a story, and trying to sell it at the same time. “They look at each other like they’re still in love.”
He scoffed. “No way.”
“Just see for yourself,” Lois shrugged, pulling ahead. Then, like nothing had ever happened, like the notion of you and Clark together despite it all had never existed, “Come on, you’re gonna miss the last train.”)
Jimmy is pulled out of his flashback by a cough. Back to present.
You’re turned around in your chair, monitor displaying a default login screen. Vaguely, he remembers you tapping the lock button on your keyboard the moment he stepped within five feet of your desk.
Jesus, insanely private people these Gazetteers are. Jimmy’s heard stories of coworkers sniping each other's scoops in Gotham, but he didn’t think it’d translate into borderline supersenses. Good thing you’ve moved to Metropolis, where the only journalists you’ll be afraid of are Lois or Cat trying to worm a confession out of you.
“Hi, Olsen. Need something?” You give him a mild, porcelain-polite smile—typical Gothamite manners. Doesn’t quite reach your eyes, which are low lidded in the daylight and rimmed with a faint red.
You look exhausted. As if you haven’t really gotten used to the light in Metropolis, squinting because not being in the dark of Gotham is hurting your eyes and circadian rhythm.
He lets out an embarrassing ‘uhhh’ before his thoughts can catch up. Then, he does as Lois does, and jerks Clark forward by the elbow. The man’s body protests more than Jimmy thought it would, shoes super-glued to the floor.
What the hell is this guy made of?
Jimmy tugs again, and Clark finally snaps into it, stumbling forward like a thrown ragdoll. His glasses sit lopsided on his face as he stares.
You give him a look, one that seems almost telepathic, and the words just start pouring out.
It’s like Jimmy never existed. He watches as Clark mumbles out his words, little fragments of ‘Lois wanted’ and ‘sent me’ and ‘it would be…appreciated,’ said in the way questions are reluctantly asked.
You look at Clark, and only Clark. Head tilted, elbow propped on the edge of your desk and temple cradled by your fingers. Eyes never leaving, like his voice is the only sound in the world. Like you’re trying to cling onto every single one of his words so you can commit them to paper later.
And Clark doesn’t even look at Jimmy for help, eyes naturally attracted to yours. He can’t pull away, it almost seems like.
Launching into a soft-spoken spiel about the background of Lois’ exposé, he details sources and photo-ops and how he ‘really shouldn’t be telling you this because it might be dangerous, but I wanted you to know that—’
Now Jimmy’s sold on Lois’ side-quest, or whatever she called it.
If there are any other explanations in the entire universe for two people looking at each other like it’s the last time, speak now. No? Going once, going twice? Alright: it’s love.
Let's put aside the mysterious estrangement and the tense incidents that have everyone convinced of your mutual hatred. Despite it all, you’re still looking at Clark with the sweetest face Jimmy has ever seen on you, and Clark is standing up taller, chest almost puffed out.
"We’re talking about it over dinner on Saturday, if you wanna come,” Clark says, a soft sort of grin lighting up his face. It’s not the awkward, left side of the face scrunched smile that usually comes when someone cracks a bad joke. This one is kinder, shredded wide-open.
Yearning.
“You sure?”
“Lois won’t mind,” he shrugs, and holy shit—Jimmy did not know Clark’s pupils could dilate like that. Like dinner-plate wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue around an uncanny pool of tar. Kind of alien, if he really had to put a word to it. “It’ll be like the old days.”
Your hand falls slowly to rest on your desk. You sit up straight, posture conditioned. Just like that, you’ve hardened back up again, porcelain-polite mask sitting over your face. Cracked over the mouth, just a little, clay falling apart in the way your lips curve sadly down.
“I just saw Lois,” you breathe out with a half-hearted head tilt. Jimmy follows it, and sure enough, a familiar dark-haired troublemaker is squeezing out of the elevator. “I’ll talk to her about it.”
“Great,” Clark says, morphing back to his usual posture. “That’s great.”
You swallow, giving him a single, curt nod. “See you.”
Copying you, he draws his mouth into a terse line. Softly, with a sick gleam in his eyes that could make Jimmy almost throw up at, “Yeah.”
Clark moves faster than he can say ‘Daily Planet.’ Jimmy looks back, incredulous, at how fast the man skitters back to his own desk without bumping into a single person.
He has half the mind to ask what the hell is going on.
Instead, he scoots on over to Cat’s desk, weaving through a group of interns who smile and wave and offer him a coffee. The gossip writer is already staring at him, eyes wide behind her huge cat-eye glasses as she fiddles with her golden earrings—a habit when she knows she has a story.
“I rescind my CIA theory,” she whispers, twirling a strand of hair around her painted finger. Cat nods as if she’s trying to convince herself of it. “They’re definitely dating.”
“Nah,” Jimmy says, leaning an elbow on the wall of her cubicle. “Hear this: bitter exes.”
She gasps. Actually looking concerned, she hides her mouth behind the back of her hand. “No.”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
He nods, glancing back for a moment. Clark is trying to hide it, but he’s never been the subtle type—answering a phone call, he leans back in his seat, and Jimmy can trace his gaze right back to you talking with Lois.
Jimmy kind of wants to hit the two of you over the head for being so stupid.
Cat hums, clearly seeing it too. Grimacing, she taps her index finger against her chin. “Oh, yeah, definitely.”
—
This must be karma with a side of cosmic comedy.
Jimmy supposes that while it’s one thing to speculate that his co-workers are in love with each other, it’s an entirely different thing to spy on them. But it isn’t his fault. Scout’s Honor!
If anyone should receive fury from the gods, it’s Cat. She made him do it.
…And he complied. Just one picture, though. Nothing more, nothing less, but it was enough to capture evidence of you and Clark, frozen in surprise on the six-inch display of Jimmy’s phone.
(“Take it!” Cat hisses, nudging him below the ribs. Ouch—sharp elbows.
“I don’t have my camera!” Jimmy panics, patting himself down like a swarm of ants are crawling all over his body. Where is that damn phone?
The photo-op before them: Clark, hunched over his keyboard, picking out the words in his article one by one; you, giving him a hard sidelong stare over the lip of your coffee cup. This has happened multiple times in one way or the other.
Clark looks at you, and you look at him—never at the same time, though. It’s always with some wounded, twisted kind of longing in both of your eyes, one that reminds him of an animal trapped in the bushes. Scared of stepping out but needing it so badly at the same time.
“Hurry,” Cat urges, gesturing her arms in your direction. She's like an animated Italian grandpa, Jimmy thinks, fingers finally wrapped around his phone. He can see Clark shaking his head to himself, not quite happy with his article, and you smother a smug grin into your coffee. “She’s looking!”
Clark spins around immediately—as if he heard the gossip columnist’s urgently whispered cries from across the damn newsroom and needed to see it for himself—and freezes when he makes eye contact with you. You nearly choke, eyes wide, brows furrowed.
Jimmy’s thumb finds the shutter button.
End of story.)
What he doesn’t get is why the hell it isn’t his phone, but his cameras that are cursed. He almost cried handing over his two beloved Nikons to the repairman and sobbed for real into his pillow when he found out both their mirrors were jammed and needed to stay in the shop for a business week.
“But it only took a few hours last time!” he protested. The repairman just shook his head sadly and stuck his thumb over his shoulder to the rack of repairs, nearly buckling under the weight of fifty-something cameras.
Now, back at the office with zero equipment and a hundred photo-ops, Jimmy feels peeved, and kind of crazy.
Lois frowns, leaning back in her rolling chair. Clark is out of the office for lunch again, an occurrence that’s become too common. He’ll probably be back in ten minutes, saying that the foot traffic was terrible because Superman was doing loops in the sky.
“I did say that mirrorless cameras were better,” she says, giving him that I told you so look. “Less moving parts and a better sensor.”
Jimmy sulks with a soda in hand, sucking air through the straw and making the wheezing, burbling sound a finished drink always makes. He mutters, mostly to himself, "A mirrorless isn't as romantic as a DSLR.”
Lois’ face pulls in on itself—definitely judging. “You’re gonna say some shit like ‘a camera is like a woman,’ aren’t you?”
He nods, solemnly clutching his fist tight and placing it over his heart. “A camera is like a woman.”
“I have to say that I agree.”
Jimmy nearly shrieks and jumps in his chair, a shiver ripping along his spine.
You’re leaning your right elbow on the short, thick wall on the side of his desk with a small smile cracking over your lips. An old-looking camera bag is slung across your body, the dark strap stark against the washed-out maroon of the crew neck sweater you’re wearing.
(Smallville Giants?)
In the background, Lois chuckles and crosses one leg over the other, ankle on knee.
Embarrassment burns through him.
“Exactly,” he huffs out, flashing a full grin. His leg starts bouncing out of control, and he digs his fingers into the orange plush of his chair’s armrest. “God, I—you kind of scared me.”
You’ve warmed up since the day he and Clark stumbled around your desk like fools. Cracking a smile here and there, telling jokes steeped in dry Gothamite humor. Sometimes, Jimmy swears he can hear a tiny Midwestern twang fighting the polished city accent you have.
“Sorry,” you say, head tilting as your grin widens. “Heard you don’t have a camera.”
Jimmy nods, not trusting his mouth to say anything else. Lifting the strap over your head, you place the bag on his desk. By the sound, it’s heavier than it looks.
He gazes at you with stars in his eyes. “Seriously?”
“D5. You can borrow it for now,” you tell him. Casual, like you aren’t handing over a precious relic. He almost feels a prick of jealousy in his heart. Back in school, the wealthier kids were too stingy to even let him near theirs.
He still loves the D500 he managed to scrounge up the money for as a broke college kid. But this...he might start salivating and floating like a Looney Tunes character.
“For real?” Jimmy can’t believe it. Maybe this curse has a silver lining that’s too good to be true.
“I’m trialing a Sony mirrorless right now.” And then you lean a little closer as if this is just a secret shared between the two of you, blocking the side of your mouth with a palm, “Personally, not as sexy as a DSLR.”
The Kansas accent that he’s only ever heard from Clark bleeds into your words, just slightly.
Bingo!
Jimmy slaps his thigh with a wide grin and points at Lois, victorious. “Told you so!”
You laugh as you slip away.
—
The sands of time run quicker when he has a stellar camera in his hands.
He spent the entire day wandering around the city until his feet went sore, the camera strap tight to keep it as close to his chest as possible. There is no way in the entire universe that something is going to happen to the D5. He’d die before that happened.
Even from the tiny display window, which is smeared with permanent fingerprints—believe him, Jimmy already tried everything to wipe them off—he can tell the difference between your and his equipment. Especially for Superman photos, he notes.
Now, alone in his room, parents already put down to bed, Jimmy longingly runs a finger down the worn leather grip of the Nikon you passed to him. It’s a good model, one of the best. He’s yearned for something as good as this since high school.
Fighting sleep, he springs the hatch in the side of the camera’s body and pops out the memory card.
Wait. Blink three times. It isn’t his, and it’s older than the ones he uses by a lot. Hell, this is ancient.
Jimmy is rocketed out of his grogginess, back going ramrod straight.
If this is your SD, and it’s this old...what photos do you have?
It’s a natural thing for journalists to speculate, he justifies, knowing full well that he’s been infected with the investigative virus.
Invasion of privacy—invasion of—invasion—
His hesitance is interrupted by the faces of his two nosier co-workers. Cat, ever the devil on his shoulder, telling him that a peek doesn’t hurt. Lois, hands on her hips and head shaking left to right, saying, “Journalists dig deep.”
He boots up his computer, vision seared with the annoying flash of white that always precedes the login screen. Jimmy follows the motions: insert the card, scroll to find his files, select the—almost two-hundred shots—he took and move them to a local folder.
Meanwhile...
He almost sprains his wrist with how fast he scrolls back into the card’s history.
The first one he finds is approximately dated to when you and Clark were in high school. Far too early for a kid to own a D5, and the quality proves it, grainy enough to be from an amateur camera.
Clark is without his signature glasses in this one, the edges of his body burnished in white-gold. He’s still pretty big, but he leans more to the gangly side with the way his clothes aren’t as filled in. His hair is longer, not as curly, but his dimples are the same. Smile kind, bright blue eyes turned to crescents.
Handsome, in a way Jimmy never expected him to be.
He’s lying on his side in bed, surrounded by a gingham-flannel duvet and a striped pillowcase. Pale light streams in from a blurry window, thin beige curtains fluttering in the corner. His hand is buried in the long hair of a border collie as he looks up at the camera with a glint of tender fondness in his eyes.
Jimmy can tell you’re the one who took this, even though the composition is kind of clumsy. Explaining it is hard, but it’s just a feeling. You always take pictures that make people feel romantic about the world.
Next.
This one is around fifteen years from today, and it’s Clark who’s taking this one—he's talented with his words, but it seems that photography has never been his strongest suit.
Your face is rounder, younger, nose crinkled in displeasure about being half-buried in a pile of loose hay. Still, the corners of your mouth are angled up as if you’re happy to see Clark on the other side.
Dirt is smeared on the front of your shirt, and the rest of the details are hard to make out, but Jimmy thinks you’re on the floor of a barn. Someone else’s cut-off leg stretches from the side. The angle of the shot is tilted, like Clark had fumbled with the shutter and almost dropped the camera.
All the way to the bottom now.
Jimmy feels a strange wave of nostalgia wash over him. Spending his entire life as a born-and-raised Metropolitan sounded so perfect, but now he isn’t so sure. He’s almost envious of what you and Clark had.
The colors of everything are faded together, except for the sky, which is exceptionally blue and clear. You’re both about four, or five—kindergarten age, completely oblivious about your futures. Standing in a field of brown-green grass and dirt, you wear matching white Little League jerseys.
Smallville 1 and 2, emblazoned across your backs in red. A glove and bat are laid to the side. Clark’s neck-length curls spill out of his cap, and you’re just an inch taller than him. Your small hands are clasped together as you both watch the field, like if either of you let go, the other would disappear.
He ejects the memory card and wipes his eyes.
Fuck. What went wrong?
—
Apparently, further intruding on your and Clark’s personal life means rigging the Saturday work dinner, if hanging out at a bar could be considered that.
“It’s the perfect excuse,” Lois mutters to herself, hands stuffed into her pockets. She has that scheming expression on her face again; narrowed eyes, tongue caught in the pocket of her cheek. “They have to sit next to each other, so make sure you’re not late.”
She was ecstatic to hear about the pictures harbored in your SD. The ever-changing theory has now gone from co-workers with deep hatred to bitter exes to sad, estranged childhood friends who never had the time to fall in love.
Good thing he didn’t tell Cat, because she would have gone running to the nearest movie studio to pitch a romcom idea.
“Are you sure this’ll work?” Jimmy asks, falling in step next to her. Just to be safe, he checks over his shoulder. As per usual, Clark is already nowhere to be seen, having already turned the corner.
Briefly, he wonders how long it takes for Clark to get home, if you live in Midtown too, and if you ever pass by each other on the way to the store or something. That would be awkward.
Lois hums, a hesitant sound. She tilts her head, suddenly interested in studying the non-existent stars. “Like, seventy...five percent sure.”
“Seventy-five?”
“Alright, eighty,” she decides. For real this time! is what goes unsaid.
Jimmy sighs and kicks a pebble down the smooth sidewalk.
—
“Sorry, am I late?” you ask, rushing over from the door.
Wow. The sunshine in Metropolis can really change a person. A time where you would sit straight-backed and stone-faced at your desk has been long forgotten. You look brighter now. The exhausted weight you used to carry around the office has disappeared, and you walk over with a pep in your step.
The heavy slab of glass and wood swings close behind you, dimming the light available in the bar. Jimmy notices that your shoes are more casual than the ones you take to work, and you’re wearing the same Smallville Giants sweater.
You weave past a group of college kids playing pool, the sound of your steps masked by the loud clack of an eight-ball being sunk and the cheers that follow.
“No, no, you’re great,” Lois says, sliding out of the booth. You wrap an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug without an ounce of hesitance.
Jimmy, stuck next to the wall, politely waves at you from behind Lois, to which you respond with a small grin. Placing your bag on the bench opposite from them, you slide into the booth and take in the warm light of the bar, how the air smells like alcohol and salt.
“How was the camera?”
“Amazing,” he blurts, palms glued to the tabletop, a little damp from the last wipe-down. The nerd in him is so psyched out right now. “Like, wow. I’m not betraying my D500s, but that’s a dream camera right there.”
There’s no indication that you know anything about the childhood photos you accidentally left in his hands. You laugh, a soft sound that comes whispering under the rock song playing from the old jukebox in the corner. “This your regular spot?”
Lois flags down a waiter, nodding with a grin that matches yours. “Yeah, this is an official invitation to join our long-running tab.”
“If this were Gotham, we’d be jumped in an alley two weeks ago,” you say, looking around the bar with a sort of wonder in your eyes. Jimmy supposes things aren’t like this in Jersey, but then again, the rent is cheap, the architecture is gorgeous, and the jazz is sexy.
Besides, it isn’t like Metropolis doesn’t have her own handful of nutjobs. They’re a lot more partial to obliterating Superman and ruling the world than gassing an entire city, but tomayto-tomahto.
Lois orders the sweet wine she always does—ever the sugar addict—and Jimmy gets himself a beer, much to your and the waiter’s surprise. He has to flash his ID to prove that he is indeed older than twenty-one.
“Is it mean if I thought you were a cub until last week?” you ask. Then you turn to the waiter. “Sparkling cider, but water if you don’t.”
The server nods and turns back to the main bar.
Jimmy gets the hint-hint, nudge-nudge look from Lois, her brows raising as she looks at him from the corner of her eye. She serves it with a sharp jab of her elbow into his side. Ouch—once a victim, always a victim. Good thing he has a thicker jacket on to soften the blow.
“Apple cider?” Lois frowns, inquisitive—extra verbal emphasis on cider. Jimmy runs back his mental film reel, trying to remember why the hell the association of you and the drink is so familiar. “I don’t suppose you’re abstaining.”
You rest your chin on your right hand, elbow propped on the tabletop. The moisture that Jimmy felt earlier has long dried up. You get a wistful glimmer about your face, eyes flicking up to the corner of the room where a baseball game is airing.
“I’m not,” you explain, tearing your attention off the screen like it’s hard. “I just like it. Reminds me of home, you know?”
“Right. Perry told me about your file,” Lois says, ever the confession-puller even though she acts like she isn’t doing anything. “The Planet has Smallville One and Two now.”
A frown pulls at your face, not quite sure if you heard her right, “Sorry?”
“You know, like Thing One and Two.”
“Oh. Yeah.” You smile, but it’s a little shakier. Miffed, Jimmy seriously considers bumping Lois’ foot with his own.
Luckily, she doesn’t press any further, letting the conversation flow naturally from your mysterious origins to current world events—the drinks come now, numb to the touch and beading on the glass, and your eyes are sparkling just like the cider before you—to the exposé.
The reason why the three of you are here in the first place, sharing anecdotes related to the scandal about to be thrust upon the world. It has something to do with widespread corruption in the precinct that patrols the ports, and in the three times Lois has almost gotten herself killed, she’s connected it to a Gotham cartel.
Jimmy tells a wild, borderline tall tale about being chased down Main Street by a gang of cops. He had to hide in the alley behind his favorite bodega for an hour before slinking back to the office. Mr. White wasn’t very happy about that.
(“Great Caesar’s ghost!” he exclaimed, acrid cigar smoke puffing everywhere.)
You pull up pictures on your phone of suspicious activity you’ve captured in the area, from police loitering for too long in corners to pristine vans driving through the city across the bay.
Perks of being connected, you say, keeping your voice low, Gotham isn’t as bad as most people think. Sources are basically endless.
The bell at the door rings, though it’s barely heard over the din and racket of pool-playing jocks and the jukebox, now playing some Beatles song that Jimmy can’t remember the name of. Lois slouches in her seat, slowly peeking out from the booth to check who just came in. It’s Clark.
He stumbles over in a pair of slacks that don’t look tailored enough and the knit sweater Lois called ‘sick of the laundry machine’ the last time she saw it on him. She gives him a curt once-over, disapproving.
“Sorry,” he breathes out, finding the floor exceedingly interesting. His glasses are askew, sliding down the bridge of his nose like he’d just shoved them on and his curly hair is whirlwind-messy. “Foot traffic. Superman.”
“It’s always him,” Jimmy drawls, knocking back a sip of his beer.
You look up at Clark. Eyes shining like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, you pinch your mouth into a tight line.
Clark, still in his typical daze, wonders out loud, “Cider?”
He says it in a feather-soft tone, quietly poking. As if he’s a kid again, Little League glove resting in the dry grass, tugging at your arm when a teammate steals a base and making sure you saw that too.
Your drink is half-finished on the table. There’s a ring of room-temp water around the base, sure to join the hundred others etched into the wood. A pearl of condensation rolls down the side, chasing the bubbles still fizzling in the ice.
The puzzle pieces in Jimmy’s head finally click together—the polaroid Clark allegedly keeps in his wallet. Cider and cowboy. You and your childhood best friend.
It could be considered a miracle in itself how fast you react. Jimmy notes the heavy way you swallow, throat bobbing as you reach for your bag, draw it toward you, and—
You let Clark in.
Apprehension hangs in his body as he slides into the booth. Clark sits board-stiff, unsure of his standing with you. You elbow him, harder than Lois would do to anybody, and the man doesn’t budge.
His face just keeps getting ruddier by the second. If this were a cartoon, his glasses would for sure be misted with the same steam pouring from his ears.
Lois coughs. “Right. Could we get to fact-checking the piece?”
“Yeah,” Clark squeaks. The leather of the booth’s cushion makes the same sound when he scoots a little closer to your side.
Your elbows end up bumping somewhere between the second round of drinks—Clark and the weird looks he gets for drinking fucking milk are hilarious—and Lois going on a tangent about how Central City is a great place at this time of year.
Clark stills, watching your reaction, but you don’t need words. You don’t jump back like you’ve been burned. You just settle into some kind of semi-normal truce area.
Relaxation finally melts into Clark’s bones, and he stumbles into the conversation with a banging opener about meeting a brilliant college kid there.
“I think his name was Allen?”
Lois laughs, fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “We should all cover the science fair they hold next year, then. Just to confirm your source.”
“Yeah,” you say, eyes darting to the space where your elbow meets Clark’s. “We should. It’s close to home too.”
Jimmy catches Lois' eye. Can you believe this?
He realizes that his investment isn’t so much about the mystery anymore. That’s something you two could keep to yourselves, because there’s no way in hell Jimmy would willingly learn the painful lore.
It’s more about the way you glance at each other. Held-back, ready to run full-tilt without hesitation if someone gave the green light. You’re clearly in love, and everyone can see it.
Now, the real mystery is how long it’ll take for you both to admit it.
—
notes. please lmk if u enjoyed my sweet childhood best friends who fold despite being estranged... if i do write a second part it'll prob be in his or reader's pov ⭐⭐
You find the underwear in a deep corner of Clark’s drawers while you’re spring cleaning — something you’d started doing to while away the hours while Clark was at work. It’s a pair of blue panties with red lace trim and the Superman crest emblazoned across the front; a joke buy dug out of a clearance bin at your favourite lingerie store during one of their annual sales.
You’d bought them as a joke, then worn them as a joke, expecting Clark to laugh along with you. Instead he’d gone almost slack-jawed as he watched you wriggle them up your thighs, then eaten you through your dinner reservation and fucked you so thoroughly you were convinced he’d left a you-shaped dent in his mattress.
You’d had the opportunity to wear them maybe once more since then — with pretty identical results — and then they’d disappeared without a trace. No matter how hard you and Clark looked, how many times you made him lift your couch and then the bed, you just hadn’t been able to find them.
Until today.
They’re freshly washed, the silk soft as you glide your fingers over the material and press them to your nose.
They’re freshly washed and there’s a mischievous tug in your stomach as you imagine the lengths Clark had to go in order to stop you from figuring out where exactly they were.
An idea forms in your mind, and it grows legs as you slip them on under the shirt you’re wearing. It’s Clark’s, stolen from him years before you’d even started dating, when he’d brought you to his and tucked you in after you’d had one too many at a friend’s engagement party.
You strike a pose in the mirror, pulling your shirt up just enough for the bottom of the crest to peek through, a flash of bright red and yellow between your thighs.
You’ll never believe what I found.
You send the message with the picture you’ve snapped attached then lock your phone.
You haven’t bothered asking if he’s alone — he’d learned very early on not to open pictures you sent him when near others — but you imagine his reaction when he realises what you’ve sent him. The steady flush that would creep up his neck and the way his hands would move over his crotch. You feel your stomach lurch when you think of how easy he is to turn on, think of him frustrated at his desk while trying to focus on whatever piece he was writing.
His reply comes no more than ten minutes later. A hastily snapped, slightly blurry picture of him palming himself, print just visible enough to make your breath catch.
You’re not very nice is the only message he sends. Not even one of those frowny face emojis he weaponised so often.
In a moment of lust-induced malice you snap another picture; the hem of his shirt between your teeth while you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of the underwear.
You watch as the typing bubbles appear then disappear over and over until they’re gone.
And then a video.
You chuckle as you press play, the soft trembling breath he takes music to your ears. The camera shakes slightly, but you watch as he palms at himself desperately. The camera is focused so tightly on his hand you can’t quite tell where he is — storage closet? or maybe one of the faraway toilet cubicles he’d dragged you to one lunch time when you paid him a visit wearing his favourite dress — but you can tell he’s fighting hard to keep quiet.
Can you show me more? he asks, and you imagine the sheer focus he needed to type that message alone.
Sorry, baby. Already cleaning again.
You turn off your notifications and busy yourself with laundry, trying not to think of poor, desperate Clark waiting for you to tell him you’re just joking.
Your harmless prank is forgotten until much later in the afternoon when you’ve finished cleaning and taken a much deserved nap. When you pick your phone up, you find 5 missed calls from Clark and triple the texts. All pleases, attempts to bargain and another picture. His tip’s visible, leaking and you almost feel bad for him.
There’s been nothing since then, not even one of the many stickers he’d grown obsessed with using. Just radio silence. You feel a shiver run through you as you thinking about what that means for you, and you try to distract yourself by reading a book.
You’re stretched out on the couch, trudging through a tawdry romance as you read and re-read pages in an attempt to ground yourself when you hear the front door swing open. You sit up, trying to look focused.
He’s back earlier than you thought he would be, and his hair is windswept, glasses sitting precariously on his nose as he stalks up to you.
He doesn’t greet you, just closes your book gently with one hand while the other slips under the shirt you’re wearing.
“Hi Clark, nice to have you home, Clark. Oh how was my day? Just swell,” you grit out as his hand grips your thigh.
“You didn’t ask me all that before you sent me pictures,” he reminds you, tossing your book onto the coffee table.
“I can’t remember where I was, Clark.”
You pretend to be annoyed as he lays you down with firm hands, a soft kiss pressed to your cheek.
“Weren’t focusing anyways.” A hand presses over your heart. “Can hear your heart beating. Humming almost. Such a pretty sound,” he murmurs in your ear as he squeezes.
“Clark I need to make dinner,” you remind him as he presses you deeper into the couch.
“Later,” he mumbles as he pushes your shirt off, heat pulsing through your body when he leans down to trace his tongue along your stomach. “I put those away for a reason,” he says as he comes back up to graze his teeth along your nipple. “Never to be used again.”
“Is that why they smell like a detergent we’ve only been using for a month?”
He smiles into your skin, but he doesn’t answer. The cool buckle of his belt presses into your thighs, but the feeling becomes static when he shifts and you feel how hard he is.
Poor Clark probably spent the rest of the day aching while you organised and dusted to your heart’s content.
“Let me help,” you gasp, reaching for his buckle when his hand pins yours above your head.
“I’ll do it myself. Like you made me earlier,” he says.
“That’s petty, Clark,” you half-scold, but it dies when he looks up at you, eyes dark but brows furrowed in confusion.
“Not tryin’ to punish you. Just somethin’ I’ve been thinking about since…”
He draws a deep shuddering breath, pressing firm, hot kisses down your body until his lips are just above the waistband. He lets your wrists go so he can work his buckle, then the button and zip of his slacks so he can kick them off unceremoniously.
Then his mouth is back over the waistband, teeth on the skin of your lower stomach. His fingers press into your clothed clit, rubbing at the bud through the silk. He works slow, experimental as he presses his nose into your stomach.
His other hand keeps your thigh pressed to the couch when you start squirming, trying to buck your hips up into him.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles into you, “I’m getting there just wanna remember how she feels,” he says, fingers prodding at your slit, pressing the damp material into you.
Impatience hums beneath your skin as you tangle your fingers into his hair, but he doesn’t move, just keeps mouthing at the waistband.
“She feels so warm, sweetheart. Pulsing like crazy,” he mumbles through the lace, his saliva dampening the material.
Your attempt at an answer is disrupted when he places a soft kiss on the crest, inhales desperately as he nuzzles into you.
You feel the dull warmth of Clark’s tongue as he presses it flat against the crotch, eyes fluttering shut as he groans into.
“Tastes so good in this I swear,” he moans as he mouths at you through the material, both hands pressing your thighs open as he pushes you deeper into the couch.
You feel heat pulse through you with every ragged moan, relishing in Clark’s whimpers as your nails scrape softly against his scalp.
You’re grasping at the collar of his shirt, trying to pull him up for a kiss, desperate to feel his lips on your but he doesn’t budge. You’re restless with want when you hear the soft scrape of the sofa legs as Clark humps into the sofa.
The visual has you keening into the no longer quiet living room when you feel the thick, warm press of Clark’s fingers as he gently pulls the dripping material aside and presses his tongue against your bare clit.
Your nerves are frayed, and he finally lets your other thigh go so he can grope at your breast, barely controlled as you gasp beneath him. He doesn’t flinch when your thigh presses against the side of his head, hips bucking as he devours you, the sloppy wet sound filling the air. Sweat beads on your forehead as your stomach tightens, but no matter how much you try you can’t get Clark to move faster, and your orgasm builds and builds and builds with no end in sight.
“Clark, honey, please. Feel so empty. Want you,” you mewl, fingers digging into his collar again. He finally looks up at you, eyes dazed as he slips his fingers beneath the material, sliding a finger into you so easily it makes his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“You need it that bad huh. Sorry for making you wait,” he apologises as he pushes a second finger into you, curling both of them in a way that immediately unlocks the relief you’ve been waiting to feel. You press your heel into the muscle of his back as the sensation washes over you.
“There you go, honey, all warm for me, let go,” Clark soothes as the feeling washes over you in harsh waves, stealing the breath from your lungs.
He pulls his fingers out of you in one slow gentle stroke, pressing them into his mouth as he finally kneels.
A twisted, carnal approximation of pity shoots through you when you catch sight of him, so hard he throbs and leaking before you.
“Lemme help,” you’re saying as you attempt to reach for him but he pushes your hand away.
“You’re going to,” he says as he slips himself between your folds and the soft silk, already sighing in relief as he ruts into you. “Stay still, please,” he pleads, a hand pressing into your stomach to keep you still while he watches his swollen tip push into the crest, the material stretching around him.
“Clarkie,” you whine, but he’s laser-focused and slack-jawed as he continues sliding himself through your slick folds, thrusts growing increasingly desperate as his grip on you tightens.
“Gosh, these drive me crazy,” he groans, pressing his thumb against his tip so he can push it into your clit. You buck, still sensitive and you feel the erratic twitching of his cock as it lays nestled in you while he tries to catch his breath. “So pretty on you, so perfect. Like you’re mine and just mine,” he grunts out with a harsh snap of his hips. “Had to put them away. T-too dangerous,” he mutters as he finally presses a soft kiss to your lips, your taste faint on his tongue.
You whine as you fist your hands in his shirt, and you feel that pulsing heat as his weight presses into you.
“I am yours Clarkie, always,”you whisper between kisses, pulsing and fluttering around him as he continues to fuck into the panties.
It’s like magic, the way your words make him push his face into the crook of your neck as his thighs quiver against yours, the space between the silk and your skin filling up, quick and warm and sticky while he suckles at the skin of your throat. It feels endless, the breath slowly pressing out of you as he crushes his chest into yours.
“Shoulda hid these better,” he laughs into your neck.
“Probably,” you laugh back.
You wriggle your hips, trying to push him off you as you feel him leaking down your slit.
He twitches against you, still half hard.
“Not done yet. More to do with these,” he mutters, his fingers pressing the sticky material to your skin.
You’re beginning to see what he means about this specific pair being so dangerous.
two-fer tonight because I forgot to post yesterday!
notes: explicit mdni; also this movie has been out for a hot minute but no spoilers <3 it had a vague reference at the start though
tags: breaking kink, gender is not mentioned but the reader has a pussy, idk what to tell you it’s all in the title, wc: 250 words
Clark didn’t have a harem of women to breed.
He just had you.
He only wanted you.
He wanted you just like this, face down and sobbing, and stretched open on his massive kryptonian cock.
You drooled into his sheets as you fisted them in your hands, something, anything to ground you to reality as Clark pounded away into your soft, warm cunt.
It had been a conversation on a whim—an offhanded mention of a family with Clark and soon he wasn’t able to shake the thought from his head.
Not until he had you only all fours, forcing his cock into you, reaching deep.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered against your ear, pressed his hands over yours, threading his fingers through yours. “So fucking perfect.”
“Clark-” you moaned as you tilted your head towards him, attempting to look back at him, only for your eyes to roll back as Clark angled his hips—your bed squealed in protest but your boyfriend didn’t let up.
In fact he leaned closer, quickening his pace.
“Wanna cum inside you,” he panted as he kiss down your neck, across your shoulders, reverently, like you were his most precious possession. “Please? I can breed you so well.”
You were nodding before he could even finish his pleas. He buried himself in your welcoming pussy, making your orgasm crash down on you—he stilled too as his cock throbbed and flooded your womb white. He rolled his hips lazy, pushing his thick hot cum deeper into your pliant body.
You’re all he ever needed.
I’ve been wanting to write for Clark for a while but never get around to it so enjoy this until I can write an actual fic :3 also if you’ve noticed that I haven’t updated my masterlist in forever, no you haven’t ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡
if you’re curious about the rest of my Kinktober prompts check out my post here⋆˚꩜｡
if you just want more from me my masterlist is here (masterlist + wips list ❀˖°)
summary clark gets hurt. you're not dating but you show up at his apartment anyway
author's note this is my first fic EVER. please be gentle. the ending's a bit of a mess but i hope you guys enjoy. thank you x
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
It’s not the sound of his footsteps or the drop of his keys on the counter. It’s the hitch in your breath and the erratic beating of your heart that alert you of his presence. With the way your body just knows when he’s around, sometimes you think you’re the one with superpowers.
The view from the high-rise building is long forgotten as your body tenses on his couch in his apartment. The spare key he gave you now feels heavy in your pocket as you wait for him. You’re completely still, not because of fear or nerves but in anticipation.
You hear him now. A deep sigh followed by a groan in pain. More importantly, you hear the way he hesitates by the front door, likely noticing the shoes tossed to the side carelessly, casually. Your shoes. He stalls only for the briefest of seconds before he’s quickening his pace and turning the corner into the living room.
You don’t have time to compose your thoughts before his gaze lands on you. All of a sudden, Clark is looking at you, really looking at you in a way that not even Pulitzer-Prize Winner Lois Lane could put into words. You’re warm all over as you hold his stare. It doesn’t last long before the intensity of it has you looking away nervously. Instead, you choose to let your eyes wander over his body, noticing the way his shoulders are stiff and how he’s awkwardly leaning on one side.
He breaks the silence first.
“I didn’t know you would be coming over.”
His voice is quiet, just above a whisper. You almost smile at his attempt to preserve the peaceful atmosphere. However, your sudden anxiety stops you from doing so. Doubt and insecurities start seeping in at his choice of words.
You didn’t know you would be coming over either. Really, you didn’t. You were in your own apartment, freshly showered and in pajamas when you saw the news that Superman was fighting a new threat downtown. Except you didn’t see Superman getting attacked. You saw Clark, your Clark (if you could even call him yours) and he was hurt. In hindsight, you didn’t think any of it through. You threw on your coat and bolted out the door, letting panic drive your actions. You hailed a cab to his place and used a key to his apartment that you shouldn't have.
After all, he’s not even your boyfriend.
The thought leaves a bitter taste on your tongue and regret washes over you. Your journalistic instinct to act on impulse has invaded your love life. Now, here you are throwing all judgment out the window and rushing to check on a guy that you barely acknowledge at work despite spending more nights in his bed than your own.
Stupid, stupid Clark Kent with his stupid glasses and stupid smi-
“Nice sweatshirt,” he says, fingers pointing at the oversized material covering your upper body. His sweatshirt. The one you found in his closet, in his bedroom. A room you easily navigated to as if it was your own, as if you were meant to be there.
You meet his gaze again. He’s gotten closer now. He’s leaning against the back of the same couch, staring down at you with a smug grin he fails to contain.
Your eyes quickly snap to the coffee table before you. Your thoughts only get louder.
This was a mistake. You should not be here. There’s lines that should not be crossed and this is one of them. These were lines you drew when this whole thing with Clark started, and here you were stepping over every single one of them.
Stupid, corny, idiotic loser.
You should be at home right now. You have a stack of dirty dishes in the sink and the article you promised Cat you would proofread remains untouched. Not to mention, the pile of laundry on your bed that needs folding. Really, you should be anywhere but here.
Genuinely, you could not be more embarrass-
“Hey…” His voice interrupts your thoughts once again.
You look back at him and this time you can’t look away. His eyes bore into yours so intensely you find yourself wishing you could sink into the couch completely. You feel so exposed, so vulnerable as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
You unwillingly let out a shaky breath and search his face. For what? You’re not sure. The conviction in his voice is unmistakable. Like he doesn’t want you to question it. Like he knows it’s what you need to hear and it is. The intrusive thoughts in your head die immediately.
“It’s a welcome surprise,” he says as he comes around the couch to sit beside you. So close but somehow still not close enough.
“Yeah?”
You absolutely despise how breathless you sound. You blame it on the delicate brush of your shoulders and the warmth of his thigh pressed firmly against yours.
“Yeah.”
“Took you long enough…” you tease gently, the glint in his eyes mirroring yours.
“You know me and my need to make an entrance every time,” he jokes.
You snicker softly in response. You can’t offer much else. Not when he’s begun to cradle your face in his giant palm. Not when he’s tenderly brushing his thumb along your jaw. His touch is feather-light as if you’re something fragile, as if holding you is a privilege and he was given the honor. You resist the urge to melt into him completely.
“I would have been home sooner but I had to return to the office to finish a draft Perry has been nagging me about.”
That explains why sitting before you is Clark Kent and not the other guy. His crisp suit and glasses replace the red and blue attire and suddenly, the reason you came over in the first place hits you like a truck.
The news. Superman. Downtown. Superman getting hurt. Clark getting hurt.
You turn your body to face him completely, startling him. He sees the panic swimming in your eyes and you open your mouth to voice your worries but he’s quicker.
“I’m fine,” he tries. You shake your head unconvinced.
“I was watching the news… You wer-...it was bad…” you trail off. Your voice comes out smaller than you intend but you can’t find it in you to care right now.
He grabs your jaw again, gentle as ever but firmer this time, and forces your eyes to meet.
“I’m okay. I promise,” he says it slowly as if to help it sink in. “Do you believe me?”
You don’t. He knows you don’t. Your eyes search his looking for anything that will give him away but he doesn’t let up. His eyes are calm, a cold contrast to how you feel right now.
In a surge of confidence, you swiftly swing your leg over his body and straddle him fully. Under other circumstances, you would have giggled at the noise of surprise Clark lets out. Not today. Today, you proceed cautiously. You place your hands on his shoulders, refusing to rest your full weight on him. You don’t want to hurt him. He tries to tug you down completely, desperate to close the distance between you two, but you resist. His hands settle on your waist instinctively but not before letting out a grunt in disapproval at your refusal to be closer.
“What’re you do—” “Shhh,” you cut him off sharply and he listens, like he always does.
You take a careful glance up at him and see he’s already watching you, mesmerized. You look away as your hands slowly start making their way down his body. From his shoulders, down his arms, to his chest. His breathing gets heavier, his blinking more rapid. You gauge his face for any discomfort. You continue down and your hands find their way to his stomach. He tenses, almost imperceptibly, but you notice. Your eyes snap to meet his and without breaking eye contact, you warily press your fingers into his side.
He winces, eyes fluttering shut. The reaction leaves as quick as it comes but it’s too late.
Clark tries to sit up from his slumped position on the couch but you're quick to place your hands on his chest and push him back down. He opts for rubbing your shoulder soothingly and mumbling reassurances you both know you’ll ignore.
“It’s nothing,” he tries.
“Shut up.”
Your own breathing gets heavier and your hands hastily reach for the buttons on his now wrinkled, white collared shirt. You’re shaking, unsteady, your fingers unable to undo the buttons.
“Relax, I’m okay.”
“Clark…” your voice stern with warning.
“Just-just let me help.” The fight slowly drains from your body as he covers your hands with his own and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
The sight before you has your breath hitching and no matter how hard you try, you cannot fight the knot that starts building in your throat. His stomach is littered with deep blue, yellow bruises. The marks stretch all over his abdomen, embedded into his skin harshly. A testament to the brutality he just faced.
“I’ll heal,” Clark urges, trying to meet your eyes but you can’t look away. Horror is painted all over your face and he wants nothing more than to erase that expression. He would do anything to see even a sliver of a grin.
He would never say it out loud, already too aware of his every move to not scare you away, terrified to lose the small part of you you let him have. But he finds solace in your smile, and after the day he’s had, he could really use one.
“That’s not the point Clark,” a frustrated sigh leaving your lips.
“I know, babe, I know.”
When he pulls you to lie against his chest, you don’t fight it. You nestle your face into his neck and let the scent of his cologne wash over you. It grounds you.
He’s here. He’s okay. He’s safe.
“I hate this. Don’t make it a habit,” you mumble into his neck. It’s too vulnerable, almost pathetic, and it’s SO unlike you. You hate it but you also mean it. So you settle for pressing further into him to stop your brain from acknowledging how deep of an effect he has on you.
Clark stifles a laugh. You’re so adorable. His heart swells at your angry grumbles and the concern you don’t have the energy to hide behind your usual sarcasm.
“I’ll do my best,” his tone is impossibly soft, one reserved just for you. However, unlike you, he welcomes the realization that he likes you more than he should. More than you would allow. He pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind and presses the softest of kisses to your hair.
You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms. What you do know is that it’s Clark who pulls away first. Not fully. Not even an inch. Just enough to look at you.
Because he’s selfish, impatient, and he’s had a long day. Honestly, he’s surprised he’s been able to hold back this long. He just fought an alien a hundred times his size and won. He also managed to save a squirrel while he was at it. He deserves it, he thinks, he does.
You seem to think so too because when his lips finally brush yours, you sigh in relief, tangling your fingers into his hair to pull him impossibly closer. The kiss is unlike any you’ve ever shared before. It’s slow, tender, and overwhelming in the best way. Each press of his lips is a confession he’s not ready to say and you’re not ready to hear.
You’re both panting when you pull away but that doesn’t stop Clark from chasing your mouth. His mouth finds yours again and again and you can’t ignore the way your heart feels as if it’s about to lurch out of your chest. You respond just as eagerly, just as hungrily till your lungs beg for air and you begrudgingly push at his chest. At least, you think you’re trying to. You’re still clutching at the collar of his shirt, unwilling to separate.
“Cla—” Kiss. “We need to—” Kiss. “Breathe—”. Kiss.
You end up giggling into the kiss and that’s what slows him down.
There it is, he thinks.
He pulls away for the briefest seconds to observe the smile now gracing your face. His eyes are swirling with an emotion you’re scared to name but you don’t have time to dwell on it before his lips are on yours in a final kiss. It’s messy, teeth clash, and there’s no rhythm but that’s to be expected when neither of you can stop smiling.
Clark would not have it any other way.
Like clockwork, you and Clark end up in bed together. But for the first time since this began, there’s no sex. It’s safe, warm, and ridiculously intimate for two people who are not in a relationship. It’s easy to let your mind lull you into a false sense of security when Clark’s arm is wrapped securely around you.
You both pretend you won't start distancing yourself once morning comes, Clark more delusional than you.
the sun's up early, peeking through the sheer curtains hung in your bedroom. your eyes open slowly, blinking away the night and welcoming a new day. clark's already awake, contently watching you and drawing lazy circles on your hip. your leg is slung across his, hand resting on his bare chest. a yawn from you erupts the comfortable silence, and he chuckles.
"g'morning sweetheart." he smiles when you turn your head to look at him. his ocean blue eyes sparkle in the early morning sunlight. he notices your heart rate picks up from that slow, steady rhythm it has while you rest. "mornin' handsome..." you peck his cheek and smile as blush curls around his ears. you sit up to check the clock like you always do, 6:47 am, and groan aloud. clark reads your mind and immediately opens his mouth to reassure you. "it's saturday, hun."
a sigh of relief leaves you as you slump back into his arms. you feel a laugh rumble in his chest, and you nuzzle your head further into the crook of his neck. he hums in satisfaction as you begin planting soft kisses along his jawline. "sleep good?" you ask, muffled behind his skin. you smile at his little 'mhm' and reach up to run your fingers through his curls. slowly, his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you to sit on top of him. you shuffle, positioning your legs at his sides to get comfortable.
"hi, beautiful." he says, looking up at you with pure admiration. even with sleep in your eyes and messy bed head, you were still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. you felt butterflies in your stomach flutter, proof that somehow, he still made you feel as you did the day you met. "hi.." you said with a light chuckle, leaning down to place a loving kiss to his soft lips. he smiled into the kiss, placing his hands on your waist. you pulled away slowly, letting your body fall onto his.
as you got comfortable in your new position, he stroked your hair soothingly. you hummed in satisfaction, a non-verbal request for him to keep going. soon after, he heard soft snores and breaths emitting from you. with a light chuckle, he lifted his head from the pillow to softly kiss yours. laying back down, he decided it wasn't such a bad idea to get a few more hours of sleep in. so, as the city of metropolis slowly rose to its feet; streets busy, cafes full, there was the two of you. resting peacefully in your own quiet world, full of love.
a/n: thought of this yesterday morning and thought it was adorable. just had to write it! :3 hope u love it!! 💝 xo, lex
Plot- when Lex Luther brings you on to help kill “The Superman”, you don’t give it much thought and agree. But once you find yourself face to face with the man you can’t help yourself, inexplicably drawn to him, and ready to go through any means necessary to figure him out. (or) reader is a scientist who works for lex and finds themself obsessed with Superman. Oh, reader also is the person making all the weird animals and stuff.
wc- 16.2k (omg ya'll this bitch can write)
CW- 18+, fem!reader(reader has breasts and a vagina) but no gendered pronouns used, reader is a bit all over the place, implied ocd, mentions of syringe/injection, mentions of past depression/depressive episode, reader experiences a depressive episode, head(f!receiving), slight fingering(?), unprotected sex!!!, slight come eating from clark. I think that’s it but let me know if I missed anything.
AN- omg this took me forever!!! Sorry if characterization is all over the place or if Clark is ooc but I wanted to give off the vibe that Superman hasn’t been around for that long, which is why reader/lex don’t know much about him! Also I haven’t written anything in a very long time, so that’s why the punctuation and grammar is kinda crazy!!(written on iphone without autocorrect) Uhm…self-conscious about the smut but I felt wrong not including it 😔 this entire fic is basically reader getting off and on the bus, or traveling to work!! No scene of lex actually talking bc I didn’t think I could get him to sound evil without it being cornball behavior. anyway, hope you like it!! <3
At exactly 3:53 pm Superman turns himself into LutherCorp custody.
At exactly 4:00 pm Superman is placed into a containment cell in your office.
And at exactly- you look down at your watch.
And at exactly 4:25 pm Superman awakes from his kryptonite induced syncope.
You watch his cell from the comfort of your desk, bathed in the darkness of shadowed corners where the artificial light from the containment cell hasn’t reached.
“Where am I?”
You don’t respond, In truth you don’t know what to say, months of preparing for this all boiling down to a singular moment.
“Hello?- I know you’re there.” He grits out through clenched teeth, then stands from the hunched position he previously held. He clutches the spot right below his second rib and grunts, when he removes his hand there’s a deep gash that looks infected; blisters and marred skin surrounding the cut. You think back, remembering the moment where lex stabbed him with a ‘meticulously carved piece of kryptonite’ (those were his words). You note that it was a bit overkill, but think ‘whatever helps him sleep at night’. Getting up from your desk, you step closer; still in the shadows, but close enough where he can make out a figure in a white lab coat. Your glasses catch the light coming from his cell as you push them further up your nose.
“You’re still at LutherCorp.”
He looks around the cell, around your lab, then in your general direction. “Still doesn’t answer my question.” he says, while stepping closer to the glass.
And though you don’t mean to, you take a step with him. Now fully revealed; it makes a shiver run up your spine. You don’t think he’d hurt you, or even be able to currently, but you can’t deny that he is quite imposing. All muscle, and height, and he most certainly must be angry, it would be easy for him to-
“Helloo-“ he trails off as he squints at your LutherCorp ID, once he makes it out he says your name slowly, testing the sound on his tongue. You narrow your eyes at him, promptly taken aback from his lack of, well..everything. Where was the yelling? The anger? The threats?
“what game are you playing?” and you don’t mean for it to come out as mean as it does…but it does.
“I’m not playing any games Doctor.” He exhales a small laugh, “I just think we should get aquatinted is all- since I have a feeling we’ll be running into each other quite a bit.” He says so with a smile, that is quite otherworldly and god you hate him. Then quietly a small part of your brain states that ‘you’re starting to understand Lex now’.
You march up to his cell and press a finger into the glass, nail digging into the material as if you were pressing it into his chest. “I want nothing more to do with you then what Lex finds necessary, we are not acquaintances…” the verbal fire starts to burn out, but not before the final sparks let loose.
“-you’re nothing more than a test subject.” You grit out before turning back to your desk, basked in the comfort of anonymity that darkness brings.
didn’t mean to blow up, not really. It’s just, you never realized your resentment for the man until now. How lex had you putting 110% of your effort into helping him kill ‘The Superman’ and how exhausting it had been, to put your own research and projects on hold; Just for him to waltz onto the front streps of luthorCorp and turn himself in.
You’re annoyed, and angry, and most of all, tired.
You take in a deep breath willing yourself to stay composed, and to stay on track. you gesture to the door that leads into the hallway, “lex should be here soo-“
He’s gone.
The cell is shattered, glass and metal debris now decorate the floor of your office space and lab. he must’ve escaped while you were trying to calm yourself down, too wrapped up in your own thoughts to see or even hear the commotion of- you still don’t know how he actually got out.
stepping over the broken glass you make your way into the now destroyed cell, still trying to figure out how he got away. Then, something warm and wet drips onto the top of your head, slides down your face, and lands on the floor. looking up you see a man sized hole carving through concrete, and pipes, going up- god, eight stories? you also see the sky and the setting sun, giving way for a scattering of faint stars.
The bus ride to your apartment is fairly silent, aside from the faint hum of music coming from a young man’s headphones sitting three seats down. That silence is broken when your bus stops, picking up an older gentleman who is very obviously drunk. He sways and trips into his seat, and as he lolls his head around his eyes land on you, but instead of the rude or abrasive yelling you expect it’s a worried,
“what the fuck happened to you?!”
You look down at yourself, no visible signs of anything. Utterly confused, until you look past the man into the window behind him; hair and shoulders are covered in pulverized concrete, and there’s a mysterious brown patch of some….liquid…all over your shoulder. You draw your focus back onto the man’s face.
“Bad day at work.” Is the only way you know how to explain the day you’ve had.
And he nods, like he knows what you mean.
You’re met with a rush of cold air when you step into your apartment, then almost immediately you hear the all too familiar sound of your neighbor practicing his guitar. See, you wouldn’t be upset if it was a couple times a week, or if it lasted a couple hours a day. But no, It’s every night. For hours on end. It’s almost, almost, commendable but god is it annoying. However after multiple attempts at sending over notes, or fuck, even storming over there yourself, you’ve given up. Trying to tune out the noise you start the familiar routine you’ve perfected over the years: hang work satchel on the rack next to the door, remove your shoes; place them carefully next to your umbrella holder. Walk over to your bedroom bath, strip out of work clothes, and set them into your dirty hamper. The lab coat is the only material that doesn’t go into your hamper, instead you place it in a large trash bag, preparing to drop it off at the dry cleaners on your way to work. Then finally, finally you step into the hot shower, letting the heat relax your muscles before lathering an unscented soap onto your skin. You get drawn back into the events that occurred; your meet with Superman, your chat, his unfortunate escape.
But something else makes its presence known, a wave of curiosity. The type you get when you’re studying a new organism, or in this case studying Superman. Residual anger resides in your chest, but it’s overshadowed by an undying urge to learn about him, to study him. And there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s a superpowered alien from a faraway planet, there’s bound to be some weird stuff about him.
Stuff you could use against him.
So you decide in that moment, as the water begins to lose its heat, that this curiosity is natural and will prove to be quite useful.
You spend the rest of your night compiling any information you can about Superman. You gather this:
1. He is a kryptonian, the last of his people, and he was sent here to do “good”.
(you’ve heard the speech so many times it’s words have started to imprint themselves onto your brain)
2. His list of confirmed abilities include the following
-super strength
-flight
(yeah. It was hard for you to confirm an actual source of all his combined powers. Some say he has x-ray vision, some say he can turn into a- you check your notes again, -an eight legged armored crab with razor sharp pinchers…you decide you’ll just have to figure that part out yourself)
And 3. Out of all his interviews, he’s done the most with a junior writer at the Daily Planet.
Clark Kent.
Clark’s information is thankfully more robust. his high school, his university career, his hometown, his years working at various newspaper outlets, his phone number, his home addr- you get the picture.
At first you bypass him, not giving the man a second thought until….well an idea invades your mind. The daily planet is on your direct route to the dry cleaners, you’ve even passed it on more than one occasion. There would be nothing wrong with stopping by….and asking Mr. Kent a few questions. So you devise a plan. you’ll bring your lab coat, stuff it into your satchel (and sadly wrinkle it even further), bring your lanyard (making sure to take out your Luther Corp. ID), and moonlight as a newly hired journalist. It wouldn’t be hard to pull him aside and ask a few questions, it makes perfect sense for a fresh faced writer to want to get an inside scoop from, ‘The Superman’s’ favorite journalist.
So for the first time in a very long time, you go to bed happy for tomorrow; willing yourself to fall asleep as quickly as possible, and ready to get a head start on your first day of work.
The bus drops you off about a block away from the daily planet and about two from the dry cleaners. You take the short walk with a specific stride in your step, and it doesn’t take long until you’re on the front steps of the daily planet. The hustle and bustle of the building is, quite the contrast from your work environment at luthercorp. Journalists and reporters running about, various chatting of all volumes and interests. Perfect. It’s more than easy for you to slip through the main lobby and into the real workplace. Looking around desks and down various hallways, you search for him. The ever elusive Mr. Kent (you decided to coin him) is seemingly absent. And it would draw too much attention to yourself if you started asking around so you just…wait.
At some point a woman with icy blonde hair starts making her way towards you. “Are you lost sweetie?” The woman, cat- you deduce after taking a look at her Id, approaches you with a worried expression. You realize she must’ve seen you wandering around the building. “No no. It’s my first day and….-“ you trail off, trying to think of the best way to go about this.
“I’m waiting for Clark Kent actually. I got an email saying that he’d walk me through my first day a bit.” You speak calmly. Years of interviews, internships, and company meetings throughout your days have thankfully prepared you for thinking on the fly. Cat puts a hand on her chest, “awh! Well, Welcome to the family-“. She places that same hand on your arm and rubs her thumb up and down, “you might be sitting her for a bit longer though…Clark is usually late- But don’t worry, he’ll show up!” She gives your arm one last reassuring squeeze before throwing you a quick smile and walking away.
It takes about thirty more minutes of you sitting there idly, before a tall figure comes tripping through the revolving doors.
Mr. Kent.
He looks different compared to the photo you had seen online, more frazzled; Carrying a satchel, two coffees, a brown paper bag, (which looks to be stained with some kind of greasy food), a stack of papers? files? And finally a long tan coat thrown over his arm. He rushes past you and makes a beeline to a desk first in the walkway. He drops one coffee off at a Lois L.’s desk (you’ll have to look them up later) and then settles himself into one a bit further in the corner.
You give him a moment to gather himself. Open up his laptop, take a couple sips of his coffee, write some notes. Which look to be color coded. (Respectable)
Don’t know why you watch him for so long, but you do. Watch as he turns, looking around the room but not exactly looking at you, watch as the light from a nearby window catches a dimple he has on the right side of his mouth, then hits his face so well it causes you both to wince for entirely different reasons. He turns back to his desk, and you’re able to find your breath again.
Your’re stalling is what you tell yourself, which is unlike you, but what other reason could there possibly be? ignoring that train of thought you march up to his desk, getting puzzled looks from a couple of journalists.
“Mr. Kent.”
He whips his head around, and his eyes widen in something akin to recognition. “H-Hello?”, he rises from his chair and you stagger back a bit, having to follow his ascension up with your eyes. (You note that you might be a tad dramatic) though Mr. Kent is still hunched a bit his height comes a fair surprise, something his public records never mentioned.
He looks at you expectantly and, you’ve been around enough to know, a bit of nervousness. He takes a large gulp, and scratches the back of his head. “Could I help you with something miss?”
You’re snapped back into reality.
“Actually you could. See I think there’s been a slight mix up. Today’s my first day, and I believe you were supposed to-” you pause, make it more believable, and gesture with your hands, “-help me handle the reigns a bit..but-“ a small pout forms on your face, “It seems you weren’t informed about any of this.”
He holds a finger up, as if ready to explain himself. You seize the moment. “Is there any way you could help me sort this out?”
He stammers a bit before responding, “I’d be more than happy to!” he gives you a small smile, and god. All you can do is look away quickly before speed-walking to the ‘front desk’. Clark follows closely behind, then speeds up when you take the ‘wrong turn’ down a fairly empty hallway.
He laughs nervously, “Uhm, I think we might’ve turned the wrong way, front desk is act-“ you grab his tie and pull him into a small storage closet that you had scoped out while waiting for his arrival.
Once he’s in you push him, rather harshly you’ll admit, into the wall. Then you lock the door.
“I’m sorry this is all rather forward Mr. Kent but-“ you push your slipping glasses up your nose, “-I have questions, and I know you have the answers.”
Clark breathes heavily against the wall, licking his lips and darting his eyes from you, to the door, the ceiling, you again. “I’m not sure I follow.” He manages to squeak out.
“I want to know more about Superman and it seems you might know him the best.”
He breathes out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly before responding with an almost completely different attitude. “And what if I don’t wish to tell you anything?” He stands confident; more assured. Now smiling at you with this look of ‘I know something you don’t know.’
It annoys you.
“Then every one in the daily planet and in a five mile radius will die”
(Completely not true)
“my team and I have planted a set of coordinated bombs that will detonate the moment I give my signal.”
(Not true either)
Clark looks at you with a determined look, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re bluffing. He closes his eyes, then speaks. “What do you want to know?”
You almost giggle. Almost.
You pull open your small bag and yank out the mini recording device, turning it on quickly and pressing record.
“What is your relation with Superman?”
“None. I’m just a reporter who’s brave enough to seek him out. Our numbered meetings have always been after a fight or on the street. We have no intimate or personal knowledge of each other.”
it’s such a coordinated answer, too perfect, and most definitely practiced. You can’t help but roll your eyes. Clark shoots you a similar expression, “what? I’ve given you what you wanted. That is the only relation I have with the man.”
You move on since it seems you’re not getting anything from that branch of questioning.
“You once did an interview with Superman where he stated ‘ people have a lot of preconceptions about me that just aren’t true. I’m someone trying his very best to do good’, do you think-“
“Wow someone really did their research.” He interjects, giving you that oh so seeet smile from before.
You glare at him, clear your throat, then continue. “do you think Superman was referring to the speculation behind his true intentions regarding human life here on earth?”
He looks at you blankly for a minute before breathing out a frustrated sigh, “What do you actually want to ask me? Stop with the talk-show questions and say what you really mean.”
Well. At least you were trying to go about this a little more professionally.
“What does he want with us?”
Clark moves his head back in annoyance before looking at you again, “Nothing! All he wants to do is help. He’s said that time and time again.”
You ignore him.
“What are his capabilities? Any specific strengths or weaknesses?”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Well you seem to watch him the most and you’re miraculously there all the time. it’s also kinda your job as a journalist to get the “inside scoop.”
“Okay, whatever. He can fly, he has enhanced strength, he’s vulnerable to kryptonite, and he has laser vision.”
you perk up, now we’re getting somewhere. confirmed laser vision. You’ll have to do some more digging, however it’s a start.
But there’s one last thing
“He can’t turn into a crab? Big pinchers, armored shell?”
“What? No. No! I mean I don’t know. Thats gonna have to be something you research yourself doctor.”
Doctor?
“Doctor?, how’d you know-“
“Oh! uh- it took me a bit but, I recognize you now.”
You look at him skeptically, stepping a bit closer.
“Y-yeah I recognize you from the uh- what was it?” He snaps his fingers trying to find the words, “oh, you were in a newspaper article celebrating new hires at LutherCorp. Great job by the way!”
Were you? If so you had no idea of your inclusion. it’s not so far fetched though. You back down.
“Alright Mr. Kent. I think I’ve gotten enough from you.” And just like that you collect your device, open the door and run out of the daily planet. Leaving the frazzled Mr. Kent to his own devices in that small, small, closet.
After you drop off your coat at the dry cleaners it’s a short bus ride to LutherCorp, and a quick realization that the world has it out for you. At your very first stop a woman, close to your age, sits directly in front of you. In her hands is a nearly off the printer-fresh copy of a newspaper titled, ‘our savior superman’. Even though you can’t read it from here, you know exactly what it must say.
Our savior? Seriously? The world knows jackshit about this guy then suddenly he’s their savior?
Back at LutherCorp your lab is starting to look better, glass cell now gone and the debris from his escape now cleaned.
You can now check on your pets. Nearly tripping as you rush over to a large walk in freezer labeled with various WARNING and CAUTION and DO NOT OPEN stickers plastered over the doors. You input the code, the date you got your first real pet; some goldfish from the fair that only survived a few days, but broke your heart all the same.
Once you open the door you’re met with the smell of chemical solvents, formaldehyde, and rose. The latter coming from a small plant you named Audrey for its penchant of consuming human flesh, but, he’s rarely used (only when Lex truly has a need for him) Then there’s Shelby, your newest addition to the family. She’s a tiny little thing, no bigger than a grape, akin to a fish like creature; she has the tiniest fins and the biggest eyes. Shelby makes circles around her tank when she notices your presence, and you sprinkle some food into the enclosure before continuing your way down the seemingly never ending fridge. You pass some of your other creatures, offering food, or a pet, or a simple hand to the glass.
Finally you reach Ezzie. A vulture you had nursed back to health after an experiment conducted by one of lex’s previous scientists, went wrong. The bird is weak but you think you can help it out with the proper equipment and suppelments. After she’s had time to rest, you study it further. Then give it one simple objective.
The vulture had completed her task wonderfully and was now on her way back to LutherCorp, while you now stand in an empty parking garage, watching as the Superman crawls himself out of the large divot he made in the ground after being dropped from up above.
“It’s nice to-“ he lets out a small grunt, “see you again Doctor.” Now he stands right before you, closer than ever before. So close you could reach out and your fingers would be grazing the symbol he wears so proudly on his chest.
“Hello.” That’s it? All you can think of saying?
“So was that big bird thing you?” He points up to the sky.
“Yes, she can grow very big and very small.
(you don’t know why you felt the need to tell him that)
did you hurt her?”
He looks at you curiously, “no, I don’t think so. He then looks up at the sky through the hole he left. “Is she yours?”
“Yes and no.”
“Oh, well alright…” There’s a beat of silence, not awkward or strange. Just silence. You can’t figure out why, you had planned this all out, what you would say, what you would do, but it vanished the moment he opened his stupid mouth. Maybe if you find a way to shut him up you could think clear-
“So when are Luthor and his hounds gonna be here.” He stops and looks around expectantly, physically moving his body to assess every direction.
“It’s just me. I didn’t feel the need to disturb Lex if this turned out to be uneventful or if the bird didn’t work.” He turns to look at you, really look at you. And it sends a shiver up your spine, but unlike the first time this isn’t out of fear. It’s something else, it feels like he’s really trying to take you in.
He looks away suddenly. “So it looks like I was right.” He says calmly, putting his hands behind his back.
Right about what?
“How so?” You take a tentative step back and look him up and down, trying to figure out what he’s actually doing.
“I did say that we’d be running into each other again. Though I guess I was a little bit off, since it seems it was you orchestrating it this time.” He walks closer. You stand your ground this time.
“What’s your play Superman? What do you really want.”
He stops in his tracks and turns his head away, exasperated. Like he knew what you were going to say, and prepared for it. “Doctor.” He’s even closer now, looking down at you. toe of his boot almost to yours, “We both know what I’m going to say to that, but if you insist.”
You look up at him with a grimace, ready for the familiar speech. “I was sent here to do good and help humankind, and that’s what I have been doing, and intend to do for the very foreseeable future.” he walks back, putting his hands up in surrender. “No hidden agenda, no secret ploys, just me. Trying my best to help.” He looks at you so intently as if he’s trying to speak to you on multiple levels, really get it into your head.
It makes you feel dumb, like you don’t have the full picture. So you storm up to him, and this time there’s no glass separating you. You’re face to face, so close you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. This time you can actually put your finger to his chest, dig it in as you speak.
“I don’t like being played as a fool, I am not some misguided conspiracy theorist. I am someone who has done my research and is brave enough to question this,” you press your finger into him a little more, “and not follow it blindly.”
Then the actual proximity between the two of you comes into mind. You walk away a few paces, stopping only to collect yourself, similarly to your first meeting with him. “Leave.” You face him, He has a worried expression on his face and he opens his mouth, ready to speak. “Just go.” He backs off, giving one last look in your direction before he flies away.
You watch as his figure becomes smaller and smaller, until he’s just a dot on the horizon.
When you step into your apartment you kick off your shoes, not caring where they fall, then beeline for your fridge. Empty, expect for a small box of half eaten takeout (that has to be more than a week old)
You close the fridge and walk back until your legs hit the counter space separating your kitchen from your living room. Rubbing the sides of your head you hope the pressure from your kneading relieves the building headache. You push yourself off the counter and make your way into the living room. As you sit down on your couch you take in how bare the room is, and quite frankly most of your house.
A small couch, no tv, a small coffee table in front of the couch. You look into the kitchen. Small ‘dining table’ big enough to fit maybe four? but with a very tight squeeze.
No decorations, a small plant on your countertop, good for air quality (something you had been told as a young child that stuck with you). In that moment you wish other things had stuck with you, the built in relationships you had, the family, the routine. And though you hated school growing up, a small part of you misses it, being in an environment where you had daily contact with others.
Now it’s just you. and maybe the occasional call from Lex when he needs something.
Can’t pinpoint what exactly has you feeling like this, this, uncharacteristic wave of emotion. Because you’ve known you were lonely, it’s been a part of your life for a very, very, long time now. But it was never something you sat in the dark on your couch stewing about. Instead of actually sitting with it, or accepting it. You think back to your office. your lab. your animals. you begin to itch with the feeling that you need to get out of her. Need to step into that cold sterile room. Hell, you’d be fine bringing your work stuff home, fully merge your space into one.
But sadly, you think, ‘lex doesn’t let workers take home company equipment.’
The next morning on your way to work, while waiting at your bus stop, you spot him.
Clark Kent.
He’s speaking to an older woman while other civilians surround them. He has a little notepad, and a pen topped with a tiny…cow? It Looks like something you’d get at a souvenir shop. Then as you’re trying to figure out why on earth someone would use a pen like that, no less in a professional setting.
He spots you, He spots you. And instead of looking at you in horror, or running away (which honestly he should)….he smiles….and gives you a small wave. Almost sheepishly. He looks back at the woman he’s interviewing says some words to her, and gives her an apologetic look.
“Hi” he says, then fidgets with his hand a bit when you finally make eye contact with him.
“Hello.” You look down at his other hand, the one that holds the cow pen. “Why that one?”
He looks confused before following your gaze to his left hand. “Oh this?” He holds it up, “was a gift from my ma when I first started working at the daily planet.” He smiles at it, then looks back to you.
“Would you like to chat for a bit? I’ll buy.” He offers, then gestures towards a small coffee shop next to the bus stop.
You look down at your watch, twenty minutes until your workday starts, but no one is actually checking on you.
You don’t know why you actually agreed, maybe it was a spur of the moment situation, or maybe you just wanted to chat with someone who seemed like they just genuinely wanted to talk to you.
When Clark joins you at the small table, you have to stop yourself from laughing as he scoochez a little to close to the couple next to you while trying to fit himself into the insanely small chairs, the ones that coffe shops try to implement to ‘be hip’ but really they’re just uncomfortable. He mutters out a couple apologizes before placing your coffee in front of you and setting his down next.
He sets his hands in front of him, weaving his fingers tighter and twiddling his thumbs. “So, there was no bomb.” he states, very matter of factly.
You pretend to think for a moment while resting your head on your hand, elbow propped on the table. “No, not that I’m aware of- but If the daily planet is getting a bit dull I might be able to arrange something.”
Clark laughs then smiles at you, “I’ll let you know.” He then watches as you pour a couple sugar packets into your coffee, watches as you stir the drink with your straw, and then proceed to not take a sip.
“Did I get your order wrong?! I could go back and get a new one, or we could switch if you wanted something hot?”
It surprises you a bit, his eagerness for accommodation, but you reassure him “Nothings wrong, I’m just trying to pace myself. I’ve already had three cups today.”
He gives you an embarrassed smile then gestures at his cup, “this is my fourth.”
“Oh really? What has Mr. Kent so preoccupied that he has to resort to caffeine abuse?” Both elbows now rest on the table, with your head propped up by your hands on the side of your face. You look at him with an impish expression.
“i’ve had some late nights lately” An uncharacteristic smirk takes over his features, “something about a large bird being spotted in downtown metropolis”
Oh.
“Oh. how odd. Wonder what that’s about” you take a sip of your coffee to steer clear of any more conversation involving that.
Some silence plays out, the sound of coffee shop chatter, and the clanking of various cups and steaming machines. But it’s not weird, almost comfortable. Both of you sitting idly, sipping on your coffee’s and sharing a furtive glance when the couple next to you starts a small argument. Then-
“Could I ask you a question?” Clark looks at you expectantly, his coffee in hand while rubbing his thumb over the cup. Nervous tick.
“Sure.”
He licks his lips then sits up in his chair a bit “why do you hate him so much? Superman.” He rushes the last part out like he doesn’t really want you to hear it.
“I don’t hate him. I don’t know him, that’s my issue.”
(Not a lie)
“Well how are you supposed to get to know him if you immediately jump to distrust?”
“I think it’s perfectly reasonable for me to distrust a random man, with a dubious background, who claims that ‘he was sent here to do good’ and that we should just go along with it.”
“What’s so wrong with that? I understand that he’s been a bit mysterious but what other crimes has he committed that warrants you to dislike him so deeply?”
And, you can’t admit it to him, that it runs deeper than just distrust or world views. It’s changed your day to day life for months. Ever since Lex tasked you with helping him take down the Superman, it’s put your life on a hold.
And now, He’s all you can think about.
“It’s more complicated than that Clark. At least it is for me.” You stand up, grabbing your bag, then place a few bucks on the table. “I’m being honest when I say I don’t hate him. I just don’t get him.”
You leave the coffee shop, Leaving Clark alone and stunned for a second time.
After your meet with Clark, you clock into work, tend to your animals, and input all the recent information you’ve gathered on Superman.
Two days after your meet with Clark, you clock into work, tend to your animals, and review all the recent information you’ve gathered on Superman.
Three days after your meet with Clark, you clock into work, tend to your animals, and review all the recent information you’ve gathered on Superman.
Four days after your meet with Clark, you clock into work, tend to your animals, and review all the recent information you’ve gathered on Superman.
Five days after your meet with Clark, you clock into work, tend to your animals, and try your very hardest to forget everything you know about Superman.
Two weeks after your meet with Clark, you find yourself alone in your apartment, reading a book on your couch with a small cup of tea. It’s simple, and quite ‘normal’ and you like it very much. Then, your next door neighbor (the same one who seems committed to starting some band) turns on his tv, turns on his tv- to what you think must be the loudest setting possible.
The news reporter starts talking and your gut just knows what they’re going to say-
“Superman has just been spotted in down town metropolis after a building catches on fire, reports say there were no casualties and minimal injuries, just another day of Superman saving the day! We’ll be back with more information after this short break”
God.
After what feels like weeks of no Superman or trying to theorize some way to capture him. You’re sucked back in, your brain running in all sorts of directions about what he’s been up to. You throw your book to the other end of the couch and sink deeper into the cushions, you find yourself doing that very familiar motion of rubbing your temples, trying to relieve the tension.
You think vaguely that this most certainly is not healthy. how easy it was for you to fall back in. You can feel it building now, the itch to check all your information, and go over every clip, photo, and interview with him. Your skin starts to feel unsettled like ants crawling all over, you can do nothing more than cover your face and scream as loudly as possible into your hands.
The next morning you rush into work and immediately delve into your ‘Superman collection’. you feel quite embarrassed calling it that, but any other term falls a bit flat when you reference it in your mind.
When it’s all laid out, the photos, the video clips (the photos you printed out yourself) the newspaper clippings, you take a step back and give the large whiteboard holding all your physical information a quick once over. You back up to take in the full scope of everything, but accidently bump into your desk and the small radio that sat atop it.
And because the universe now loves you, the very first channel just happens to be a radio station tuned to the local news. “this just in: Superman rescues six year old stuck in a tree, child is safe and sustained no injures. Family thanks Superman sincerely!”
You turn it off and finally, finally, realize what you’ve been missing this entire time.
It doesn’t matter, what Superman’s powers are or what his physicality can do. Superman’s true ‘kryptonite’ is his heart. You could hit him with any weapon, or threaten him with any pain, and it wouldn’t matter.
but protecting the people does. and a part of you softens at that. Superman’s inability to ignore any call or plea, then you think briefly. “How hard it must be, to be him.” You shake your head, trying to clear up any thoughts surrounding that.
You had been waiting for about an hour, waiting in a vacant apartment going through some, you look around, very major renovations. But it would serve its intended purpose just fine.
You look out the window and see your mimic, in the form of a small child, sitting on the fire escape connected to the apartment. Earlier that day you had sat at a park bench and waited, waited for the moment some kid would cry or scream for its mom (most likely over not getting their turn on the slide or because they ran into a pole because they weren’t paying attention) It didn’t matter, all you needed was for your mimic to memorize the sound, and store it for this moment.
You look down at your watch, and see the hands tick as the sun begins to set. Then you relax and mentally prepare for the wails of the mimic.
After about 10 minutes of crying, Superman shows up. He tries to calm down your creature, asking it a couple of questions before realizing ‘they’ are too young to understand. When he reaches out to grab the child, it takes hold of his shoulders before pulling him into the room where you sit.
Superman, shocked and at a loss for words, tries to get a baring of his surroundings. Worried eyes looking for the kid before he settles his eyes on you.
“You couldn’t have, I dunno, gave me signal or something?” He stands up, dusts off his legs from the settlement that was on the floor.
“Where’s the fun in that?” You sit at a small table, abandoned with its chairs and all, they even left the tablecloth covering the table.
He walks up and pulls out the seat a bit, “is this taken?”.
“Mmm looks like your in luck, my dates cancelled. Something about ‘not wanting to meet in some random apartment complex.” God shut up. Ask him a genuine question. Or get angry, or yell at him, or something.
He settles into the chair. “Hello doctor.” He rests his hands on the table then, interlocking his fingers together. You take a brief pause and think back to Clark, not sure why, but you’re suddenly getting a strong sense of familiarity.
“Hello Superman”
“So is this your idea of a date?” His eyes scan over the room, “If so I’m flattered. But I’ll admit, I was expecting something a little more upscale”
“Ha.”
“Ouch. Tough crowd.” He settles back into the chair a bit. A pause, he strums his finger against the table briefly, “So what is this really about doctor?”
You should punch yourself genuinely, you don’t know why whenever in his presence you completely forget what you’re actually here for. Maybe it’s some part of his powers. mind control. or behavioral manipulation. It has to be that.
“I want to know more about you.” (the truth)
“Ah. So this is another interrogation.”
“No. Is it so wrong that a civilian wants to know more about their savior?” You try to sound genuine but you can’t fully fight the sarcastic tone that overtakes you.
“Under normal circumstances no, it wouldn’t. But you’re not normal, are you?” He looks at you, deeply, Truly, wholly.
“You don’t know me,” you scoff.
“Then let me.” He leans forward now, “I think it’s quite unfair that you get to hound me for questions, but I’m not able to return the favor.”
“There’s nothing important to me, I’m a doctor, I work at Luthercorp, and I’m curious about who the Superman truly is.” You lean forward, “that’s all there is to me.” You can’t even stop yourself when your eyes wander to his lips. Pink and full, and you wonder in that moment how they would feel; how you’d glide your finger over his cupids bow before tracing your way down to the swell where lip meets lip. Your finger twitches against the table, and you have to wrench yourself back.
Closing your eyes you let out a small sigh, you caught yourself.
“Are you alright doctor?” when you open your eyes, he’s staring. Looking so very worried, like a puppy dog almost, hands in lap, and waiting for the okay to just…do something. Help in any way he can.
“Headache.” Is the only reasonable answer you can muster.
“ Maybe I could-“ he reaches forward.
You stand up suddenly, causing the chair to make a startling screech against the floor, “I’m okay! Really, it’s just been a long day for me.” He looks even more concerned now, one hand about to reach out, and you think briefly that any contact between the two of you, would killl you.
You’re not sure why. But it would.
He begins to speak but you let the words pour out, hoping to stop any train of thought he was having.
“I think I should leave. It’s late, I’m getting tired, you’re probably tired as well. You know with all the uh, stuff you do.” You fumble for your small purse, and for the small fish tank your mimic is in, “okay, bye, it was great talking!” And you try to get out the room so quickly that some water spills out the side of the tank.
Unknowing to you; you had left Clark Kent, alone, and stunned for now a third time.
You need fresh air, cold fresh air, to walk the tension off that’s building In your chest. You pass the bus stop and take the considerable walk home.
The walk didn’t help. You resort to kicking off your shoes, placing the fish bowl on your kitchen counter, before stripping off your coat. and pants. and shirt. Now left in your bra, and underwear.
Your heartbeat starts beating faster by the minute, and there’s this heat that settles over your skin; goosebumps raised as well. Your nerves must be causing this.
You could sleep this off, wake up and forget tonight happened. You run into the bedroom, slamming the door behind you and falling into the bed; body atop the covers (still too hot to get under them.) You squeeze your eyes shut, closed to the point of pain, and will yourself; pray to anything that will listen, that you’ll fall asleep. Soon please.
Then because the world actually hates you, you hear the faint sound of a moan, coming from that same fucking neighbor who must be sent from hell to ruin your life in any way he can. Then there’s a giggle and a quiet “shhh” from beyond your bedroom wall.
Their noises are so faint, but they’re there. Honestly if you hadn’t heard the first moan you would barely recognize that anything like that was happening.
But you do now and it’s too late.
You try to ignore the growing pressure and slight pulse between your legs. You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter. But it becomes unbearable. You let out a soft curse, then reach down and begin fondling yourself through your underwear. Breath hitching as you run your index finger against your slit; wonder if you should do it.
No one would know.
So you continue running that finger up and down, up and down, then press a little harder at your clit. You let out a soft groan when you do so, almost pained. You tense your legs up a bit, then start spreading them open some more.
It’s too much, you can practically feel yourself drip into your underwear; body far too neglected. It’s become painful, aching for more pressure, or friction, or- you want to sob, anything. You decide to give yourself some mercy, as you reach into your underwear and part your lips with your middle and ring finger. You feel the slick that’s gathered and let out a sigh, collecting more of the wetness before sliding back up; pressing on your clit then rubbing small circles.
It’s not enough, not even close.
You yank off your underwear, throwing them somewhere in the room before finding your rhythm again. Now more able to move and writhe how you want to get a good angle with your fingers. You find a nice, great even, pace and feel it building and building. a little more pressure and you’d come. You keep at it, then when you feel your orgasm coming you screw your eyes shut again, preparing yourself.
But then he’s there. All smile, and blue eyes, and those perfect dimples.
You stop. Fully stop. Tearing your hand away and feeling as you throb with abandonment.
Why? Why? You couldn’t even get off without him trying to invade you mind. You try again, finding that same rhythm, but as soon as you nearly reach your peak he’s back. You let out a frustrated groan and fall back further into bed. laying there you wonder if you’ll ever be free, or if you’ll at least be able to finish before you mind betrays you again.
Then, a sick thought crosses your mind.
No one would know, except for you. And like he’s always said, he’s here to help.
So. You grab a pillow, the one that’s rarely used and mainly just there to fill the space. You place it on the middle of your bed, and sit on it. beginning to ride.
This time you don’t stop when your mind wanders off and imagines him. Imagines him under you, the pillow his body. You imagine the ridges of his abs and how they’d feel sliding against your cunt. You grip the pillow harder, now clenching the fabric tightly in your fist, other hand next to you trying to help yourself balance. You’re close. So, so, close. Then because you love torturing yourself, you imagine, picture, practically feel, his hand coming up and caressing your hip. Your release comes with a moan muffled by the pillow, and a slight tremor in your legs.
God you hate him. You hate him, and wonder for a brief moment if he’s pictured you in the same way.
The next day, after hours spent in the lab, hours spent looking and staring at his face, you leave. Needing some fresh air and- your stomach growls, apparenlty needing some food as well.
You leave the LutherCorp building and arrive at a small cart selling various quick and easy foods. You take some time to look at the options while waiting your turn, and mentally settle on a sandwich (reliable) you reach the front of the line and as the worker packages your meal and is about to give you your total, a voice from behind you speaks up, “I’ll pay for that.”
You turn around to meet the eyes, of metropolis’s favorite journalist. Clark Kent. He stands there, work satchel bursting open with papers. Has on a tan suit today and a green tie, a little daily star pin on his pocket. Clark reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his wallet, but he doesn’t pay yet. Instead he buys another sandwich, a bigger size than yours, and two water bottles. Then he pays, but he doesn’t walk alway until he’s grabbed a handful of napkins and tipped the worker about 10 bucks. If it were anyone else offering to pay you would’ve politely declined, or maybe even walked off but, It’s Clark. And even though you curse yourself for it, you’d feel bad saying no.
When he meets you, He hands you the water bottle and your sandwich before walking away while opening his and taking a large bite out of it. You stand there, in the middle of the sidewalk, unmoving until he turns around to face you from the other side of the street, lowering his sandwich he looks at you with these big puppy dog eyes, “you coming?” You’re struck with that feeling of familiarity, like you’ve seen those eyes recently, but only on a different face. You chalk it up to not enough sleep and too much time spent alone.
Taking a peek at your watch you see that your lunch break has about thirty minutes left.
You could spare some time.
You run across the street and meet Clark where he waits for you at a the entrance of a tree filled park. The two of you walk side by side, no words exchanged. Clark eventually spots a park bench and the two of sit there, eating your sandwiches and watching as leaves quietly descend from the trees before landing on the grass and pavement softly. Every so often, a bird will chirp or you’ll hear the laughter of a small child, but besides that. It is quiet, just the noise of leaves against the wind. When you’re almost done with your sandwich, Clark suddenly speaks up.
“It’s a nice day out.” Then he’s silent again, back to admiring the day.
You finish your bite before putting down your sandwich and letting out a quiet reply, “it is.”
Once you’re done with your food (and the water bottle he had so kindly gotten you) you move to stand up, about to thank him for paying, but he stops you by holding up his hand. “Can we talk? Not about Superman or anything like that! But just,” he pauses as if he’s trying to find the right words. “We can talk about us.”
“Us?”
He smiles suddenly then stands up rising to his full height, “Yeah! we can talk about anything. Like our favorite bands, or favorite books, or gosh anything really.” He put his hands in his pants pockets sometime during his talking, and he shrugs a bit. (Another nervous tick) The sun that peeks through the tree canopy illuminates him, sun spots gathering in the lens of your glasses. It reminds you of the day you saw him working at his desk, before he knew who you were.
“Ok.”
Then you start walking away, not giving him any time to catch up really. you turn around after you stepped a few paces away, “you coming?”
He grins and meets you, then the two of you begin your quiet journey through the park.
“So, Mr. Kent. What is…” you chew your bottom lip for a bit, “what’s your favorite movie?”
He laughs, then removes one hand from his pocket to scratch behind his neck “That’s pretty hard.” You think he’s gonna bail; skip the question or not give you anything truthful, then “I dunno if it’s my favorite but I watched the notebook the other night, and well. I probably cried for a good chunk of time.”
When you turn to look at him his cheeks have turned a light shade of pink. “Cute.” Is all you can manage to get out, and he turns to look at with widened eyes and a smile.
You stop in your tracks, “no! no, I mean cute like. Most people wouldn’t admit to something like that, you know?” After a beat of silence you speak up, “it’s a good movie.” When you peek back over to him he’s still blusinhg. Clark clears his throat then, “okay my turn, what’s your favorite food?”
“Hard hitting questions Mr. Kent, I like it.”
a pause.
“I’m not really sure. Most days I just eat whatever’s convenient, or closest to LutherCorp or my apartment.” he was being vulnerable with his answer you’ll try the same. “when I was younger my favorite was always pancakes for dinner, but I haven’t done that in a while”
“Really? I love breakfast for dinner. Should probably broaden my horizons though.” Then very, very, quietly he says- “I’ve had it like three times this week.”
You let out a small laugh “Alright now very important question- cats or dogs………..”
The two of you go on like that for a while, taking turns asking each other various questions, or sharing pieces of information you think the other would find interesting. Like, you find out that Clark has been covering a story about this older woman who swears her basement is haunted; she’s even convinced a couple of her neighbors. So now there’s a bunch of people trying to dig up any information they can about the house and do ghost neighborhood watches. Clark says that it’s most likely nothing, but that it’s still been fun since he gets to hear a bunch of ghost stories, even if they’re unrelated to the actual house.
You tell him about your terrible neighbor, and his many slights against you. (You make sure to omit the part where you turned into a kinda-sorta voyeur but that’s beside the point) After what feels like hours, you realize the sun has begun to set. But, you’re not upset, not upset that you didn’t return to the lab. Instead there’s this feeling of peace; a breath released and then another taken before the process continues.
“I think it’s my time to leave…but I had a really nice time” your heart clenches at that, the admittance of time well spent out loud.
Clark looks down at his shoes, “one more question?”
“Shoot.”
“What’s your favorite flower?”
Huh, you had never really given that much thought. Sure some were pretty but none really had a connection to you. “None specifically, but….I like the smell or roses. Classic.”
“Okay.” He smiles at you again, that small sweet one that’s so charming it makes you want to pinch his cheeks, or run your fingers through his hair to see if he’d start making noi- (you store that image for later)
“I’ll be seeing you around Doctor.” then he’s gone. You’re left standing there watching him walk away further into the park before he becomes a speck admist the trees. You watch until he’s gone, then turn around and begin the walk back to LutherCorp, still needing to finish up a couple things before you can go home.
Though your mind ends up wandering back to Clark, and your brain and heart are conflicted. you like him. You’re not stupid, and you’re not oblivious. But your brain tells you, no. He’s off limits. Like you’ve put him on some pedestal that is high enough for you to reach but not close enough to touch. He’s cute, and kind. sweet. But far more interested in you than he should be; Clark doesn’t know the real you, the side of you that’s obsessive, quick to anger, the side that feels the need to keep everything under control.
When your brain stops overthinking, you find yourself at the entrance of the LutherCorp building.
A couple days after your meet with Clark, you can’t help but feel that itch again. You’re stuck thinking about Superman, skin practically buzzing with the thought of continuing your research.
So, you get on the bus.
On your way into your lab you walk by multiple rooms filled with equipment, but one in particular catches your eye. A small storage closet filled with projects that other researchers have forgotten or discarded, the cleaners must have left the door open. Looking through the pile something in particular catches your eye. A small drone.
You think about your previous conversation with Superman and something about making your ‘grabs for attention’ less obvious. You think vaguely that you’re not actually doing this for him, it’s more for your animals sake, being taken in and out of stressful situations is definitely not good for them. You grab the drone, smuggling it into your lab coat before scurrying off into your office.
It had always been an idea of yours; to use some type of device to implement your creatures wherever and whenever you wanted, so that they felt real, but they wouldn't actually get hurt. But part of the reason you've never delved too deeply into the idea is because well, while you are trained in multiple fields of study, you have no qualifications when it comes to drone technology or anything of the sort. Under different circumstances you would have asked Lex or begrudgingly asked another scientists working for lex, but it's too risky. Someone would ask what you're using it for, or would want to use it for their own purposes. And that's not what you really need to happen right now.
As you start tinkering with the object it comes to you: you need something big, really big, to attract superman. But it would be a little too destructive for your taste to actually release a creature like that. You're desperate, not delusional. so, you gather any information you can on the subject at hand, and try your very hardest to do this yourself.
After hours of working, you’ve gotten nowhere. And so, you look over to the small fridge situated under your desk. Usually used for drinks or snacks, but in your case it contains an artificial stimulant. Which you promised yourself you’d only use in very serious situations. You know this doesn’t fit into the very serious situation criteria, but one wouldn’t hurt. So you open the fridge, take the syringe, and inject it into your upper arm.
One. One, and you would have this thing finished in no time.
It ends up being more than one, more than three actually but that’s beside the point. you were one-hundred percent correct when you said that this was not an area of study you had qualifications in. but after seventy two hours of no sleep, no food, and no sunlight. You think you have something believable enough to get his attention.
so what better thing to do than immediately test it out?
the spot you decide on is a small sushi restaurant, the type that has fancy customers wearing the latest trending clothes and complaining about the temperature of the water, the pretentious type.
you had scheduled the drone to activate at about eight, but until then you would wait in a small booth in the corner of the restaurant, judge the diners, and order a lemonade to stall for time while you pretend to look through the menu. You look around the space, noting the various couples scattered about, it brings you back to your coffee date chat with Clark; end up imagining him here, seated across from you. you think about the park, and how you wanted to run your fingers through his hair, or how you had thought briefly about holding his hand. Now, you imagine him here, you sliding your hand across the table and interlocking your fingers with his.
Then you think to Superman, think about his dimples and how they’re so similar to Clark’s, maybe that’s why you’ve been soft when it comes to him.
you hear a quiet beeping and realize it’s time for the drone. you straighten In your seat, and try to rid any thoughts of Clark from your mind. you hear distant screams as various patrons and streetwalkers take notice of the simulated bird, they all flee the restaurant (kinda stupid) and you’re able to make it to the restaurants rooftop. It takes about ten minutes for him to show up. When he spots the bird, his fighting stance settles, and he looks around before his eyes eventually spot you. Taking out the remote, you press the small red button that shuts the drone off.
He flies over to you, descending slowly before his feet hit the ground. Then he rushes over to you, hands settling themselves on either side of your face. “What happened?!” You grab at his hands trying to push them off, “what are you taking about?” You spit out.
His hands turn your face to the left and to the right, and you mentally note that under different circumstances you’d laugh; he’s acting like a worried mother. He stops, looks you in the eyes as his humb brushes over your cheekbone.
“You look so tired.” He whispers, eyes stopping at various spots on your face; your eyes, your cheeks, your lips. finally you realize what he’s talking about. No wonder he's acting like this, he see’s a walking corpse in front of him. You must look like shit, days of no sleep, no food, and the same dirty clothes. You place your hands over his, removing them slowly until they’re hovering instead of on (the contact was making you dizzy but it could also be the exhaustion)
"i'm okay, really." you wonder if you should tell him the truth, but…how would he feel if you told him? When he realizes the actual depth of your obsession, So much so that you’d risk your own health just at a chance to talk to him.
Unfortunately for you, you’re delirious. Not in the right headspace to think about the full implications.
"i used an artificial stimulant. I'll be fine when it wears off and i get some rest, but I just-" No, please dont say it. “-I just wanted to see you.” he smiles sadly at that, but theres a small sparkle in his eye.
You move away from him, or at least try to. Your exhausted body and brain can’t seem to connect, so you end up tripping. But you don't fall, he catches you; warm hands resting on your back. When you regain your footings again, you push yourself off him gently then walk over slowly and sit at the edge of the building; dangling your feet and letting the cold air cool you down. Then you feel the sensation of something close to you, and open your eyes.
Superman is sitting next to you. Feet dangling over the edge.
"Doing any saving tonight." You smile, and go back to resting your eyes. Without looking away from the night sky he replies “No. Just you."
Oh. You feel something deep in your chest, like something pulling, or twisting. You’re not quite sure. The two of you remain there for a while, watching the stars glint and twinkle from up above. The urge overcomes you suddenly to say something, to hear his voice again. But you don’t mean for it be such a serious admission.
"I think Lex is wrong about you."
He looks over to you, eyes wide, while a worried expression takes over his features again, as if you grew two heads and started talking from a third.
"You're not dangerous. I know that. But, I still don't- I still don't know how to feel about you. I’m a scientist. It's my job to find all the answers and to have a logical reason for everything, but you're not logical."
He lifts a finger up, ready to say something.
"Shhhh let me finish. You're not logical in the sense that, I don't think any other person would be so willing and ready to help. To be that beacon of hope, and ask for so little…except for us to try and do the same for each other."
He looks at you, eyes soft at the edges and glossy. He looks up at the sky and you see a tear fall from the side of his face. Then, you get a piercing headache. letting out a wince you grip your head trying to wait it out. “Doctor, are you sure you’re okay? I could fly you ho-“
You look up from your hands, waving them if front of you in an effort to make him forget what he just said, "No! i'm okay. I'll just walk myself home.” While you’re speaking he shakes his head no, "I can't let you do that, it’s too dangerous in your state." and because he knows you too well he begins to speak up again, trying to sound convincing. “think about it like this, you're a civillian in need, and I'm here to help."
"I'm not a civilian. I'm a highly skille-" He shushes you, "pretend. Just for tonight." you huff out a groan, "i’m still not letting you fly me home." you realize theres no way to convince him.
You wake up on your couch, it’s still dark outside. Rising from the cushions, you realize that your old clothes are still on, and your purse is still on your shoulder. You get up and check the clock hanging up in your kitchen. Nine? How? You were still at the restaurant with Superman at nine? You look for your phone, then realize it’s still in your bag.
A day. You slept an entire day. You yawn, note that it was probably for the best.
You yawn again and smell your own breath, actually smell your everything. Picking your phone back up, you order some takeout, then get into the shower. When you come out, the food has been delivered outside your door. you collect your food before settling on the couch, eating in the low light provided by your kitchen. You sit there, chewing your food, and just think. Take in all that’s happened this month. Think about Superman, think about Clark. Think about how you got home; Superman walking with you, watching as you almost fell into the street, watching as you entered the wrong code twice into your buildings security entrance, nearly getting yourself locked out.
You shudder.
Can’t help but to think about Clark again, and how you should probably call him. Or orchestrate some type of meeting with him.
You finish your food, but leave the box on the coffee table; walk into your bedroom and plop down onto the covers, eventually crawling in when the robe you put on after the shower didn’t suffice to keep the chill from your bones.
Don’t know how long you stay in bed, has to be a while. The sun rises and sets and you find yourself in the same spots. Bed or your couch. End up feeling accomplished when you’re able to actually leave the bed, only to grab the dropped off takeout, eat at your couch then get back into bed. There is no sadness just a numbness, no pain, no bad thoughts, it feels like you’re on autopilot. Your body eating, drinking, and breathing, trying its best to keep you alive; not dumb, you know where this all came from, but it’s too late now. Just have to ride the wave.
See, part of the side effects of the stimulant was, although uncommon, an extreme low. Those who have experienced depresive episodes are especially susceptible, which is why you promised yourself only to use it in serious situations. But you try not to worry much.
It could last up to a few days or a few weeks, you’ll be fine.
One day as you’re opening your fridge, about to see what’s leftover; there’s a knock at your door. you look over to your counter, grab a large kitchen knife from the holder, then quietly make your way to the door. You convince yourself that your neighbor has come for revenge, tired of your complaints. you prop your ear to the door , “Go home. I’m not expecting any visitors.”
a voice you’ve come to recognize says, “but I brought food.”
You yank open the door almost breaking the chain lock with your haste, Clark Kent stands; work jacket over his arm and white takeout bag in hand. Some part of you rejoices, and you grab him by his tie still situated on the white button up. You push him up against the door, causing it to close.
“What are you doing here!?”
Clark is flushed and has both arms up in surrender against the door, he grins “I texted you! I didn’t want to invade your space but…I wanted to see you.” You’re still shocked, but you take notice of the fluttering in your stomach at his words.
“How’d you get my address?! Wait, How’d you get my number?!” Clark pouts a tiny bit. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to intrude! I’ll just drop off the food.”
“No it’s okay! Just. Sit.” You step back and open your arm gesturing to your tiny dining table, embarrassed about the sate of your apartment. Rubbing your arm you walk behind him. “Sorry about the place. I’ve been…busy” then, “I’m sorry for not texting either.….my phones also been dead for a while.”
Clark stops in the motion of taking out boxes from the bag. He looks up at you, face turning into a small smile, but his eyebrows are situated in a sad kind of expression.
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have just shown up. But I was worried about you.”
What?
“Why?”
Clark blushes, “it’s maybe dramatic but. I hadn’t seen you out in a while. I usually spot you getting off or on your bus, or getting something to eat. but after a while you were nowhere to be seen…so I uh, I did some digging. I found your number and I texted you a few times. I called today, then left a voicemail, then texted you again.I wanted to check on you but, I didn’t know if you were mad, or god forbid hurt. So I just showed up, thought I’d get my confirmation either way.”
Then he goes back to taking the food out the bag, as if he hadn’t just said what he said. He continues, now looking at your face.
“I’m glad it was neither of those though.” he looks back down, setting the final box on the table before balling up the trash bag and navigating your kitchen for the trash can. Your head starts to hurt with the tension of keeping tears in (it’s just the emotional turmoil of everything lately. Nothing else.)
You have to look away then; from the sight of him locating your cutlery drawer, pulling out a pair of forks and spoons before poking his head in a couple cabinets, getting cups for the two of you.
When he comes back you’re sitting down at the head of the oval dining table, Back close to the wall. He still has on that same smile as he sets down the plates, portioning some for you, then some for him, some for you, then him. Until there’s only a bit of food leftover. He begins eating, looking around your apartment; Eyes stopping at various spots of interest before moving his attention elsewhere.
“Thank you, Clark.” You move some food on your plate, trying to stop yourself from bursting into tears. No one’s ever treated you this…soft. Caring for you and asking nothing in return. But that’s just how Clark is you’ve come to realize.
He always notices. Like right now, “you okay?”
“Yeah. I will be” seems to be the best way to suffice how you’re feeling. You and Clark eat together, sometimes there’s silence, sometimes there’s a joke between the two of you, but it feels normal. domestic. You want Clark around. you always knew, even subconsciously.
When you’re finished, you stand up, grabbing the dirty dishes; Clark puts his hand over yours, takes them from you. He walks into your kitchen and turns on the faucet, “I wash, you dry?” Then he starts swiping over the plates with the dish sponge. You nod. Grab the blue rag hanging on the oven, and dry the dishes as Clark hands them off.
You whisper, so quietly, that if Clark wasn’t barely a step away from you, it would’ve stayed between you and the walls. “How’d you know?”
Clark looks at you, then back to the dishes.
“You looked different. Tired. a little sad.”
You turn, back against the counter, but still next to Clark. Crossing your arms over your chest, you speak; tell him what’s been going on. “I took an artificial stimulant. Which was really dumb, since I’m not really the type of person who can handle the drop that comes with it.” You pause, turn to look at him “Thank you Clark. It- it means a lot.” starting to feel vulnerable, you feel the need to cover it up with something else. “Still kinda freaked out that you stalked me for my address.”
He continues washing the dishes but a small smirk takes over his features and he shrugs, like he knows what you’re feeling. “Don’t mention it.”
You wake up feeling better, not back, but better. Looking at the phone on the side table, you come to terms with the fact that you can’t ignore life forever. Sighing, you plug in your phone, and watch as the screen floods with various messages, some from an unsaved number, most likely Clark’s. (You can tell because of the amount of emojis and the polite tone in every one.) But there’s also messages from Lex.
He’s frantic; calls, texts, emails.
You check the one sent most recently, and your heart sinks to your stomach.
Lex states how he has a plan to kill Superman, and that all he needs is your help, and the research you’ve gathered to finalize the project. You worry for a moment that he caught you meeting with Superman or that he’s gone through your office and found everything. But, you know lex well enough by now. He would have sent someone after you, not desperately send you- looking at your phone you see, twenty-one messages.
You close your eyes and fall back into bed.
You don’t want him to die; you know how much he means to the people, know how much he means to you. You think back to when you first signed on to work for Lex; had no idea about his Superman vendetta. It was just a good job opportunity that had..more open ended rules than other establishments. you remember earlier this year, when Lex had asked for help developing a weapon that could kill Superman, you weren’t thinking much; never even paid attention to Superman before Lex had asked you to. Then you think about the natural progression; how you were’t actively involved with his projects, were just there for insight or when his other team got stuck. Now you remember when the switch flipped and you were fully pulled into the team, lex halting any access to your projects.
You stop thinking for a moment, realize ‘my anger with Superman was misplaced….’ You had never even developed or researched anything that could hurt him, let alone kill.
Start to feel bad about how you treated Superman. The anger he received wasn’t meant for him, if anything you were just, frustrated that you couldn’t understand him. He was an easy target, too. Kind when he had no reason to be, and far too willing to go along with your ‘traps’.
You don’t want him to die.
But now, lex has his mind set. He needs you at LutherCorp as soon as possible. you look around your bedroom; try to calm yourself down.
How are you supposed to save Superman?
Something has to be done. You can’t just ghost Lex Luther and get away with it. Don’t notice it at first but you start to pace around the apartment, thinking of how you’re gonna stop this all from happening, thinking about how in your own stupid way you’ve been helping Lex this entire time. If he gets to any of your files he’d see all the information you’ve gathered on Superman, all the observations you’ve made, he’d be set.
It suddenly feels like you can’t breathe, you head to the roof of your apartment building and wonder if just for a moment you could spot him. In a moment like this, you wish you were just a normal person, and that Superman could save the day, or that this had never happened in the first place. You don’t regret your work, but it’s all too much now. You’ve dug yourself in too deep. Then your brain yells at you saying, “It’s your fault if lex develops the weapon. You gave him all the information he needed.”
When you come to terms with the fact he’s not coming to save you, you head back inside. Knowing what must be done.
You’re pulled into lex’s office upon arrival, where he greets you enthusiastically and asks if you’re ready to get to work. You agree, trying your very best to sound like your normal self. You start ‘helping’ the team already situated in a large conference room, the team talks for a few hours, debating plans of attack, theories, and the best way to deploy the weapon. The team thankfully agrees on one more day of deliberations (much to lex’s dismay.) When asked for input, or if you had any ideas you nod, restate something that was previously said; just slightly different or with a little more ‘flair’. You were able to bypass almost all questions with that mode of reasoning. After the meeting, you walk into your office, calmly close the door behind you, and then run to your desk; put your password in as quick as you humanly can and jump into action; deleting every file you have on Superman. Eyes wander over to your fridge, and you groan.
You’ll have to scold yourself later for the amount of malpractice you’re committing when you open the window to your lab, and let out all the possible animals you can. the creatures aren’t violent, they’d do fine until you can relocate them or bring them home yourself. The animals that can’t fly, or crawl down to safety, are put into a tank. Once you have saved, released, or destroyed everything you need to. You pull out the bunsen burner previously located under your desk; then running about the room until you find a beaker.
Ethanol goes into the beaker, and a grimace settles onto your face as you turn the burner up to the highest point. It’ll heat up gradually, becoming hotter and hotter until-
“We’re reporting live about the fire that has broken out at LutherCorp Tower. The fire seems to have started at around 9:15 pm, and is still ongoing. Reports say that the fire started in lab no. 28, which belonged to a young worker around the age of twenty-five. Unfortunately we cannot share any more, As we’ve been asked to keep the victims identity private since there is still no news on casualties involved in this incident. We’ll keep you updated as more information is released.”
You hear the news broadcast from the radio saved from your office, turning it off before they can get to the next story and rising from your spot on the couch.
Making your way back to the rooftop of your apartment, you’re able to see the fire burning at LutherCorp in the distance. It’s chilly up here and you wish you had brought a coat or maybe even a blanket. You turn around, preparing to grab something to wrap yourself in.
Superman stands there, solemn expression on his face. His cape and hair blow in the wind, and his arms are crossed, he looks angry but you can tell there’s something more.
“Hi.”
He speaks finally, “You should’ve told me what you were doing. I was worried.” He steps closer and you can see his cheeks, tear stained. “-really worried.”
You turn your head down; can’t stand to look at his face, the guilt would start to consume you. “I’m sorry Clark. I shouldn’t have put that all on your shoulders….all your sensitive information is destroyed. no one can ever try to use it against you.” You pause, “Superman can’t die the world needs you.”
I need you, is what you really want to say.
He steps closer.
“I never wanted to hurt you.” You laugh bitterly, “I realized it was you when Superman walked me home, and when Clark brought me dinner. Behind the glasses, and the cape, or god, whatever you wear…it’s still you. You’re kind, and you’re forgiving, and understanding…regardless of whoever you have to be. It’s just who you are.”
He says your name, trying to get your attention.
“If lex was successful it would’ve been my fault. Clark Kent would’ve died because I-“
He grabs you, pulls you into his chest and squeezes. His hand comes cradling the back of your head, stay like that fore a while before he pulls away slowly. “it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not angry with you, I never was.” He speaks softly, like he’s scared you’ll run.
You still can’t look at him; he notices, grabs your chin and guides your face until you’re looking into each others eyes. “I was more worried about you, I- I didn’t know if you got out in time.” And though you don’t feel okay yet, a part of you has settled knowing that he’s not upset. He gives you that sweet smile, says “who knows, maybe if I were in your shoes I would’ve done the same.”
You laugh, “No you wouldn’t, you’re too good.”
He looks away sheepishly before looking into your eyes again, you reach up and give into your urges. Hold his face in between your hands and finally look at him. He closes his eyes at the contact and you feel the wetness that’s gathered on his eyelashes when you touch his eyelids gently, you stay there, his hands on your hips as you trace the planes across his face.
“Clark?”
He opens his eyes back up, tenses his hands on your hips when he sees where your eyes have landed.
“Can I kiss you?”
And he nods, before he’s crashing his lips into yours. You make a small noise upon contact, which causes you to end up against the rooftops hedge. Clark deepens the kiss, nose now against your cheek while one hand rises up your back; pushing you into him even more. One of your hands ends up in his hair, running it through the styled tresses and releasing his curls, he groans into your mouth when your nails gently rake down his scalp, down his neck, and settle against his chest. When the two of you come apart for air your breathing heavily, his lips are kiss swollen and now a deeper shade of pink.
You speak up, smiling into Clark’s mouth when he comes back for more. “I’m glad it turned out you were the same person” you breathe heavily as he kisses slowly at your mouth, still trying to get your full attention back. “It would’ve sucked having to turn down Superman, just to end up with his friend.”
He stops, but his eyes find their way back to your lips (you can’t blame him though since you’re doing the same) he swipes his tongue over his lips then grins, “I think he would’ve gotten over it. Clark Kent’s a pretty great guy.” He whispers the last part into your mouth. You grab at him, hand fisting itself onto the collar of his suit and pulling closer until lips mesh together once more.
You lead him back to your apartment, kiss him through the threshold and try to pull him over to your couch. Instead you’re stopped upon entering, where he maneuvers you, now situated against the door. There, he kisses your lips, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw until he’s at your neck; Body moves on it’s own accord and you buck your hips against his. He lets out a soft whimper at the friction then presses you against the door with his body; mumbles something against your neck before he stops. When you open your eyes he’s staring at you, breathing heavily. And looking at you expectantly with this glint in his eye, a devilish smile on his face.
“Can I?”
You’re dazed, “what? What’s wrong?”
He laughs; almost a giggle. Then his fingers find the waist band of your bottoms, index and middle finger barely grazing it. “Can I taste you?” His voice is heavy now, and his face grows serious after he asks, like he needs this to happen.
lost for words; can only nod your head and give him a small kiss.
Clark makes his way down, kissing you through the material of your clothes until he settles his knees against the floor. He starts to pull your bottoms down your legs, giving pecks to each new piece of skin revealed; helps you step out of your pants, too preoccupied and not wanting to part, he tosses the pants somewhere in the room while mouthing at your left hip. Clark slides his hands up your legs slowly until he’s settled them right below your breast’s. He’s laying kisses over your stomach now, at the area just above your underwear. His mouth ends up at your hip again and he gives you one final peck before looking up, “this okay?”
You’re breathing comes out heavily as you lift your hand up and rest it against his face, he leans into it, “please Clark.”
That’s all he needs before he’s planting a kiss through your underwear and hooking the material in his fingers, sliding it down. You let out a groan when his mouth finally, finally, makes contact with your cunt. He exhales through his nose before lowering his mouth, hot tongue running through your folds before he finds your clit and sucks. The both of you make a sound in unison, and your hips rise off the door; now fully pressed against him. He continues the movement, and you find yourself grabbing his curls and pulling him closer. He makes a sound of pleasure and you moan at the vibration that follows, bucking your hips whenever he swipes his tongue through your folds and licks into your hole; can hear the wetness of his mouth and cunt combined. You can’t help but curse when his right hand settles itself against your back and pulls you against him more, needing to be as close as possible. His other hand settles itself right at the curve where the back of your thigh and ass meet. The two of go on like that for a while, grabbing and pulling him closer.
Suddenly it becomes too much, your hand lands against his shoulder, “C-Clark, stop.” He pulls back, lips and chin, and the tip of his nose, covered in you. It makes your core tighten. “I don’t wanna come yet, not like this.” You breathe out, trying to gather any amount of air into your lungs.
Clark looks at your pussy, gives it one last final kiss before rising back up. He smiles and his lips glisten, and you can’t help but to grab the back of his head and kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He reaches between the two of you and cups you fully with his hand, fingers teasing at your clit. You try to stifle the moan as you walk the two of you back, leading him into your bedroom until the back of his knees hit your bed. You shove him gently and he yields, dropping onto your bed and propping himself up with his hands as you crawl over him. You kiss his lips once you’ve made your way up and whisper against his mouth, “y’know, the cape is pretty sexy. but I think it should come off the first time.” Clark laughs against your mouth while the two of you try wrangling him out of the suit, clumsily bumping into each other and giggling at the other’s mouth.
Once he’s finally out of the suit; bare. Your eyes widen in shock. He’s big. (Very big)
You try to cover your worry with a tentative hand placed on his chest, but he notices, interlocks his hand with yours before speaking, “hey, we can stop if you don’t want this anymore.” You look back to his face, then kiss him quickly. “No I want this….I’m just not sure how you’re going to fit.”
Clark smiles, tries to be humble.
“We’ll go slow. And if at any point you wanna stop, we’ll stop.” He places his hand on your thigh and rubs gently.
His soft touch and reassuring words make warmth bloom in your chest and you kiss him on his cheek; close to being open mouthed, before stripping out of your shirt. Once you’re fully bare, Clark’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink; he doesn’t know where to keep his attention. You see him open his mouth trying to speak, the words get caught in his throat but he eventually manages out a whisper of, “You’re beautiful.” before kissing at your sternum; his mouth rising up and placing an open mouthed kiss at your breast. looking down you realize you’ve started to grind yourself into his thigh, he tenses the muscle to help you. But that’s still not what you want.
You put a hand to his chest and force him to lay flat against the bed, you craw over him trying to situate yourself into position. The tip of his cock catches your hole and two of you moan as one.
Clark speaks, “pleas-“
You reach behind and take hold of his cock, grabbing and aligning yourself before starting to sink down, there’s the felling of pressure, stretching around to accommodate. But there’s thankfully no pain. You sink yourself lower, and lower, and Clark whimpers along the way until he’s fully seated inside of you. Once you’re there you moan, settle both hands on his abdomen and flex your lower half up, both of you groaning, before going back down. You set the pace, speeding up as time goes by and clenching whenever you go down fully;you keep that same rhythm, start to feel your orgasm building and feel yourself drip onto his cock, leaving a ring of gathered wetness at the base. You take your hands off his chest, and lean; arms behind your back as you ride him as hard as you can into the bed. Clark moves his hands, now resting them at your ribs. You’re close, can feel it building in your belly as you tighten around him, vice like grip as Clark curses softly. You reach your peak, and end up falling against Clark’s chest as your release comes dripping down his cock. He slides his hands up, settling them on your back and gliding them up and down, in a soothing motion.
But you realize Clark hasn’t finished. You gather your breath and sit up a bit, kiss him gently whispering-
“use me.”
“What?! Are you sure? I don’t want it to be too much.”you cut him off by fucking yourself back onto him, giving him the okay.
Clark springs into action, arms wrapping around your lower back, as he plants his feet against the mattress and fully pushes into you, causing you to let out a whimper against his chest.
He starts slow, working himself in and out, building up the stamina again before he grips you tighter and lets loose, Clark moans against your ear, “You feel so good.” Before kissing the top of your head. It continues like that until he whimpers and you feel a warmth inside of you, before it drips back down. But he doesn’t pull out, the two of you remain there, catching your breaths as Clark runs his fingers up your spine.
Then, you’re suddenly flipped over, back against the covers as Clark pulls out. He lowers himself, shuffling down the bed and kissing at your thighs.
“I’ll clean you up.” and you mewl as his warm tongue licks at the seam of your pussy before he rests his entire mouth over you, sucking his, and your come out and back onto your cunt. He separates his mouth then kisses at your inner thigh, letting his hand come up and slide itself over your folds, fingers finding your clit for a moment before you’re spread open and he’s back at your clit with his tongue. feel pressure building again, but this time it’s calmer; feels like a warmth spreading over your body then nestling itself at your core. Clark delivers one more suck, and you find yourself clenching your thighs around his head and finishing with a loud moan. After you’ve settled down, he comes back up he pulls you into his arms. you end drifting off, comforted by the presence of Clark and spent by the recent orgasms he’s given you.
Clark speaks up, “I liked it actually, the back and fourth we had in the beginning.” He says so, drumming his fingers on your side. You peek one eye open, see his small smirk, and decide to mess with him. “oh really? Maybe lex will let us use the cell.”
Clark perks up, “really?! I mean where would we even put it? Maybe it would fit at-“
You laugh quietly as you nestle yourself deeper into his arms.
Summary: Clark hates his new co-worker but not for any good reasons.
Warnings: Fluff, enemies to friends??, Lana lang mentioned?!?, Peacemaker season 1 ending mentioned?!??, Reader has long enough go hair to put up, Clark is delusional.
Word Count: 5.2k (AHH)
a/n: guys I’m not a journalist nor do I have any experience or knowledge about how places like the daily planet work so please be kind. Also I changed the pov so yay for trying new things. PLEASE IM SORRY IF THIS IS BAD.
Also happy 200 followers celebration! I was actually taken aback by how much the people wanted Clark but i had fun so!
Part 1, Part 2 (out now!)
He hates her. And Clark doesn’t use that word lightly. She irritates every fiber of his being. She makes him want to say things his mother taught him to frown upon. Gosh, she gets under his skin.
She is so…so perfect. The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. She does everything he does 10 times better than he can. She went to a better school. She gets better assignments. She works with Lois more. Jimmy laughs at her sarcastic comments more than Clark's actual jokes.
It infuriates him so much that the week after she started working in the Metropolis Daily Planet building, he had to call his mom.
“Ma, I just—ugh!” He exasperates. “She’s good at everything so effortlessly! And it’s not that I’m not happy for her—I am. I promise I am Ma.” He sighs, anger seeping into his tone.
“Clark,” His Ma just sighs into the other side of the line.
“I know. I'm sorry. She’s just everything I want to be.” Clark rubs his temples with his thumb and forefinger, eyes pinched together.
“He jealous of the sweet girl?” His Pa chimes in from somewhere far from the phone's mic.
“Sweet?!?!” Clark squeaks out, levitating off the tips of his toes, his hand dropping the phone in utter perplexity.
“Clark, has she said anythin’ disrespectful to you? Or to anyone else for this week she’s been here?” Ma asks as Clark frustratingly picks up his phone before putting it on speaker and tossing it on his coffee table.
“No.” Clark mutters quietly, pacing now.
"And has she done anythin’ wrong or illegal?"
“No,” Clark sighs.
“So I don’t see the problem.” Ma concludes. “Why does she bother you so much, son?”
“I—just—it’s—” Clark groans. “I want to do what she does! She’s so effortless with everything! She’s—like—it’s so irritating to try to keep up with her. I’m always a step behind.” Clark admits as he sinks into her couch.
“I feel like I’m not good enough when she’s standing next to me. Like I shouldn’t be at the Planet at all.” Clark adds as his head falls into his hands.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Ma coos. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We’ve taught you better’n that. You don’t owe her anything, or anyone else for that matter. You just do the best you can, Clark. And if you feel you’re not doing your best, try to. There’s no competition in life.”
Clark nods even though his mom can’t see him.
“And just because you feel small standing next to her doesn’t mean you need to be unfriendly. She’s new; she needs people in her corner. Good people like you.” She adds, and Clark hums in agreement.
“No one’s as perfect as they seem. You know that better’n anyone, Clark. She's probably trying to stand out and make people like er at her new job in a new city. Don’t be hurtful to that. Who knows, maybe you’ll become friends and she’ll teach you a thing or two.
“You’re right.” Clark nods along.
“Maybe you do find out she is rude and just lucky. Still, that ain’t no reason to be resentful. Love before hate, always.” Ma finishes, and in the background Pa can he heard humming in agreement.
“Thanks, Ma.” Clark gives in. “I’ll try. No matter how hard it is.”
And he did try. So hard. He tried to smile at her when she came in each morning. He tried to start conversations with her in the break room. He even went out of his way to invite her out for drinks with Lois, Steve, Cat, and Jimmy. She declined, she ignored, and she politely nodded before looking away.
Now he doesn’t dislike her just for her abilities. He hates that she isn’t taking the chance to get to know him that he was giving her.
Did he do something wrong? Surely not. Could she sense his disdain for her from the beginning and decide to keep her distance? No way. Was she really just a rude person? Couldn’t be.
Lois and she get along great. Steve never has a bad thing to say about her. Jimmy always tries to retell her sly remarks but always fails to make them funny. And she could be seen regularly getting along with everyone at the Planet. But why not him? What has Clark done?
And with each of Clark’s attempts brushed away, she thrives. Her ‘reputation’ in the office moved up. Her work gets more praise from Perry. She even made the front page in the short three months she worked there.
Clark can’t believe it. He won’t. How could this effortless, charismatic, intelligent, highly educated, efficient, funny, young, and outstanding all-around woman not like little old him?
Clark Kent, the kind, old-souled farm boy from Kansas. That’s who she chooses not to like. Clark isn’t buying it. There are plenty of people, to put it nicely, for Clark's peace of mind, who are less likable than him at the Daily Planet. And there are far less approachable people she's come to like.
Clark won’t have it. He can’t. So he calls him mom again.
“You’re doin’ what Son?” His Pa asks over the phone, clearly not keeping up with Clark’s rambling.
“Slow down darlin, what are you sayin’?” Ma adds.
“I need to talk to her.” Clark starts again. “She ignores me! Now I know I was judgmental the first week, but I’ve been trying. She just seems to hate me.”
“How?” Pa questions.
“Every time I talk to her, she walks away, but never in a rude way, always in a way that says, ‘We’ll finish this later,’ but we never do!” Clark explains. “It’s like she’s learned to sense when I’m coming around a corner and bolts the other way.”
“Right. Well, have you tried leaving it alone? Letting her be her own person?” Pa asks again.
“I-“ Clark stumbles over his thoughts, caught in his own delusions. “Well—no. But—“
“Not everyone will like you, Clark. And that’s fine.” Ma notes.
“Yes, but—wait, just listen!” Clark hears himself before stopping and whispering out a “please, Ma?” He can hear her sigh on the other side and continues more gently.
“I asked Chief to assign us a story together.” Clark goes on. He can hear his parents' silent disapproval.
“Now—hold on. I don’t need to become best friends with her. I just—I want to know why she hates me. I mean, I’m—I think I’m pretty cool.” Clark mumbles out the last part, kicking something invisible with his sock off his carpet.
“Clark,” his Ma sighs. “Don’t go in over your head is all we ask.”
“Okay. I won’t.” Clark nods along as he ruffles a hand through his curls before retracting it, realizing he messed it up after finishing fixing it before the call.
“Darn it.” He mutters as he flexes his hand and shakes his hair.
“And remember, hate is a strong word, Clark.” Pa adds before he hangs up. Clark sighs, shoves his phone in his trouser pocket, and drags himself back into the bathroom to fix the curls he just messed up.
——
“And then she said, ‘If you’re having heartburn, why are you grabbing your boob?’” Jimmy laughs, but it slowly dies down as he notices everyone giving him weird looks. Clark unhooks his bag from his shoulder before placing it on his desk.
“Ha, it was—no, it was funny.” Jimmy's smile falters as he fiddles with his pen. “I guess it was more of a you had to be there sort of…situation.” Clark nods, trying to follow what’s being said and failing.
“Who said this?” Clark asks, sitting now.
“Y/n,” Jimmy says defeated. Clark has to stop his eye from twitching.
“Right.” Lois speaks slowly, turning to spare him from further embarrassment. “Anyways,”
“Speaking of,” Jimmy's smile returns as you move to lean against Lois’s desk.
“Hey guys.” Y/n greets, clearly avoiding Clark’s eyes. He sucks in a breath and clenches his jaw, hidden under his hand.
“Morning, Y/n.” Lois gestures with her coffee cup, and Y/n moves to hand her a folder. “What’s on your agenda today?” Lois asks, taking a sip of her drink.
“Got a new assignment.” Y/n says casually, folding her arms over her chest. Clark has to bite his tongue with how annoyingly effortlessly poised she looks.
“Oh? Who with?” Jimmy asks, now recovered.
“Uh…Clark,” Y/n smiles, but it’s clearly plastered on, and it irritates him to no end.
“Hmm,” Lois makes an amused sound into the glass cup before turning to sit at her desk. “Better get to it.” She adds as she kicks Jimmy to turn around to his desk too.
Y/n nods as she moves to face Clark's desk. She sucks her cheek between your teeth and chews on it lightly. She really didn’t want to work with Clark, and it was evident in her stiff body language.
Clark forces his fists to loosen and a smile to grow on his lips as he adjusts his glasses. “Have you been briefed on what it is we’re writing about?” Clark asks politely, trying to keep it light.
“Uh, no, sorry, catch me up?” Y/n asks and sits as he gestures to the seat next to his desk.
“Okay, so we’re basically doing a follow-up story about Amanda Waller and her daughter.” Clark says, moving to shuffle through some papers on his desk.
“So more about Project Butterfly or Task Force X?” Y/n questions, her investigative journalist face on. “Or about Peacemaker and the other guy—what was his name?”
“Vigilante?”
“Yes! Right.” Y/n smiles for the first time as she meets Clark’s eyes before it quickly fades. “Um—uh, so what exactly is the follow-up about?”
“I think Chief wanted us to write whatever more we can find or has been found and not been written about. Free rein, I suppose.” Clark informs her with a quirk of his lip before swiveling to face her.
“Alright. What do you want to do? I’m guessing this is more a stay indoors and research versus a go out and find answers.” Y/n notes as she steals a pen from his cup holder and a notepad from his desk.
He says nothing as she scribbles something down. His mother's words ring in his head. ‘Be kind even if it’s hard.’ This perfect woman is taking from his desk without asking and looking like a true journalist while doing it. He couldn’t even be mad when she looks so good and effortless. Like she belonged there more than him.
Her fingers wrapped around the pen, hair falling out of her bun and into her face ever so slightly, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Gosh, what was happening to him? Why did she make him so…so…what? Angry? No. It wasn’t anger. It was admiration. It was awe.
Wait. What? No. He hated her. He can’t admire her and hate her. That doesn’t make any sense. Even if her tinted lips curved around her teeth so beautifully. Even if the furrow between her brow was frustratingly attractive. Even if she was talented at everything he wished he was better at. It was honestly kind of hot.
No no no no no. What’s going on? One second it’s hate, the next it’s awe, and then attraction? That hardly made sense. Or maybe…no. He couldn’t have. Could he? Had he been attracted to her from the beginning? Had he really been in such denial he convinced himself he hated her? There’s no way. Is that why his mom and dad didn’t take him seriously? Did they know? Could they tell? No. That’s silly. That’s-
“Clark?” Clark jumps at the voice, almost tipping out of his seat. He quickly recovers, shifting his eyes from where they had been zoning out while staring at her eyebrows. He fixes his glasses, which didn’t need fixing, and clears his throat.
“Uh—yes?” Clark squeaks out. Frustrated, he tries clearing his throat again.
“Umm,” Y/n chuckles awkwardly. “The story. What do you want to cover?”
“Oh yes, uh, right.” Reaching over his shoulder, Clark scratches the back of his neck. “I’m good with whatever.”
Y/n quirks a brow and tilts her head. “Are you sure? Usually you seem—I don’t know…sure? About what you want, I mean.”
“Well—I—yes. I know what I want—at least I—I think… I thought I did—I do?” Clark babbles out, and Y/n just looks at him like he’s got two heads.
“Uh, okay.” Is all she says as she looks away, rips what she wrote out of the notepad, and tosses the pen back in the cup.
“So—what are you thinking?” Clark attempts to recover.
“Well, obviously we need to establish what is known. Then maybe give more about what’s been discovered since Leota Adebayo came out about it. But we should also dive into how Amanda Waller exploited those people for the government's bidding. I mean, how many inmates probably died because of her?” Y/n goes on, and Clark gets distracted with the way her leg bounces as her shoe taps against the polished ground.
“Yeah, yeah,” Clark mumbles out. When he notices what he’s doing, he shakes his head and tries to pay attention again.
“It’s wrong. And people should know. And it’s—it’s worse to think she did it twice with Project Butterfly!” Her sudden enthusiasm catches Clark off guard.
He’s obviously seen her enthusiastic before, just not this close up. Before, he hadn’t seen the way her back straightens, her voice raises a decibel, and her brows knit together in concentration. He never noticed how passionate she was before. He gets lost in it.
“And Peacemaker! He was dragged in twice! I’m sure if we could get an interview with him, he could give some insight.” Y/n goes on. “And I know—I know people have tried, but—I don’t know, maybe because it’s been a minute he’ll be more up to the idea. Oh, who am I kidding?” She chuckles self-deprecatingly.
“Sorry, that was a stupid idea. I know it—ahh, ignore me.” Y/n finishes. Instead of rambling on, Y/n forces herself to focus solely on the scrap of notepad in her hand. She folds it before pushing it into her pocket.
“Shit. Sorry.” She breathes out. “I just realized I took your paper without asking.”
“No—it’s fine.” Clark huffs out a laugh. “I mean, who needs—uh—paper?” Clark tries. Skeptical, Y/n tilts her head and raises a brow, and he sighs.
“No, really, it’s fine. I don’t actually think I’ve ever used that notepad before, so.” Clark shrugs, and he can see it eases her a little. It gives him a boost of confidence. Not a lot, but enough.
“And—what you were saying about the story. I think you’ve got a good point. But yeah, I don’t think it’s the smartest idea to go looking for Peacemaker, especially with our time limit on this one.” Clark smiles easily now, the burden of hatred lifted off of him.
“We should cover all updates plus old information but maybe focus this piece more on the people exploited and used.” Clark’s voice is calm, but his eyes are focused. Focused on the information in front of him. On the way Y/n spoke about her work. On the way he felt lighter.
“You seem particularly concerned with that, and I agree that it hasn’t really been acknowledged. So—uh, yeah. How’s that work for you?” Clark questions, finally looking up to meet Y/n’s eyes.
He finds her wide-eyed and staring at him like she just figured out why the abbreviation for pounds is lbs. He decides not to think about it too much.
“Good. Yeah, really good actually.” A genuine smile creeps its way over Y/n’s face.
“Why don’t we head to one of the communal rooms to get started?” She asks. Clark hums in agreement, snatching his bag off the side of his chair.
“Perfect, and let’s stop by your desk so you can get your computer.” Clark says it like it’s nothing, but he sees the way she pauses, like it meant more to her than he could wrap his head around.
She says nothing, just nods as she stands, and Clark follows, his own lips curving into a small smile.
——
“I’m assuming it went well?” Ma questions, and it blasts through the speaker of Clark’s phone.
“Yeah.” Clark answers, his tone light and buoyant.
“Really well, it sounds.” Pa chimes in with a chuckle.
“Uh—what—what do you—um—” Clark immediately stumbles over his own thoughts, a flustered blush painting his face.
“Oh sweetie please, we’re not as old as we look.” Ma’s smile is evident.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It's higher pitched than he would have liked. “And you guys aren’t that old.” Clark grumbles, letting himself fall backwards on his couch.
“It means we knew ya liked her.” Ma says. “You do this. Or at least you have before. With the good ones.”
“The good ones?” Clark questions, finally pulling off his tie with struggle.
“Oh, you remember.” His Ma tuts. “Lana Lang? Haven’t forgotten her, have you? Your first girlfriend?” Clark groans.
“Yes, Ma, I remember.”
“Such a sweet girl. But you hated her when you first met her.” Pa adds.
“No, I didn’t—” Clark stops himself. He thinks back. Surely he didn’t hate Lana. Did he?
“Oh yes, you did, Son. You told me that you’d rather scoop the cow's muck all day than have to be around her.” Ma quips. “And we thought you’d never like her. Until we saw you with her.”
“You should’ve seen it. You’d look at her like she puzzled you and amazed you and then turn to us and say she was a nuisance.” Pa laughs. “And you’d never used such hurtful words before in your life!”
“I don’t—I—” Clark tries.
“Then one day everything changed when you came home with those big heart eyes for her. Said you was gonna take her to your school dance.” Ma laughs along with Pa.
“That’s—that’s different.” Clark finally gets out.
“No, it ain’t.” Pa says. “Lana was good for you. She was right for you. Never liked that other girl you were with as much as her. What was her name? Oh, I don’t know.”
“All your father is saying is we could tell. The moment you told us you didn’t like her, we knew you did.” Ma concludes. “No shame in it. It seems it’s just how the good ones find you. It’s how you know they're worth your time.”
“That’s not—so it’s good if I don’t like her?” Clark asks, unsure if his parents are the smartest people on the planet or the most hopeful.
“It’s good if you ‘don’t’ like her with that voice you do.” Ma says.
“I don’t have a—I don’t do a voice.” Clark defends himself horribly, his pitch going up.
“Uh huh,” Pa chuckles.
“Enough of that. Tell us how it went, Clark.” Ma adds.
“It went…good.” Clark says almost shyly. “She had a lot of good sources and points. And I thought it was going to be awkward. But after a bit, the ice just broke. She—she was so passionate too. You know? Like she actually cared about how the people were being affected. Like—like not from an ‘I have to care because I'm working with another person’ kind of care.” Clark’s voice grows in confidence; he seems more sure.
“It was deeper than that. And she had this work ethic and drive I’ve never seen before. It wasn’t like Lois—thank god, sometimes I wonder how she functions—it was effortless and effective and efficient. She amazed me.” Clark breathes out a sound of awe.
“I mean, she was so concentrated, and it helped me focus too. We’re gonna probably get together to finish tomorrow, but the work isn’t necessarily due until Friday.”
“Oh darling, you're already gone for her.” Ma grins into the phone, and Clark can feel his entire body heat up.
——
“Hey!” Clark calls out as he rushes to the elevator. The doors are sliding closed, and he really doesn't want to break his "not late" streak of one day. He hated being late even though his tardy streak would say otherwise.
He almost thinks it’s a hit and miss before the doors quickly retreat open again.
“Ah!” Clark makes a triumphant noise as he bows his head and steps inside. “Thank you,” he smiles, looking up and locking eyes with Y/n. She’s still got her coat on as she looks up and nods politely. And he’s hyper aware of the fact that they are the only two in here. He didn’t feel like this yesterday with her, but for some reason the close proximity and the fact he couldn’t peer through glass and see other people set something off in him.
“Morning,” Y/n’s voice is slightly strained. Clark clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose.
“Uh—he—hi.” Clark nods to her before glancing away. He's also suddenly aware of how close he chose to stand next to her. His body grows rigid, and he tenses his shoulder unintentionally.
His eyes linger on her after she smiles and moves her focus to the floor. The way her fingers tapped against the fabric of her pants. The way her skin caught the poor lighting of the elevator spiked his heartbeat. How could she look so flawless in a dirty elevator of all places? Skin shining, hair whimsical, outfit always more effortlessly put together than his. He didn’t get it.
When her eyes flash back over to him, he quickly adjusts himself. So stupid. So dumb. Why was he staring?
He tries to be less awkward. He can feel the tension. But he's not sure if it's just him experiencing an odd tightening of the chest feeling. He tries to control his breathing. But, goodness, it got so hot all of a sudden. Was there even an AC system in these elevators? He just wants to pull his jacket off and sit in front of the mini desk fan Jimmy got him one year as a joke.
“Sheesh, it’s hot,” He chuckles, pulling on his collar with an experimental smile. He turns to look at Y/n but finds her already looking at him. It makes him hotter.
“Yeah,” Y/n chuckles back, quickly looking away. “Weather's warming up and all.”
Clark nods vigorously. But he just seems to heat up more. Quickly he stops nodding when he catches the reflection of himself to the left of him. He looked so stupid. Why did he nod so weirdly? She didn’t say anything spectacular or interesting. He hated this. He liked it better when he hated her. It was much easier to be around her then. And much cooler.
A pair of eyes catches his in the reflection, and he whips his head around to Y/n. She immediately averts her gaze. She clears her throat this time. She rubs the back of her neck. And it seems to take her a second to gain the courage to meet his eyes again.
“Sorry, I just—oh.” Y/n catches her own apology. Eyes laser-focusing in on his face. Or near his face. “You’ve got—” She starts her finger pointing to his face. He backs up instinctually as his brows furrow.
”what-“
“Hold on. Let me just…” Without a second thought, his glasses are gently pulled from his nose. Y/n reaches down and pulls the hem of her shirt up, quickly and efficiently cleaning the lens of his glasses.
All he can do is stare blankly ahead at her. His body stuck in its weird pent-up shape. His work bag, gripped tightly in front of him with both hands. As his breath is lodged somewhere deep in his chest, he attempts to speak, but all he can come up with is a silent wheeze. Y/n doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, she just huffs out as she cleans the other lens.
“There was a smudge.” Is all she says as she finally looks back up at him with a shy smile. Clark blinks quickly. His eyes are the only part of his body seemingly able to move.
“Uh, Clark?” Y/n tries to grab his attention. He just stutters on his breath with a hot face. “Here.” She smiles softly now, awkwardly pushing his glasses back on his face.
”I-“ Clark finally comes to his senses as her fingers brush over his cheek. He inhales sharply and stumbles over himself.
With his thoughts racing a mile a minute and his glasses askew on his face, he musters a:
“Thanks,” It’s squeaky and far more boyish than he wanted to sound in front of a pretty woman.
She didn’t seem affected at all. Like the action had no meaning behind it other than pure goodness. It stunted something in him. She was just that perfect. And somehow it eased up the tension in his chest. Her smile, her kindness, and her self-assured nature make his heart flutter.
“Yeah, sure. No problem," Y/n lets out a shaky laugh as her own face heats up. She turns away from him, now looking toward the elevator buttons.
They both stand there for a moment, basking in the now only slightly awkward but still hot elevator.
“Shit.” Y/n curses, her hand going to rub at her mouth.
“What?” An all too concerned Clark asks. His body and grip on his bag automatically loosening up.
“I forgot to press the button.”
“Oh.”
——
They finished the story just as everyone was packing up for the day. Y/n had a tired, satisfied smile on her face and Clark watched her with an even bigger grin. It was easy; it felt right.
So much had happened in the last two days it was insane to him. They’d actually had their first actual conversation, Y/n looked him in their eyes, Clark's simmering hatred bloomed into a scary admiration that felt oddly similar to his first ever crush, and Clark had worked up the confidence in the comfortable silence of success to say something two days ago he'd never dreamed of.
“Do you know, I thought you hated me before this.”
“What?” Y/n asks, sitting up straighter now.
“Yeah, which I didn’t really care about until I started liking you.” Clark continues far too casually but catches himself a second later. “I mean—admiring your work ethic—and well—noticing your friendliness with everyone else.”
Y/n just watches him. Her face is slightly guilty but also curious as she lets him speak.
“The first week you were here, I guess you could say I was—jealous? Of you?” Clark struggles to get it out and says it more like a question; he doesn't really want her to hear.
”No way.” Y/n whispers, a curve forming on her lips.
“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck as his eyes flicker to people shuffling from desks and closing laptops. "It's embarrassing."
”No I-“ She laughs now. “I actually—did hate you.” Y/n's guilt plastered all over her expression. And Clark tilts his head, a little hurt. “I don’t hate you!” She quickly assures.
"And it wasn't, like, hate hate. It was sort of jealous too, I guess.” Y/n sinks down in her chair, her hands fidgeting. “You were intimidating. Perfect, handsome, good at basically everything, you know.” She rambles, and Clark feels his chest tighten like in the elevator—hope, maybe? Excitement? Probably. Bashfulness? Oh definitely.
“I felt like I needed to prove myself. And I sort of tricked myself into thinking you were—bad? I mean, I guess just something you’re not. I'm sorry.” Y/n apologizes, her hand dropping from the back of her neck.
Clark grins. Y/n looks more confused than before but also happy he's not mad. “What?”
“I felt the exact same way about you.” Y/n scoffs at his words and shakes her head, disbelieving. “As much as I hate to admit it, it's the truth. You made me feel unworthy.”
“I'm sorry.” Y/n pleads with a desperate frown, like it was her fault. “But believe me, I'm hardly perfect, I didn’t know how to read properly since the second grade. And I—I’ve spilled every drink I've ever laid my hands on; the imperfect list goes on.” Y/n admits, silently pleading forgiveness.
“No! No, it's—not your fault. I guess we were both just a little blinded.” Clark cracks a smile. Y/n chuckles along before nodding.
“Yeah, you’re not so bad.” She jokes, leaning back in her chair.
“Aww, jee, thanks,” Clark says with a shy smile and a shrug. She can’t tell if he genuinely meant it or was teasing back, or both.
“So…friends?” Y/n tries, walking to stand next to him and reaching out a hand for him to take. He stares at her hand for a second and then into her eyes before grinning a stupidly hot, dopey grin, nodding, and shaking it.
“Friends.” Clark keeps his large hand wrapped around hers longer than he should have. But then again, she didn’t pull away either, lost in his eyes and the way he made her heart pound.
“But this means you can’t blow off friend nights with Jimmy and the rest.” Clark adds quickly, finally pulling away. He closes his computer and tucks it in his bag.
“Right, I wouldn't miss it for the world.” Y/n smiles up at him as he stands. It makes his heart soar. Her smile is so pretty and her voice so sweet. Maybe his dad was right.
He followed her to the elevator. This time they didn’t forget to press the elevator button.
“You have—” Y/n says just as the doors slide shut. “A stain on your shirt.” Clark jumps at the word, and he can see Y/n hold back her chuckle out of politeness.
“Dang it!” He seethes. “Gosh, this is my favorite shirt.” The words that leave the tall man's mouth make Y/n stop being polite.
Clark looks up from the lunch stain and watches her. He can’t help his own soft chuckle. He sighs in defeat as he lets his arms drop and his hands slide into his pockets.
“I'm sure you can get it out!” Y/n attempts to encourage, but Clark just shakes his head, and they both laugh the rest of the way down.
The two walk out of the Planet side by side. They slip past the spinning doors and out into the late afternoon air. It’s cool, it's calm. Somehow all the big problems of two days ago seem ancient. Clark can’t remember why he didn’t have this feeling of wanting to be around Y/n all the time two days ago.
“Uh, Clark?” Y/n asks. He turns to look down at her.
“Yes?” All his attention is on her as she begins walking backwards, slowly away from him.
“About what you were saying before,” Clark furrows his brows at her, head tilting in a head-spinning way.
“I—um,” she smiles. “I like you too.”
He’s halted still, and his brain goes fuzzy as she disappears from his eyeline into the crowd of rush hour. Clark lets himself smile, wide, embarrassingly so. Gosh, he was done for. He practically leaps all the way back to his place. And the second he locks the door, he calls his Ma.
