Danger Was My Playground —Clark Kent
Summary: Clark falls for the fresh from Gotham crime reporter, but the Kansas farm boy in him says that he can't just let a woman go into danger unguarded. He follows you as Superman until you confront him one night and he realizes that maybe, you don't need a guard. Or the four times Superman scares away the crime you're trying to report on and the one time you call him out for it. (6.0k)
Pairing: David!Clark Kent x fem!crime reporter!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW due to mentions of a rape case, other mentions of crime and suggestive content like a close to sex scene; Sunshine x grumpy (he's sunshine, you're grumpy); Reader has a past in Gotham; Clark is down bad; Reader swears a lot
Credit: Gif by @donner-maysilee
The First Time:
Clark was used to the energy of the bullpen, the sound of keyboard keys clicking, phones ringing, murmured curse words when a source fell through, but it was different today. Today it felt frantic and it was loud. Far louder than normal—he could hear multiple heartbeats, faster beats, frantic in their own way, the way that only journalists have when something new, something noteworthy is on the horizon.
“Hey, Jimmy,” he says, one hand holding his coffee mug, the travel one that Ma sent him, the image of a Kansas skyline along it, the other looped around the strap of his leather laptop bag, technology and important documents all tucked inside. “What’s going on? Everyone seems to be acting like the biggest story of the century is about to walk in.”
“New reporter,” he answers, looking up from his computer, from his digital photo editing software. “She’s a transfer from the Gotham Gazette. Their top crime reporter now on Metropolis soil and working for the Daily Planet.”
“We don’t have a crime department,” Clark says and Jimmy raises his eyebrows once, twice in a strange wiggle move.
“We do now,” he replies, gaze drifting over Clark’s shoulder to take in the source of the new sound, the new scent, new heartbeat. New person. “Check it out,” Jimmy whistles, “new girl’s here.” Clark turns around, swallowing hard when he sees you, really wishing he hadn’t listened to Jimmy, that he’d just stayed facing him, taking in the photo of himself as Superman holding a building. He didn’t even know that Jimmy had been there, let alone captured the picture.
“Everyone!” Perry calls out, his form beside yours, hands clapping together in a way just loud enough for everyone else, but too loud for Clark. He prefers for people not to do loud claps like that, his super-hearing a bane, a curse more than a gift. “Meet our new reporter, Y/N L/N. She’s our first crime reporter and a transfer from the Gotham Gazette. It means she knows what she’s doing so…give her a warm welcome.” It surprises no one when Perry leaves, but it does surprise them (Clark can hear it; he’s surprised too, honestly) when he shakes your hand, whispering something only Clark can pick up. “Good luck, kid.”
“Why’d you leave Gotham if you’re a crime reporter?” Lois calls out, her body perched on the edge of her desk, arms crossed, dark hair loose. Clark doesn’t have to see her to know that her eyes are narrowed as she’s watching you as if you’re a story, a potential source. Something to analyze, investigate, decide.
“You do realize,” you respond, your eyebrow arching in reply, arms crossing, “that there is such a thing as too much crime, right?” Clark swallows hard again when your pretty (very pretty) eyes scan the room, taking in the bullpen, the entire appearance of the place. You’re dressed in a band shirt tucked into ripped jeans, Doc Martens on your feet and a leather jacket unzipped, a satchel over your shoulder, one that matches his.
“You’re a crime reporter,” Jimmy calls out and Clark glances back at him, noticing the way he’s leaning back in his chair, widening his stance, making himself bigger, trying to seem more attractive. His heartrate gives him away—he’s into you. Clark, for some reason, doesn’t like it.
(It’s not that he likes you, he can’t. Ma always told him that appearance doesn’t matter, only what’s inside. He’s not crushing on you just because you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his entire life. No. Totally not).
“And a reporter likes a story,” you reply, your expression disdainful as you take in Jimmy. “Gotham has fifteen other crime reporters and everyday we’re writing stories that are clinical, basically no better than police reports. We don’t talk to people; we take the quote-on-quote facts and publish those. I miss the people and Metropolis should have that.”
“I mean,” Jimmy says again and Clark wishes he would just be quiet, he’s just putting his own foot in his mouth the more he presses, “Metropolis has limited crime so…what are you going to be doing?”
“Metropolis has very little reported crime. By reported I mean covered by the Daily Planet or any other newspaper outlet. You all seem to have Superman fever and I don’t…so, I’ll be drawing attention to what Superman doesn’t try to get into.” You walk towards the recently cleared desk, the one in front of Clark’s and he swallows hard again. Golly, he’s not going to survive if you’re in front of him every day. He can smell you (not in a creepy way, of course!), a scent of citrus and metal, strange and unique and now he’ll recognize it everywhere. Recognize you anywhere.
He never thought that metal could smell so pretty.
“H-hi,” he stutters out as he walks to his desk, standing behind it, his name plaque facing out, facing you. He watches as your (impossibly) pretty eyes glance down at his name before flicking back up to him.
“Clark Kent,” you say, but the way you say his name makes him think that perhaps you don’t like him. That he’s someone you don’t like. “Superman’s very own PR agent.”
“Wh-what?” he asks, stuttering, his cheeks flaming, burning. Fevered. “No. N-no, I’m not his…his PR agent…I’m just a reporter.” You roll your eyes, taking your bag off your shoulder, setting it down on the surface of the pressboard top of the desk, a clunk sounding as you pull open the first drawer, dumping a twined package of files into it, slamming it and tossing your bag back over your shoulder.
“Uh-huh,” you tell him, the corner of your mouth tugging up into a crooked kind of smile, but not a happy kind. The kind that makes him shrivel inside, something he’s never felt before. “You’re totally just a reporter and that’s why all your interviews with Superman make him out to be the best guy ever.” You begin to walk away, boots making a loud clicking against the polished floor of the bullpen, the kind of floor that is rolled linoleum, sound muffled for the most part against it, yet you seem to have figured out how to get around that, your steps sharp and echoing.
“What’s wrong with Superman?” Lois calls out as you pass her desk. You pause, spinning back around, one hand looped through the belt loops of your jeans, the other holding your bag on your shoulder, a crooked kind of smile, slightly sinister on your face.
“I think he’s great,” you tell her, tone flat, deadpan. Clark knows that something else hides beneath the surface. “But I don’t think the damage he causes is worth what he prevents. And no one ever asks him about the damage he causes. That’s all.”
“You’re the one,” Lois says, her tone rising, growing, pitch rising, “that interviewed Batman, right? Back in Gotham, right and you tore him apart?”
“That’s me,” you tell her, your expression shifting just a little bit, a bit of sadness shining through, a ghost falling like a shadow across your face. You spin back around, back to the door, the exit and Clark doesn’t want you to go. He likes your loudness, your brashness, the way you’re like no one he’s ever met before (and if he’s being honest, he likes how pretty you are, the kind of pretty that you don’t know about. Like you don’t think you are).
“W-where are you going?” he calls out, his voice cracking on the words, squeaking from his nerves and he can feel the red hot flush as it crawls from his chest up his neck, to rest on his cheeks and ears.
“What kind of crime reporter would I be if I stayed in a fucking office? I’ll be in on Fridays for edits, but otherwise…” you lift your arms, spreading them wide as you walk backwards out the door. “The story’s out in the real world, PR boy! It ain’t in these office walls.”
And with a spin, you’re gone, out the door, into a world that is dangerous. Dark.
He knows you came from Gotham, he knows you can handle yourself, but you don’t know Metropolis.
It couldn’t hurt if Superman happened to do his rounds now and just…checked on you, right?
No. Of course not.
Metropolis is different. It’s not what you’re used to, not the kind of darkness and grime and desperation that lingers in Gotham. It’s brighter, lighter. More full of hope. It’s strange, truthfully, to be in a place that seems light when you know that it can’t just be this hopeful city worshipping a man who damages the city that he saves.
You pull your car over, slowing to a stop along the curb, glancing over at your phone where the text from your old friend, Danielle, back in Gotham rests.
Danielle: heard they have a gang in the North end.
Danielle: old baseball diamond is rumoured to be their hang-out spot.
You can see the baseball diamond, the chain link fence pulled down by people in places, locks clicked on it in others. A group of people stand in front, cloistered together and exactly what you used to find in Gotham. Enough people that everyone there feels safe enough to give you little bits of information.
“Hey!” you call out, stepping out of your Jeep, the Wrangler you worked on, painting it in an ombre of your favourite colours back in Gotham, the shop where you worked during high school.
“What’s up, ma’am?” one of the boys says, stepping forwards, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched forwards. He’s blocking the rest from view, protecting them.
“I’m a reporter,” you say, jogging over to them, bag clutched tight onto your shoulder, “and I got a tip about something around here that…piqued my interest.”
“And what would that be?” he asks and you narrow your eyes at him, cocking your head, taking in the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the one that is not a gang mark, not a prison tatt. But a name, lovingly inked onto skin, a reminder.
“A gang,” you say and you watch as he stiffens, jaw tightening, his entire body rigid. “Heard they hang around this diamond.”
“And you think, what? We’re the gang?” he asks, his voice stiff like his posture, deep but the kind of deep that happens when someone lowers their voice.
“No,” you say and you can see in the tick of his jaw that he’s surprised. “But I think you know something about them.” His eyes narrow on you, but all you do is arch an eyebrow at him.
“We may know something,” he says, “but we don’t talk if nothing’s on the table.”
“I’m a reporter, not a cop,” you reply, tone wry and he steps forwards, steps closer.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t offer us something,” he says.
“I want to tell the story of the victims. I want to show the other side of the crime, the people affected. I can tell your story,” you tell him and you watch as his lips purse but then he nods, the rest of the people behind him, nodding with him.
Until one looks up, taking note of something, something that has her elbowing someone else, until the entire group is looking up.
“We gotta go!” one cries. “If he’s here, who knows what’s coming!” You watch as they move, separate paths forged, the boy in front of you hesitating, gaze darting from the thing behind you back to you.
“I’ll help,” he tells you, “but not right now. Not if Superman’s here. I don’t want to be around when whatever he’s fighting makes its way here. You have a card?”
“Uh, yeah,” you tell him, reaching into the pocket of your leather jacket, pulling out the new cards you had made before you left Gotham, ones that say Daily Planet instead of Gotham Gazette. “Here.” He takes it and then he takes off and you turn around, finally seeing the floating figure of Metropolis’ golden boy.
“All good?” he calls out, his voice deep and echoing and familiar as it reaches you. In response, you hold up both hands, flipping him off before turning and walking back to your car.
“Fuck,” you hiss, kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk, the pebble skittering across the ground, twanging off the lamppost. “Fuck!”
You don’t know if that kid will reach out, you don’t know if this story will come together and all because somefucking hero decided to do…what? Just patrol? Fuck him.
At least with Batman, you knew what to expect. This sweet mannered superhero has thrown you for a loop because he’s the only story you can’t quite grasp.
What’s his fucking angle?
The Second Time:
The first thing Clark sees when he steps into the bullpen is you, always you. Whenever you’re in the office, it’s like his gaze is pulled to you, like you’re True North and he’s the pointer of a compass, oriented towards you and only you.
Today, he sees you, leaning against Jimmy’s desk, the two of you talking, laughing and why does it feel like something is choking Clark? What’s the explanation for this simmering in his veins, his stomach, that tightness in his throat and the feeling that he wants to rip Jimmy away from you? Jealousy, his brain supplies.
You’re jealous of Jimmy Olson. Your own best friend, his brain tells him and honestly, his brain is kind of mean.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Clark hears you say, your voice sounding like it’s right beside him with the volume that he’s granted, his super-hearing focused on you and Jimmy alone. “A few days ago, my source got scared away because Superman was there. Do you know why he was? Like does he normally fly around the city?”
“Oh yeah,” he hears Jimmy say, “Superman does patrols every day. Likes to keep Metropolis safe.” “I thought he wasn’t concerned with petty crime or drug rings, more like natural disasters and weird Justice League stuff,” you say and Clark hears Jimmy’s shrug more than sees it, can hear the rustle of spare fabric over spaghetti arms. (Gosh, what is he turning into? He’s being negative over his best friend because you might…like him. That’s not…like him. He resolves to not do that again.)
“Not really,” Jimmy continues, “but Superman is big into protecting those who can’t protect themselves. Maybe…he was, I don’t know, protecting you.”
“Maybe,” Clark hears you say and then watches as you turn, your gaze landing on him, the intensity in those (unfairly) pretty eyes making his mouth go dry and he swallows on instinct, choking on his own spit. He coughs, the motion and sound both violent, his face in flames, thinking about how you must see him.
When he’s done, calmed down, Lois and Jimmy both calling out to ask if he’s okay, he notices that you’re gone.
Only the perfume of you lingering in the air, but fading fast.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” you say and the woman nods, sitting down onto the bench beside you, her hands folded onto her lap as she sits down. She looks elegant, reserved, closed off, dark hair pulled back, up into a sleek bun, coat drawn tight, closed. You understand, you know the file, the case. Know what she found. Know what her daughter went through.
“I must say,” she says, “that I was surprised that the Daily Planet was interested in the story of my daughter.” She cuts a glance at you, dark eyes shrewd, taking in your appearance. It’s the first time you feel self-conscious, but in your line of work, the business look of the other reporters doesn’t cut it.
You need sneakers to run, boots to kick. Clothes that bend in the right way like a second skin and not a blocking covering.
“I came from Gotham,” you tell her. “Things are done differently there.” She nods, pleased with your answer, or at the very least not offended. You shift on the bench, drawing one leg up, notebook ready, pen poised. “What happened when you found your daughter? What did you feel?”
“Do you have children?” she asks you, her attention focused on the horizon, the sky.
“No, ma’am,” you say and she turns to look at you, dark eyes lined with tears, the water shimmering in the light of the setting sun.
“No, I thought not,” she says. “You’re young, why would you? Well…when you have children, they are everything to you. You would kill for them…you would die for them…you want to…wrap them in bubble wrap and protect them from the world…but I found her…bleeding, crying, leg broken…innocence…ripped from her…” she is crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks, slipping down her neck, a dark spot growing on the collar of her jacket where it’s drawn across her throat.
“Did you know then who did it?” She looks at you, her eyes haunted, shadowed, a scene playing out behind them, reflecting in the shine of her tears.
“No,” she says, voice thick, choked sounding. “No, that came later. That came in the hospital when the doctor…” she draws in a sharp, shaky breath, “when the doctor said that she had been…branded.” You’ve been writing what she’s saying, pen moving against the page, notes neat, organized, until now. The police report said nothing of this.
“Branded?” you ask and she blinks, her attention focusing on a sight over your shoulder, one that makes her gaze dart back to you, nose wrinkling in the slightest show of disdain.
“You’ll have a hard time,” she whispers, voice still cracking, “getting people to trust you when you don’t trust them, my dear.”
“What?” you ask her, panic creeping in. You don’t trust people, have handcuffs in your bag in case you get attacked along with pepper spray, but that’s not something you show. That’s not something you know. “But I haven’t—”
“You have Superman as a guard dog,” she says and you glance over your shoulder, teeth grinding together at the sight of Metropolis’ hero, sitting at a bench not so far away, attention focused on you.
“He’s not my—” She stops you with a single wave of her hand, her body rising from the seat and she turns to go, to leave, answers leaving with her.
“Someone afraid of people is not right for my daughter’s story,” she says, her gaze focused on the hero now surrounded by people, wanting to take selfies. “Or crime in general. I’m sorry, Reporter, I have no further comments for you.” She turns and walks away, steps heavy, hands held together, fingers interlaced.
“Fuck you, Superman,” you hiss, standing, turning and walking towards your car, far away from the golden boywho seems intent on driving you back to Gotham, to the dark and dreary streets where you learned what it meant to be afraid. “Just fuck you.”
You hope his super hearing picks that up.
The Third Time:
Clark listens to your footsteps, the rhythm that you have, the one that is so you, the steady heel down and then the toes, the way you rock onto the toes of the opposite foot. It’s a steady metronome that he’s learned, but not in a creepy way, just in a…completely and totally entuned to you way. Which is normal. Ethical. Totally moral. Right?
“Clark,” he hears you say and then he sees your arms, hoodie covered extremities pressing down on the edge of his desk, your scent like a wall to the right of him.
“Hi,” he says, turning his head, taking in the look of you, hearing your heart slamming against your ribs in an angry beat. What’s wrong? What happened? Why does he want to hurt whoever made you angry? (That feeling is normal, right? Right?!)
“Get your fucking…little hero off my back! He’s acting like a fucking guard dog and fucking up my stories,” you hiss and he’s taken aback by the amount of curse words you’ve used. Ma always taught him that they weren’t good to use, never nice, yet…he supposes that Gotham has a different kind of education than Smallville.
“H-he’s j-just concerned about your…your safety,” Clark stutters and he can feel that hated flush on his neck and his cheeks, that pulsing heat that only you bring out and the stuttering that only you bring out because only you, the sailor-mouthed crime reporter, hold the title of making the Man of Steel nervous.
“Tell him,” you say, voice low and deep and dark and utterly even, “that if he doesn’t stop, I’ll cut his fucking dick off with kryptonite. Okay?” You push up, standing again, lips pressed so thin that they look like a line, one line and nothing else.
And as you walk away, steps angry, heart still slamming that angry adrenaline-fueled rhythm, he wonders why your anger is so…attractive.
Maybe he has a problem.
“How many homes have you been in?” you ask the boy before, his attention focused on the picnic table, fingers digging into the knot of the woodgrain.
“Ten,” he says, his tone flat, deadpan. But the kind of deadpan that holds a wealth of pain inside of it, too much for a boy so young. His social worker sits at the next table, having given her permission for the interview to be conducted.
“How old are you?” you ask and he looks up with large grey eyes, shadowed and darkened.
“Eleven,” he whispers, his voice hoarse but not in a way from dryness, but a way that comes from screaming, from crying. “But I know a girl who’s nine and has been in twelve homes.”
“And…what are the homes…like?” you ask, brows drawing together as you watch this frail little boy and the way he hunches in on himself, folding himself smaller, trying to make himself invisible.
“Not good,” he whispers. “Although one was. But I didn’t stay long. It was full and they needed beds so they…moved me.” His words hold a wealth of pain and you swallow hard, fighting against that growing lump in your throat as you look up and away from the little boy, taking in the appearance of the park, the trees full of green leaves, of life, the sky blue with white, fluffy clouds. Picturesque.
Gotham never was like this.
“What…what do you mean by…not good?” you ask, careful with your wording, careful to keep reporter bias from the questions asked.
“They lock the food up,” he says, blinking fast, rapid movements, trying to clear the tears. Most likely because he’s learned that tears make you weak and being weak is something that you can’t afford. “And they yell, sometimes they hit me. One place had a man who threw things at us if we left our rooms. We weren’t supposed to leave our rooms there.”
“Okay…has this been…most of your experience?” you ask, but his attention is drawn by something over your shoulder, his face lighting up with an expression of joy and hope. Hope, the thing you’ve seen on most faces here in Metropolis. Something Gotham never had.
“Superman!” he cries, jumping up from the table. You swing your legs over the picnic bench, watching as he descends, his cape rippling in the breeze behind him. You sigh, gritting your teeth, knowing the interview is over now.
But…at least, the kid gets to meet his hero.
“Hi, kid,” Clark says (does he really think people don’t know? His voice is the exact same!). “How are you?”
“Are you working with the reporter lady to catch the bad guys?!” he asks, his voice alight and joyful. Hopeful. And it’s beautiful but as you walk to the social worker, to shake her hand and depart, all you can think about is how hopeful was a recipe for disaster back home.
“Maybe,” you hear Clark say, his voice smoother, steadier as Superman than he ever is as Clark Kent. “But she and I don’t exactly talk.”
“Oh?” you call out, turning around, eyes narrowing on him. “We don’t? Well…do you know where I can find some kryptonite?”
You never make idle threats after all.
The Fourth Time:
You can see the man standing on the corner of the street, cast in shadow only, shifting, hands in pockets. His body language reads nervous, on edge. You received a tip that the drug ring you’ve been doing a piece on is moving into new territory tonight so here you are, camped out in the driver’s seat of your car, snacks in a bag on the passenger seat and camera set up on the window, capturing everything too.
Capturing this first deal done in a new area is important, not for the deal itself, but following the dealer back to wherever the headquarters is. That’s what you need. Photographic evidence of the entire operation.
And it all begins here.
“Come on,” you whisper, watching another figure approach the shadowed man, constantly looking over their shoulder, hood drawn up. “Be the buyer.” You need this. Your pieces have been good, often front page, having pulled together a story even with Superman’s interventions, but this…this feels like what you used to do.
The finding loose threads and pulling at them until the story unravels before you. Like now.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you hiss, watching as the dealer hands something over to the other figure, money passed back. You turn, preparing to grab your bag, follow the dealer at a safe distance, but just as you turn, clipping your camera to the collar of your jacket, a goddamn figure swoops down from the sky.
“Hey, guys,” you hear him say, his voice stupid and dumb and far too attractive for his own good. “This isn’t exactly what you should be doing, right? Now, I’m gonna wait here with you guys until the police arrive, okay?”
“Fuck!” you hiss, the feeling of a door slamming closed and hitting you in the face echoing through your body, your muscles rigid and frozen, adrenaline pumping, but only succeeding in freezing you more.
You watch as Clark turns to your car, flipping you a thumbs-up and all you do in response is mouth Fuck. You and flip him the bird before putting your car in gear and driving off.
Fucking farm boys.
The One Time You Called Him Out On It:
No sooner do you step into the alleyway, catching a glimpse of your newest informant, than do you see him run off. And you know, oh you know, that motherfucking Clark is there, over your shoulder with his Kansas farm boy, protection of damsels attitude.
“SUPERMAN!” you yell, turning around, stomping your foot like a toddler having a tantrum because that fits you. That’s how you feel right about now. “GET YOUR FUCKING ASS DOWN HERE! UNLESS YOU WANT ME OUTING YOUR IDENTITY TO EVERYONE IN THIS SQUARE MILE!” You watch as he appears from the side, descending down, his stupid, pretty dimpled smile on display.
“Hi,” he says, landing softly on the ground, his feet never even making a sound as he walks towards you which is highly unfair because you walk and it’s a stomp no matter what you do.
“Don’t you hi me! You know I can handle myself! I grew up in fucking Gotham for Christ’s sake! And not the good side, either! Danger was my fucking playground! So why do you keep following me? At this point, you’re the crime I should be reporting. It’s called stalking!” He tilts his head, eyes wide, face forlorn like a fucking puppy dog and honestlywhere can you complain about his attractiveness because it is so unfair.
“I just don’t want…something happening to you,” he whispers, his hands reaching forwards, taking yours in his and you suck in a breath at the contact, at the electricity that fizzles underneath your skin at his touch.
“You can’t control that even if you follow me,” you remind him, nostrils still flared, heart hammering harder and harder in your chest, but less and less from anger. And more and more from the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything.
“I can try,” he says, his tone lifting up at the end and you step closer, pulling your joined hands up to the side in a shrug, one you’re pulling him into too.
“Why?” you ask him, the corner of your mouth tugging up of its own accord, throat thickening because you’re just so tired of everything always being messed up.
“Because I like you,” he says, but it’s not spaced out, rather it’s one sentence, all the words running together and you can feel something crack inside of you, anger giving way to knowing, to the same feeling. Because you would be lying if you said that Clark hadn’t crept up on you, sneaking into your heart with his stuttering and blushing and bashful smiles over the top of his computer and the way he always brings you coffee and it’s exactly right.
“Clark,” you whisper, your hands squeezing his as he shifts, your back ending up against the wall of the alleyway, his body bracketing you in.
“How did you know?” he whispers and you shake your head, lips curving up into a smile of their own accord as you pull your hands from his, reaching up and cupping his face, thumbs on his cheekbones.
“You don’t really hide it, Clark,” you whisper. “Every time something bad happens, like a natural disaster, you disappear for a surprisingly long bathroom break and then come back after Superman has zoomed off and saved everyone. Your interviews with him read like someone talking to themself and propping themself up, trying to show only the good which is a human fallacy. You read too close to what you were writing and not the closeness of a friend…and your voice. It doesn’t change when you’re Kent or…this.”
“Why aren’t you a detective?” he asks you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, warm and bright.
“I’ll answer that if you can go change. It’s weird talking to you like this,” you whisper and he blinks once, surprised. “I like Clark. I like you when you’re not…performing.”
“Two minutes, pretty girl,” he whispers.
“Okay,” you say and he pulls back, flying off and you bend down, your hands on your knees as you suck in a deep breath, oxygen that doesn’t smell like Clark, like sandalwood and evergreen trees, a scent that is far too good and addictive.
“Hey!” someone calls out and you lift your head, taking in the appearance of the scared kid with the switchblade, walking towards you. “Give me your money!”
“Can’t do that, kiddo,” you call out, pushing to a standing, and sighing once, the gesture almost lazy in a way.
“Hey, lady! Do I look like I’m joking?!” he asks and you shake your head, reaching into your bag for the handcuffs you keep there, pulling them out and letting them dangle off one finger, the metal catching the light. The boy’s scared eyes widen in surprise and he takes a step back.
“Do you want me to pull a citizen’s arrest because I will, I just don’t want to, kid,” you call out and he curses under his breath, taking off in the opposite direction, pebbles and gravel skittering off from the force of his footsteps.
“You really don’t need a guard, do you?” you hear Clark call out and you turn back, slipping the handcuffs back into your trusted satchel and shake your head, lips pressing together.
“No,” you tell him, your heart skipping a beat at the way he looks now, when he’s not performing, just a simple white button up, tucked into black slacks, glasses askew and curls messy. “What kind of crime reporter would I be if I didn’t have a pair of handcuffs? Or two—one’s fuzzy.” You delight in the way his cheeks and neck and ears flush a deep red.
“How can I make it up to you?” he asks as he crosses the alley to you, his hands sliding against your waist as if they belong there, were made to fit there.
“You can take me out to dinner,” you whisper and then his lips are on yours and isn’t that surprising—Kansas farm boy made a move first. Doesn’t that go against their ethics?
You don’t particularly care as his lips slide against yours, hands sliding from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, your one hand on his back, the other twining in his hair. And honestly, the way he uses his tongue, sliding it along yours, stroking yours should be illegal. Its own kind of crime because he’s ruined you for anyone else.
“Clark,” you whisper, pulling back, a string of saliva still connecting the two of you to each other, to that kiss that tasted of sugar and coffee and hope.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks, his blue eyes flaring with desire, hunger. Your resolve is so weakening right now.
“We’re gonna have to stop or else we’ll be a crime I have to report,” you whisper and he leans in, trying to kiss you again, his lips chasing yours, but you turn your head, his lips landing on your cheek.
“What crime?” he asks, his voice husky in the most delicious way.
“Public indecency.”
Bonus: The One Time He Was the Criminal:
Clark lifts the lid from off the cookie jar, reaching in and pulling out one of the double chocolate cookies the two of you had spent baking this morning, the world outside dark and rainy and your honeymoon vacation time not yet over even though you were back in Metropolis, settling into your new home.
“Clark Kent, thirty-three, was found today, a rainy Tuesday afternoon,” he hears you narrate in the voice you have when you read out articles, “stealing cookies from the cookie jar.”
“What?” he calls out, turning around, noticing you with your tape recorder (old-fashioned just like him. Golly, he loves you) held aloft, a teasing smirk on your face.
“What did he say in his defense. Well, of course, he said ‘wasn’t me’. But this reporter,” you say, your voice lilting up as he shoves the entire cookie into his mouth, chewing as he rounds the kitchen counter, reaching you, stopping just a few feet from you. “But eye witness testimony undisputedly puts him at the scene of the crime as well as the evidence of…” you cough, a laugh squeaking out anyways, “chocolate at the corner of his mouth. This leads to a supposed guilty verdict, but how does he plea?” You hold the recorder out to him, but he shakes his head, removing it from your hand, setting it on the counter, and lifting you up, tossing you over his shoulder, in a way that annoys you because he does it often.
It’s just easy for him.
“Clark!” you cry, your palm slamming into his back. “Put me down!”
“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “Because my plea is that I haven’t had enough sweets.”
“What? You just ate a whole cookie, what are yo—oh,” he hears you say, hears the change in your heartrate, smells the change in your body and hurries back to the bedroom, slamming the door closed and laying you on the bed, pressing a chocolate-tinged kiss to your lips.
“What kind of crime am I committing now?” he whispers, his body above yours, your hands digging into his back.
“I mean,” you whisper, voice husky in a way he loves so much, “if you don’t do something now, it will be committing a crime and not one you want to find out.” He laughs as he slides down your body, loving the way you look in his clothes, pulling boxers down, off your body, leaving you bare from the waist below.
“Golly,” he whispers before lifting your legs onto his shoulders, pressing kisses against your inner thighs, “I love you.”
“Clark,” you whisper, shifting, arousal growing, your pussy glistening, “get on with it.” And he does.
And always and forever, will you be the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.
Make as many fake stories of him as you want, so long as they end like this.
