[wallowingselfpity]

turn the page chapter one incoming!!

[wallowingselfpity]

more like three chapters....

[wallowingselfpity]

turn the page chapter one incoming!!

[vampurrring]

What's your bodycount tho?

I haven’t killed anyone yet

[dwinkus]

nonlocal area code = hang up. obvious telemarketer

local area code = hang up. this one is also a telemarketer but trying to be sneaky

never answer the phone ever

[cigarettesforcats]

this is why everyone on this website is a virgin

[dwinkus]

I’m not gonna fuck the telemarketer man

[biancodinera-deactivated2026011]

[wintersoldierfell]

[henstomper]

imposter syndrome is so funny like fuuuuck i hope nobody finds out im tricking people into thinking im competent by knowing things and doing them

[wallowingselfpity]

𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄

𝙖 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧

summary: you call god a coward, and he proves you right by taking you instead of answering. torn from dean's grasp and erased from his world, you’re cast somewhere cracked and cruel. you're meant to be a punishment, a plot twist. instead, you become the thing he never planned for—defiance that survives the fall.

word count: 4.4k

authors note: here it is people!!!! please comment down below if you want a tag, i will be posting chapter one real soon, like i already have three chapters written so it will most likely be posted in two days after editing it. enjoy and please leave comments!!

݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆

Dean Winchester had survived the kind of endings that were supposed to stick.

He’d watched Hell swallow good men whole. He’d seen angels burn cities with a thought. He’d stood in the wreckage of a dozen apocalypses and learned the sickening truth: the world didn’t end.

It just kept finding new ways to hurt.

But nothing—no demon, no horseman, no cosmic entity wearing a human smile—had ever looked at him the way Chuck did now.

Like Dean wasn’t a person.

Like Dean was a character who’d forgotten his lines.

The bunker’s war room felt too small for a God.

It always did, when Chuck showed up. The air would shift, subtle at first, like pressure dropping before a storm. The lights would flicker with the petulance of a toddler denied attention. Even the concrete seemed to tighten around its own bones, as if the place built to withstand the end of the world could sense the kind of end standing in its center and didn’t like its odds.

Dean hated that the bunker reacted.

Hated that it acknowledged Chuck.

Hated that anything did.

You stood at his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the heat of you. He’d positioned you there without asking, the way he always did when danger came to the door—between you and it, because the world had taken enough from him, and he’d decided long ago it didn’t get to take you.

Not you.

Not his kid.

You weren’t little anymore. That was the problem, in some ways. You’d grown into the kind of sharp that didn’t bend. The kind of strength that didn’t always listen to reason because it had learned reason could still lose.

Dean knew what it was like to be that kind of stubborn.

He’d just never wanted it for you.

Across the table, Sam sat rigid, jaw tight, eyes never leaving Chuck. He looked like someone bracing for impact, like someone who’d been punched so many times by fate he’d started anticipating the swing before it happened.

Castiel was nearby too—silent, tense, the set of his shoulders screaming of helplessness he’d never admit out loud. Even Jack’s presence haunted the room in the way absence can—like a blank space where hope used to be.

And Chuck—

Chuck leaned against the map table like it belonged to him.

Like everything belonged to him.

His hands were in his pockets. His smile was mild. He looked like a man waiting for a ride, the kind who might ask for a cigarette with an easy laugh.

Except he was God.

Except he wasn’t here to talk.

Dean could feel it. That familiar sense of being watched from the inside out. Being measured.

Being evaluated.

Being edited.

“Dean,” Chuck said, and somehow it sounded affectionate. That was the trick, always. He could wrap cruelty in warmth and call it love. “You look tired.”

Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t give him that. He held Chuck’s gaze like a dare, because sometimes the only thing you could do with a bully was stare him down even when your knees wanted to buckle.

“Hard year,” Chuck continued, as if he was making small talk. “Hard… life.”

“You don’t get to say that,” Dean said, voice low and flat.

Chuck’s brows lifted, the barest flicker of surprise—as if Dean had said something unexpected. As if Dean’s anger still surprised him after everything.

“Oh?” Chuck asked. “I don’t?”

Dean’s hands curled into fists. He could feel the old reflex crawling up his spine—the one that said swing first, ask questions later, protect the people behind you even if it costs you everything.

It had always cost him everything.

“I’m not doing this,” Dean said. “Not anymore. No speeches. No games.”

Chuck’s smile widened just a hair. “But the speeches are my favorite part.”

Sam finally spoke, voice tight. “What do you want?”

Chuck glanced at Sam, amused, like a writer indulging a character’s attempt at agency.

“What I want?” Chuck echoed. “I want what I’ve always wanted.”

His eyes slid back to Dean.

“A good story.”

Dean’s teeth ground together. The war room light buzzed, then steadied. The bunker’s air felt thicker, like it was waiting for permission to move.

Behind Dean, you shifted your weight.

Dean felt it immediately—felt the tension ripple through you like the first tremor of an earthquake. He knew that movement. Knew that restless anger. It was the same one he’d had at your age, the one that said I refuse to be small in a room where something big is trying to crush me.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t want to. Because if he did, he might see you about to do something Dean couldn’t stop.

And Dean was tired.

Not tired like he needed sleep.

Tired like his bones had learned the weight of hope and couldn’t hold it anymore.

Chuck’s gaze flicked toward you, finally, like he’d remembered there was an extra piece on the board.

And the room changed.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was subtler than that—just a shift in attention, like a spotlight moving. Like the air itself leaned in.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

Because Chuck was looking at you the way a person looks at a problem that’s been growing in the corner of their life.

With annoyance.

With curiosity.

With that same faint, poisonous delight Dean had seen in monsters right before they decided to play.

“Ah,” Chuck said softly. “There you are.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

Chuck chuckled. “Don’t what? Notice her? That seems… unreasonable.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t step back. You held Chuck’s gaze with the kind of fearless hatred that made Dean both proud and terrified.

Dean’s hand lifted slightly, a silent warning. A please without the word.

You didn’t look at him.

“Do you know what I love most about you?” Chuck asked you, conversational.

You didn’t answer.

Chuck continued anyway. “You’re not supposed to exist.”

Dean’s chest went tight, like a fist closing around his ribs.

You didn’t blink. “Funny,” you said. “I feel pretty real.”

Chuck smiled. “Oh, you’re real. That’s the problem.”

Dean shifted, trying to pull you back with his presence alone. He wanted to get between you and Chuck again, but you were already close enough that moving would mean acknowledging that you were scared.

And you weren’t going to give Chuck that satisfaction.

“Her existence isn’t your business,” Dean said.

Chuck’s eyes flashed—quick, cold. “Everything is my business, Dean. Everything is mine.”

The lights buzzed. A low tremor vibrated through the map table. One of the books on the shelf rattled as if the bunker itself had shivered.

Sam swallowed, but he didn’t move.

Castiel’s hands flexed, empty. Helpless.

Dean felt the urge to laugh at the cosmic cruelty of it: a room full of people who’d fought gods and monsters and still didn’t have a single weapon that mattered.

Because how do you fight the author?

You don’t.

You survive him.

You outlast him.

You refuse to play.

And you—Dean’s daughter—had never been good at refusing quietly.

“You talk about stories,” you said, voice sharpening, “like we’re all just entertainment. Like all of this—” you gestured around the war room, at the maps, the weapons, the scars no one could see “—is just you making yourself feel clever.”

Chuck’s head tilted. “Is that not what it is?”

Dean’s throat went dry. He glanced at you then, just for a second.

Your eyes were bright with fury. Your shoulders were squared. You looked like a soldier who’d been told the war was a joke.

Dean saw himself in you and hated it.

Because he knew what that anger did to a person.

It burned. It consumed. It made you bold in rooms where boldness got people killed.

“Stop,” Dean murmured, barely audible.

You heard him anyway.

And you didn’t stop.

“You want to know what I think?” you continued, eyes never leaving Chuck. “I think you’re a coward.”

The word hit the room like a gunshot.

Even Chuck’s smile faltered—just a fraction. Like he hadn’t expected that.

Dean’s blood went cold.

Sam sucked in a breath like he’d been punched.

Castiel’s gaze flicked sharply to you, warning in his expression.

Chuck’s eyes narrowed, not angry yet—curious, like a cat watching a mouse do something unexpected.

“A coward,” you repeated, leaning into it. “Because you could just end us. You could snap your fingers and wipe us out. But you don’t, do you? You can’t. Because you need us to react. You need us to beg, to pray, to hate each other, to break—because if we don’t… you don’t get to feel powerful.”

Dean’s heart hammered.

He wanted to drag you back. Wanted to cover your mouth. Wanted to beg Chuck with his eyes—hurt him, not her, not her.

But he’d also spent your whole life teaching you never to bow to monsters.

And Chuck was a monster.

Chuck’s lips parted in something like surprise. Then he laughed softly, almost charmed.

“Well,” Chuck said. “That’s new.”

You took a breath, and Dean saw it—the crack in your armor. Not fear. Not doubt.

Pain.

The kind that lived under your anger like a second heartbeat.

“You know what’s the worst part?” you said, voice lower now. “You wrote him to lose everyone.”

Dean flinched. “Kid—”

You cut him off without looking at him. “You did,” you said to Chuck. “You wrote him to bleed and bleed and bleed and still get up, because it’s entertaining. Because it makes you feel like you made something beautiful out of suffering.”

Chuck’s smile returned, but it was thinner now. Sharp around the edges.

“Dean Winchester is beautiful,” Chuck said, almost reverent. “A masterpiece of perseverance. Of loyalty. Of tragedy.”

Dean felt nausea rise.

Tragedy wasn’t art.

It was a body on the floor.

It was a funeral.

It was waking up alone.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” you snapped.

Chuck’s gaze held you, steady and unblinking. “Why? Because you love him?”

Your throat tightened. Dean felt your breath hitch beside him.

The bunker hummed faintly, like it was holding its own breath.

Chuck’s voice softened, dangerously. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Love. Such an inconvenient variable. It makes characters… messy.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Leave her out of this.”

But Chuck was already focused on you. Already bored of Dean’s protective posturing like it was a predictable trope.

“You make him choose,” Chuck said, almost gently. “Again and again. You make him hope.”

Your hands trembled at your sides, but you held your ground.

Dean could practically feel the fear in the room. Not your fear—Sam’s, Castiel’s, his own.

Because Chuck wasn’t just talking. He was deciding.

“You think you’re real?” Chuck asked you. “You are. In the way a paper cut is real. In the way an ink stain is real. You’re an accident that became… inconvenient.”

You swallowed. “I’m not your accident.”

Chuck’s smile sharpened. “No. You’re Dean’s.”

Dean’s pulse spiked.

Chuck’s eyes flicked to Dean for the first time in minutes, and Dean saw something there that made his skin crawl.

Possession.

Like Chuck wasn’t jealous of Dean’s defiance.

He was jealous of Dean’s love.

“And that,” Chuck said quietly, “is why you have to go.”

Dean moved.

Not fast enough. Not smart enough. Pure instinct, his body reacting before his brain could catch up. He reached for you, grabbing the back of your jacket, yanking you closer as if he could physically tether you to this world.

“Chuck!” Dean snarled. “Don’t you—”

Chuck lifted a hand.

Just lifted it. No effort. No drama.

The lights in the war room flickered, then flared so bright Dean saw spots. The bunker’s air snapped cold. A pressure hit Dean’s chest like a fist, driving the breath out of him.

You sucked in a sharp breath, and Dean felt your jacket jerk in his grasp like something had hooked into you and started pulling.

“No!” Dean roared.

You stumbled, grabbing at the edge of the table with one hand. Your fingers scraped uselessly over wood as the world began to warp.

It wasn’t like an angel portal.

It wasn’t clean.

It was… wrong.

The air rippled, folding in on itself. The walls blurred like wet paint. The floor lurched under Dean’s feet. The war room stretched long, then snapped back short, like reality couldn’t decide what shape it wanted.

Your eyes widened, finally looking at Dean.

There was anger there.

There was shock.

And under it, in the split second before everything broke—

There was fear.

Not of monsters.

Not of death.

Fear of being taken away from him.

Dean’s throat closed around a sound that wasn’t a word. He yanked harder, fingers digging into your jacket, leather creaking under the strain.

“Hold on!” he shouted.

You tried.

Dean saw your knuckles white on the table edge. Saw your boots scraping against the floor as if friction could save you.

Chuck watched, expression calm. Almost bored.

Like he’d written this scene already.

“Dean,” Chuck said, mildly, as if offering advice. “Let go.”

Dean’s eyes snapped to him, wild. “Go to Hell.”

Chuck sighed, like Dean was exhausting. “I’ve been. It’s overrated.”

The pressure increased.

Dean’s grip slipped.

Your hand tore from the table, fingers leaving a streak of blood where the wood splintered your skin. You reached toward Dean with both hands, and for a heartbeat Dean thought he had you—thought he could pull you back—

Reality cracked.

Not shattered.

Cracked, like glass under stress. Like a screen spiderwebbing.

The crack ran straight through the space between you and Dean.

Your body jerked as if yanked by an invisible hook.

Dean lunged.

His fingertips brushed your wrist.

Warm skin.

Real.

And then—

Nothing.

Your fingers vanished from his grasp like smoke.

Dean hit the floor hard, knees slamming concrete. His hands clawed at empty air, as if the shape of you still existed there and he could scrape you back into being with his nails.

His chest heaved. His heart hammered. His mind refused to accept the physics of it.

Because Dean had lost people.

He’d lost everyone.

But this wasn’t losing.

This was being robbed.

Dean looked up slowly.

Sam was frozen, horrified, eyes wide like he’d just watched a guillotine drop.

Castiel’s face was pale, grief-stricken, but under that grief was fury—helpless fury, the kind that made angels fall.

Chuck stood untouched, unbothered, the center of the storm.

Dean’s voice came out hoarse. “Where is she?”

Chuck’s brows rose. “I told you. I didn’t kill her.”

Dean surged to his feet, rage finally finding a shape. “Where. Is. She.”

Chuck regarded him for a long moment. “You care,” he said softly, almost pleased. “That’s good. That means this will work.”

Dean’s hands shook. His throat burned. His eyes stung in a way Dean refused to acknowledge.

“What did you do?” Sam demanded, voice breaking.

Chuck looked at Sam like he’d forgotten he was there. “I moved a piece,” Chuck said. “That’s all.”

Castiel stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “You displaced her.”

Chuck shrugged. “If you want to be technical.”

Dean’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “Bring her back.”

Chuck’s smile returned—gentle, infuriating. “No.”

Dean’s vision narrowed. The bunker’s war room blurred at the edges. Dean felt like he was standing on a cliff and the world behind him had already fallen away.

“Why?” Dean rasped.

Chuck’s expression softened in a way that made Dean sick.

“Because,” Chuck said, “you need to learn.”

Dean barked a humorless laugh. “Learn what? That you’re a sadistic son of a—”

“Dean,” Chuck interrupted, tone firm now. The lights steadied. The air tightened. The bunker itself seemed to flinch at his voice. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

Dean stepped closer anyway, fearless in the way only a man with nothing left can be. “I’ll talk to you however I want.”

Chuck’s gaze sharpened. “Still defiant,” he mused. “Even now.”

Dean’s voice dropped, deadly. “You touch her again, I swear to God—”

Chuck’s smile twitched. “I am God.”

Dean didn’t blink. “Then swear to yourself.”

Sam let out a ragged breath. “Chuck… please.”

Chuck looked at Sam with faint annoyance. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t cheapen this with pleading. You’ve never been good at it.”

Castiel’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “Where did you send her?”

Chuck’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling, thoughtful. “Somewhere… instructive.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “What does that mean?”

Chuck’s gaze returned to Dean, and the warmth in it was gone. What remained was something colder.

“It means,” Chuck said, “she’s going to understand what it feels like to be powerless.”

Dean’s breath hitched. “No.”

Chuck tilted his head. “Yes.”

“You did this to punish me,” Dean said, voice cracking on the last word.

Chuck’s eyes glittered. “Not just you.”

Dean stared, confused, then realized—

You.

This was about you too.

You’d called God a coward. You’d refused to bow. You’d made Dean choose love over obedience in front of the one being who couldn’t stand not being worshipped.

Dean felt a fresh, savage wave of guilt crash through him.

He’d tried to stop you.

But he’d also been proud.

And now—

“Where,” Dean demanded again, voice raw. “Where is she?”

Chuck exhaled like he was indulging Dean’s need to know. “A small town,” he said, casual. “A place with a thin spot. A place where the world is already cracking.”

Dean’s blood ran cold.

“A place,” Chuck continued, “without you.”

Dean’s hands trembled.

He imagined you alone—no lore, no contacts, no bunker safety. Just you and whatever was waiting in the dark.

Dean’s voice went small in spite of him. “She’s my daughter.”

Chuck’s eyes held his. “Yes,” he said. “And you’re my character.”

Dean’s rage flared so bright it almost blinded him. “I’m not—”

Chuck’s hand lifted slightly—just a gesture—and Dean felt the air clamp down on his lungs for a heartbeat, like a reminder.

You can talk.

But you can’t change the rules.

Chuck lowered his hand again, as if that demonstration was nothing.

Dean sucked in a breath, shaking with fury.

Chuck stepped closer, close enough that Dean could see the faint lines around his eyes, the human details he wore like a disguise.

“You’ve been so determined to prove you’re free,” Chuck said softly. “To prove you can write your own ending.”

Dean spat, “Because we can.”

Chuck’s smile was thin. “Then go get her.”

Dean froze.

Chuck’s eyes gleamed. “Go,” Chuck said, almost kindly. “Find your daughter in a world that doesn’t know your name. A world that doesn’t care about your rules. A world where you can’t just shoot the monster and call it a day.”

Dean’s throat tightened.

“This is a story,” Chuck murmured, “where you don’t get to be the hero.”

Dean’s voice was hoarse. “This isn’t a story.”

Chuck’s eyes flicked briefly—something like annoyance, something like hurt pride. Then he smiled again, and it was the smile of someone who knew the ending.

“Everything is a story,” Chuck said.

And then he was gone.

Not with a flash.

Not with a bang.

Just… absent.

Like he’d never been there.

The war room lights steadied. The bunker’s air returned to normal. The world pretended nothing happened.

Dean stood there, shaking, staring at the empty space Chuck left behind as if the emptiness itself might answer.

Sam moved first, stepping toward Dean, voice gentle and terrified. “Dean—”

Dean didn’t look at him.

Dean couldn’t.

Because if he looked at Sam, he might see pity.

And Dean Winchester could take a lot of things.

He couldn’t take pity.

Castiel’s voice was tight. “Dean, we will find her.”

Dean’s laugh was broken. “How?” he demanded. “How do you find someone God threw out of the universe like trash?”

Silence.

Because no one had an answer.

Dean’s hands clenched until his knuckles ached. He felt a scream stuck in his throat like a piece of glass.

His daughter.

Gone.

Not dead, Chuck claimed. Not killed. Not erased.

Taken.

Dean’s knees threatened to buckle again, but he forced himself upright. Forced his spine straight. Forced his breath steady.

Because Dean Winchester didn’t get to fall apart.

Not when someone needed him.

And somewhere—somewhere he couldn’t see, couldn’t reach—his daughter needed him.

Dean’s voice came out rough. “We’re gonna get her back.”

Sam nodded quickly, desperate. “Yeah. Yeah, we will.”

Castiel’s expression hardened. “We will.”

Dean stared at the map table, at the salt and weapons and paper plans that suddenly felt useless.

He closed his eyes.

And for one horrifying moment, he imagined you alone in some unknown place—your anger still hot, your fear swallowed down, your hands empty of weapons you trusted.

Dean’s chest caved.

He swallowed it. Forced it down. Locked it away behind the part of him that had survived Hell.

Because grief was a luxury.

Dean opened his eyes, and they were bright with something that wasn’t tears.

It was intent.

It was violence.

It was love sharpened into a blade.

“Chuck wants a story?” Dean whispered.

Sam looked at him, wary.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Fine.”

He slammed his palm down on the table hard enough to rattle the weapons.

“We’ll give him one.”

Dean Winchester had spent his whole life being punished for loving people.

Maybe this time, he’d make God regret it.

[wallowingselfpity]

i can see winchester!reader being fucked with by chuck ( god ) and getting sent to the year 1983 for pissing him off.

but they get sent to 1983 in hawkins, indiana of all damn places

why here?

they have no clue but maybe it has something to do with will byers going missing and the strange thing she saw in steve harringtons backyard.

[wallowingselfpity]

part three for peter in metropolis tomorrow ? 🤭

who wants a tag ?

[wallowingselfpity]

summary: someway, peter parker is dragged into the chaotic whirlwind of lois lane. a late night shoot for evidence against lexcorp goes wrong, causing peter to chose between keeping his identity a secret or saving lois. it’s a good thing superman comes to save the day, once again.

word count: 2000

authors note: here it is part two!! it’s a bit shorter than the last chapter but trust me, chapter three will be a lot! im thinking of taking requests to do some one shots of peter and clark’s dynamic, maybe peter and lois as well or peter and jimmy! request something please so i can add so much more into my writing! my ask should be on my page, if not then just comment on this chapter! anyways, super excited to get into this so lets go!!!

tags: @rustedachilles @blond3wh0r3 - also let me know in the comments if you want to be tagged in this series!

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The newsroom of the Daily Planet woke slowly, like a living thing shaking off sleep.

Phones trilled somewhere in the distance, printers coughed out headlines, and the low hum of conversation rolled between the glass partitions. The city beyond the windows was gray with early morning haze, Metropolis glinting beneath a pale overcast sky.

Clark Kent sat at his desk, glasses slipping a fraction lower as he typed, his focus half on the article in front of him, half on the photographs spread haphazardly beside the keyboard. Peter’s photos.

They were still there. He should’ve taken them home last night, but he hadn’t.

Each print caught Superman mid-motion — light fractured across his suit, the cape blurred in streaks of crimson and gold. They were powerful, raw, alive. And too close. Clark could see the danger in the distance of each frame: concrete dust, sparking wires, that split-second between disaster and rescue.

He should’ve thrown them out. But instead, he’d stayed late, just… looking.

He told himself it was about perspective — that he was trying to understand how a young photographer like Peter Parker had gotten those shots at all. But the truth gnawed under the excuse: he was trying to understand why the kid had reminded him so much of himself.

Now, morning sunlight crept across the desk, catching the glossy paper just as a voice broke the quiet.

“Those new?”

Clark’s head lifted instinctively. Lois Lane stood by his desk, coffee cup in one hand, notepad in the other. Her tone was casual — deceptively so — but her eyes had already zeroed in on the photos.

Clark’s hand moved to shuffle them together, but Lois was faster. She reached across the desk and plucked one off the pile before he could blink.

“Whoa, easy there,” she said, smirking as she turned the print toward the light. “These are… good. Real good. You take these?”

Clark adjusted his glasses, trying for calm. “No. They’re from a freelancer.”

“Freelancer?” Lois tilted her head, flipping to another photo. “Huh. Got a name?”

Clark hesitated. “Peter Parker. New in town.”

Lois made a small, thoughtful sound, the kind she only made when her brain was already fifteen steps ahead. “Peter Parker. Cute name. These look like they were taken mid-disaster — was he there when that LexCorp bot went haywire?”

Clark’s silence answered for him.

Lois’s brows arched. “So he was there. Great. Means he’s either reckless or brilliant. Maybe both.” She looked up, eyes sharp with interest. “Where’d you find him?”

Clark sighed softly, realizing resistance was pointless. “He came in the other day. Tried to sell some photos of Spider-Man to Perry.”

“Let me guess,” Lois said, lips quirking. “Perry told him to come back with Superman.”

Clark gave a reluctant nod.

“Classic Perry.” She set the photos down, tapping the edges into alignment. “I want to meet this kid.”

“Lois—”

“No, seriously. These are too good to ignore. He’s got an eye for movement, emotion, framing—he caught Superman in motion without losing the humanity. That’s rare.”

Clark’s voice was quiet, almost uneasy. “He also nearly got himself killed doing it.”

Lois gave him a knowing look. “And you care because…?”

He cleared his throat, deflecting. “Because he’s a kid. Maybe twenty at most. Doesn’t belong near that kind of chaos.”

She smiled faintly. “You sound like someone’s dad.”

Clark opened his mouth to retort, but she was already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “Send me his contact, Smallville. If you don’t, I’ll find it anyway.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Lois…”

But she didn’t hear him — or pretended not to.

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Metropolis – Midday

Peter Parker’s phone buzzed exactly four times before he fished it out of his pocket, juggling a grocery bag and a camera case as he stepped off the curb.

“Uh, hello?”

“Peter Parker?” The voice was sharp, confident, female — the kind that belonged to someone who always got what they wanted.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Lois Lane, Daily Planet. Clark showed me your photos.”

Peter froze mid-step. “Oh. Oh, uh — yeah, hi, Ms. Lane. I wasn’t expecting—”

“Don’t call me Ms. Lane unless you’re writing me an obituary. I need you for a shoot.”

Peter blinked, confused. “A shoot?”

“Warehouse district, Pier Twelve. LexCorp property. Rumor says they’re cleaning something up they shouldn’t be.”

He hesitated. “You want… me to take pictures of that?”

“That is what photographers do,” Lois replied dryly. “You in or not?”

Peter looked at his half-empty fridge through his apartment window and thought about Friday. Rent day.

“I’m in.”

“Good. Wear something quiet, bring your best lens. We’re going after hours.”

The line went dead before he could even respond.

Peter exhaled, staring at his phone.

“Guess that’s a yes,” he muttered, shoving it into his pocket.

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Nightfall – Pier Twelve

The docks were silent except for the slow groan of the river and the occasional hiss of a crane pivoting in the distance. Sodium lights flickered overhead, washing the scene in pale amber and long shadows.

Peter adjusted the strap of his camera bag as Lois crouched beside a chain-link fence, flashlight beam skimming the padlock.

“Clark said this place was cleared,” Peter whispered.

Lois smirked. “Clark also said he’d file his expense reports on time. You learn fast — he’s wrong about half the things he says.”

Peter gave a nervous laugh that died quickly as Lois produced a small lockpick set.

“Wait—you can—?”

The lock clicked.

“Reporters pick locks,” she said matter-of-factly. “You just don’t put it in the resume.”

They slipped inside.

The warehouse loomed ahead — a massive ribcage of steel and shadow, LexCorp’s logo barely visible through years of grime. The air smelled of oil and old rain.

Peter raised his camera. “You’re sure we’re not trespassing on—”

“Oh, we absolutely are,” Lois said. “Smile, kid. This is how the real stories start.”

Peter swallowed hard and followed her down a catwalk. Below, enormous crates sat stacked like tombstones, each marked with faded hazard symbols. Some hummed faintly, a low electrical whine that made the hair on Peter’s arms rise.

He started snapping photos — angles, shadows, light streaking through broken windows. Each click echoed through the cavernous space.

Lois moved like she’d done this a thousand times — deliberate, sharp-eyed, her voice hushed but steady as she dictated notes into her recorder.

“LexCorp manifest missing chemical shipments from last quarter… probable evidence of unauthorized testing…”

Then — a sound.

A low mechanical hum.

Lois froze. “Did you hear that?”

Peter’s hand tightened on the camera. “Yeah.”

From the far end of the warehouse, lights flickered on — one by one — in a slow, deliberate sequence, illuminating a row of dormant cargo drones. Their eyes glowed a deep red.

“Lois,” Peter said softly, “I think we should—”

The drones moved.

The nearest one powered up with a metallic shriek, sensors locking on. A laser line scanned across the room and landed directly on Lois’s notepad.

“Oh, for—”

The drone lunged forward.

Peter grabbed Lois’s arm and yanked her behind a crate just as the machine’s claw tore through the air where she’d been standing. Metal screeched. Sparks scattered like fireflies.

“What is that?!” Lois hissed.

“LexCorp security system?” Peter guessed.

“It’s trying to kill us!”

Peter’s pulse hammered. “Yeah, I noticed!”

They ran — weaving between crates, ducking behind girders as claws smashed down and sent splinters of concrete flying. Peter’s instincts screamed at him to fight, to web, to move — but he held it down, every fiber of restraint burning like static under his skin.

Another strike came down — Lois stumbled, caught her balance just as the drone’s scanner light fixed on her again.

And then, a voice.

“Move!”

A sonic boom tore through the warehouse as Superman crashed through the roof in a flare of red and gold.

The shockwave rippled through the room. Crates toppled. The drone swung toward him, firing a burst of light that seared across the wall.

Superman caught the blast mid-air, redirected it into a stack of metal barrels, and turned — eyes glowing. “You two need to get out. Now.”

Lois’s jaw dropped. “Superman—”

“Go!” he barked, shattering another drone with a punch that rippled the floor.

Peter tugged at her arm. “Lois, come on!”

But Lois — ever the reporter — raised her camera phone. “Just one shot—”

A claw lashed toward her.

Peter didn’t think. He dove, shoving her out of the way. The claw scraped the concrete inches from where she’d stood.

Superman caught the drone mid-swing, crushed its core like aluminum foil, and turned sharply. “You’re both lucky I was close.”

His gaze shifted — for a fraction of a second — to Peter. The recognition was subtle, flickering behind the calm exterior, but it was there.

Peter froze, heart stuttering in his chest.

Superman’s tone hardened. “You again.”

Lois blinked between them. “Wait — you two know each other?”

Superman’s jaw tightened. “Let’s just say we’ve crossed paths. And he doesn’t belong here.”

Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Superman stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Peter could hear. “You keep showing up where people nearly die, Parker. Next time, I might not get there first.”

Before Peter could respond, Superman was gone — a blur of color, a rush of displaced air — leaving silence and the faint hum of disabled drones in his wake.

Lois slowly exhaled, her pulse still racing. “Well,” she said hoarsely, brushing dust off her sleeve, “that’s one way to end an interview.”

Peter forced a weak smile. “Yeah. Great headline, though.”

She looked at him for a long beat — at the dirt on his cheek, the cut at his temple, the quiet steadiness in his eyes despite the chaos.

Then she nodded once. “You’re good, Parker. Maybe too good.”

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The Next Morning – The Daily Planet

The newsroom buzzed with energy — the fallout from the “LexCorp warehouse incident” was already making rounds online. Lois walked in with her coat slung over one arm, hair tied back, and a determined look that made interns scatter.

Clark looked up from his desk. “Lois—”

“Don’t,” she said, cutting him off as she dropped a folder on Perry White’s desk. “Front page. LexCorp warehouse scandal, eyewitness verified. Photos courtesy of Peter Parker.”

Clark’s expression tensed. “You’re giving him credit?”

“He earned it.”

“He nearly got himself killed last night,” Clark said quietly.

Lois turned, meeting his gaze evenly. “So did we. That’s journalism.”

Perry looked between them, grunted something that sounded like approval, and waved them both off.

A few minutes later, Lois found Peter waiting awkwardly near the elevator, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” she said.

“Didn’t,” Peter admitted. “Wasn’t sure if I was getting arrested or paid.”

Lois smiled faintly and held out an envelope. “The second one. For now.”

Peter took it, hesitating. “You didn’t have to—”

“Don’t argue. You earned it.”

He tucked the envelope away. “Thanks.”

Lois watched him for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. “You ever think about sticking around the Planet? I could use a shooter who doesn’t flinch under pressure.”

Peter blinked. “You’re… offering me a job?”

“Freelance, for now. Let’s see how you handle deadlines before I trust you with a press badge.”

Before he could answer, Clark appeared behind her, tone firm. “Lois, maybe that’s not—”

She turned slightly, voice cool. “Not what, Clark? A good idea? Because he’s reckless? Funny, I remember someone else who used to run headfirst into danger before thinking.”

Clark fell silent.

Lois looked back at Peter. “What do you say, Parker?”

Peter managed a faint smile. “I say… I’ll try not to get killed.”

Lois grinned. “Good start.”

As she walked off, Clark lingered a moment, eyes following Peter — quiet, contemplative, troubled.

Peter met his gaze briefly, then looked away, adjusting the strap of his camera bag.

The city outside glowed gold against the rising sun, the hum of Metropolis steady and vast.

Somewhere between hero and civilian, between survival and second chances, Peter Parker took the first step toward belonging.

[matttmurdock]

clark kent (my girlfriend) & david corenswet (my boyfriend)

[wallowingselfpity]

ballad of a homeschooled girl ( part one )

pairing: human!clark kent x superhero!reader

summary: with a newfound passion for journalism and photography, you start taking classes in your home city Central City, but between school, work and your not so new found heroism, this might not be as easy as it seems. especially when the asshole who spilled coffee on you this morning is in most of your classes. (4.2k words)

authors note: i have no idea how college classes work- never went myself so if i get anything wrong pls let me know! also i cant beleive i actually wrote something and didn't just post a little blurb of it? go me!! also a little spoiler, but this is based loosely on the flash in the arrowverse. iykyk. characters and events will be mentioned! anyways here is the first part! yes- first part because this WILL BE A SERIES!!

tag list: @areleine @fayezasstuff @briannaisdead @westcoastwt @petaltheory pls lmk if you want to be tagged in the next part!

You love rainy days.

Seriously, you really do. They usually meant staying in, catching up on your workload, and ignoring the outside world until you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

But today marked the first rainy day you hated. You had missed your first three alarms, only waking up to the last one—the one meant to remind you it was time to leave your dorm if you wanted to make it to class on time.

The only good thing about the morning was that you had prepared everything the night before. Clothes laid out, bag packed with supplies and hanging on the doorknob, ready to grab and go.

Now you were running across campus with ten minutes left before class began. You had planned to stop by Jitters for coffee with your brother before your first day, but that plan had been scrapped the moment you texted him to say you wouldn’t make it.

Then, you lost three more minutes answering his phone call, only to be scolded for being late on your very first day.

“I learn from the best,” you muttered under your breath as you glanced at your watch. Realizing you still had a solid five minutes to spare, you slowed to a brisk walk. At least you knew where your class was, and as you glanced up, the building stood clearly in front of you.

Unfortunately, you failed to notice the six-foot figure approaching from your left, holding an unusually large cup of coffee—walking directly into your path.

“Oh, geez!”

You felt the hot liquid seep into your shirt.

The boy walking beside him stepped back, eyes widening as he watched the scene unfold.

You silently thanked yourself for choosing a black shirt instead of the white one you had originally planned to wear. Unfortunately, your dark blue jeans weren’t quite dark enough to conceal the spreading coffee stains.

“Oh gosh—” The tall man looked horrified, clearly trying not to make a bigger scene,

though a few students had already stopped to watch. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t see—”

You raised a hand, staring straight ahead, unwilling to even look at him.
“I really don’t want to come off as rude, but I’m late to class and I don’t have a minute to waste on this. So this is me moving on from the situation—as should you.”

Without giving either of them another glance, you walked past, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. The heat of the coffee was starting to sting now.

When you reached your classroom, you used your shoulder to push the door open while rummaging through your bag for something—anything—that could help clean the mess. You stopped short when you noticed someone standing directly in front of you.

“Right on time, Miss…?”

Professor Pastwell. You had done extensive research on him so you wouldn’t walk into his class blind. He looked you over, lips pursed.

Your cheeks flushed as you finally pulled out some tissues and quickly wiped your hands. You stammered your name, a nervous shiver running down your spine as you met his gaze. You already feared you’d landed on his bad side for the rest of the semester.

“Right,” he said with a curt nod. “You have forty seconds to find a seat, or you’ll be marked late.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, his statement making no sense. “You just said—”

“Thirty five seconds.” He raised an eyebrow, glaring until you moved.

You slipped past him quickly, scanning the packed room until your eyes landed on a familiar figure in the back rows. Relief washed over you when you saw an empty seat waiting—Nathaniel Foster had already moved his bag aside to save it for you.

You had known Nathaniel since high school, ever since the two of you were paired together in chemistry class. You had been inseparable ever since.

As you sat down, he eyed the stains on your jeans with a look that mixed concern and amusement.

“Rough morning?”

“Please don’t start,” you deadpanned.

He holds his hands up in surrender, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Okay, okay. No jokes. But you smell like a Starbucks crime scene.”

You groan and drop your head onto the desk with a thud. “I told you not to start.”

Your forehead still rests against the cool wood of the desk when Professor Pastwell’s voice slices through the air like a scalpel.

“Eyes up, everyone. If you wanted nap time, you should’ve gone to kindergarten instead of university.”

The class chuckles. You don’t. Nathaniel nudges your arm, and you reluctantly drag your head back up, grabbing your pen just in time to see Pastwell writing a string of terms on the board. His handwriting is sharp, precise, each word evenly spaced, and already you can tell he’s the kind of professor who won’t tolerate the smallest mistake.

Your stomach twists. Great. Exactly what you needed on top of being doused in overpriced dark roast.

Nathaniel leans over, whispering, “Relax. You’ve been prepping for this class for weeks. You’ll be fine.”

You don’t answer. You just focus on copying the words onto your notebook, the ink smearing slightly as your damp sleeve brushes the page. Coffee stains bloom in uneven blotches across the margin. Another reminder. Another reason to hate today.

And then the door creaks open.

You freeze, mid-stroke.

The tall guy from earlier steps in, shoulders slightly hunched as if he knows he’s already in trouble. His dark hair is damp, like he got caught in the rain without an umbrella, and his shirt clings to him in places where coffee hasn’t completely dried. He clutches a spiral notebook to his chest, knuckles white.

Your pen digs into the paper.

Of course. Of course he’d be in this class.

“Ah,” Pastwell says, glancing up from the board. “Mister…?”

“Kent,” the guy replies quickly, voice low but steady. “Clark Kent.”

You nearly choke on your own breath. Clark Kent. Seriously? That’s his actual name?

Nathaniel’s shoulders start shaking beside you. You don’t even need to look at him to know he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Well, Mister Kent,” Pastwell continues, “you’re late. Five points from your participation grade.”

Clark nods stiffly. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Take a seat. Quietly.”

There’s barely a pause before you feel it—that prickling sensation of being watched.

You don’t want to look, but you do. His gaze flicks across the room, searching, and then it lands on you. Just like before.

Your spine stiffens.

He mouths something. One word.

Sorry.

Again.

You whip your head back toward your notebook, scribbling nonsense just to look busy.

Nathaniel bites down on his lip to keep from laughing, and when you shoot him a glare, he only wiggles his brows.

You consider stabbing him with your pen.

For the next forty minutes, you try to focus on the lecture. You really do. Pastwell’s voice drones on about theories and frameworks, terms you’ve half-memorized from your pre-semester research. But your mind keeps drifting, circling back to the heat of coffee seeping through your jeans, the embarrassment of students staring at you, the way Clark Kent had looked at you like he actually meant his apology.

And every time you shift in your seat, every time you glance up at the board, you feel it—his eyes flicking toward you from two rows back.

By the time class ends, you’re vibrating with tension.

Pastwell slams his marker down and says, “First assignment: a short response due by Friday. Groups of two. I’ll save you the trouble of picking partners. Row by row. Whoever you’re sitting beside.”

You swear your heart drops into your shoes.

Nathaniel looks smug, stretching lazily in his chair. “Looks like we’re safe,” he whispers.

But then Pastwell adds, “Except in rows of three. In that case, you’ll rotate to the nearest available student.”

You barely process the shuffle of chairs and voices until you hear Pastwell again:

“You. Kent. Switch forward.”

Your blood runs cold.

No. No, no, no.

Nathaniel’s smirk could split his face in half. “Oh, this is so good.”

You shoot him a death glare as Clark Kent climbs the steps, notebook clutched in hand, and takes the empty seat on your other side. He gives you a small, sheepish smile.

“Guess we’re partners,” he says softly.

You want the floor to swallow you whole.

Clark settles into the chair beside you, awkward in a way that makes his tall frame seem even bigger. He doesn’t open his notebook right away. Instead, he presses his lips together like he’s searching for the right words.

You don’t give him the chance.

“Don’t,” you mutter, shoving your own notebook into your bag. “I already told you earlier, I don’t have time for this.”

He blinks, taken aback. “I just wanted to—”

“Apology accepted. Great. Done.” You snap your bag shut and stand before he can finish.

Nathaniel lets out a low whistle. “Cold.”

You shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. He just grins wider.

Clark’s hand twitches like he wants to reach out but thinks better of it. He just nods, his expression hard to read. “Okay. But… we’re still partners, right?”

The words stop you mid-step. Right. The assignment.

Your stomach sinks.

Pastwell is already erasing the board, students filing out around him. No room to negotiate. No room to switch. You’re stuck.

Nathaniel clearly sees it written all over your face because he claps a hand on your shoulder. “Look at the bright side. At least he didn’t spill coffee on your laptop. Or your shoes. Or your—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you warn.

Clark stands too, shifting his notebook under one arm. He’s trying, you realize. Trying not to take up space. Trying not to make this harder than it already is.

Still, your jaw clenches.

The rain outside has only gotten heavier, drumming against the tall lecture hall windows. You used to love that sound. Now it just feels like mockery.

Nathaniel gathers his things, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to figure out your project.”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your skull. “What—?!”

But Nathaniel just laughs, already halfway down the stairs.

Clark coughs into his fist. “So, uh… maybe we could meet at the library? Later today?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. You’d rather be anywhere else. But Pastwell’s assignment looms over you like a storm cloud you can’t outrun.

“Fine,” you say flatly. “Library. Four o’clock. Don’t be late.”

His lips twitch into something that might be a smile. “I won’t.”

You don’t stick around to see it fully form. You head for the door, the echo of rain and your own frustration following you out.

The walk back across campus feels longer than it should. The rain is relentless, turning sidewalks into shallow rivers that soak the bottoms of your jeans. Your umbrella does nothing to stop the damp chill creeping up your sleeves. You should head straight to your dorm, change into something dry, maybe wallow in peace before meeting Clark at the library.

But your phone buzzes.

A message from your brother:

[Barry: Hey, can you swing by the lab? Got something small I could use your eyes on.]

You sigh. Barry always manages to catch you when you least want to be caught. Still, part of you is relieved. The precinct lab is familiar ground, the kind of place where messy days can be straightened out under bright lights and clean evidence slides.

So you change course.

By the time the elevator doors of CCPD open, the scent of burnt coffee and old paper greets you. The bullpen is alive with chatter, phones ringing, officers moving between desks with case files. You slip past it all and head up toward the lab, where Barry is waiting in his usual spot: hunched over a microscope.

He looks up the moment you step inside. His eyebrows lift.

“…Why do you look like you wrestled a Starbucks barista and lost?”

You groan. “Not you too.”

Barry grins, standing to grab a fresh pair of gloves. “Seriously, that’s at least a grande spilled down your front. Did you at least get to drink any of it?”

“No.” You drop your bag on the counter with a thud. “I was ambushed. By caffeine.”

Barry laughs, and the sound is warm enough to melt a little of the tension in your shoulders. He doesn’t push for details, just shakes his head like he’s cataloging another one of your first-day disasters for later.

“Here,” he says, sliding a small evidence bag across the counter. “It’s nothing major. Just need your eyes on the fibers. My shift’s stacked and I trust you more than the temp tech.”

The work is simple, routine, and within minutes your brain slides into that comfortable groove it always finds in the lab. You’re noting down texture, color, and possible matches, the rhythm of analysis almost soothing. For a brief pocket of time, the day stops feeling so sharp around the edges.

When you finish, Barry takes the bag back and pats your shoulder. “See? Not everything today has to suck. Even if you do smell like hazelnut right now.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward despite yourself.

“Thanks, Bear.”

“Anytime."

For the first time since your alarms failed you this morning, the knot in your chest loosens just a little.

-

The library is quieter than you expected. Rain pounds steadily against the tall windows, muting the sound of shuffling feet and clicking keyboards. The smell of old books hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the faint citrus cleaner the janitors always overuse.

You spot him immediately.

Clark Kent, sitting at a table near the back, posture stiff like he’s bracing for impact. A stack of books sits untouched beside him, his notebook open and pen resting diagonally across the page. He looks up the second you approach, eyes widening slightly before settling into that awkward, almost-too-sincere half-smile.

“You came,” he says.

You drop your bag onto the chair opposite him, ignoring the way his voice lifts at the end like he honestly doubted you would. “Of course I came. We have an assignment.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He fumbles for his pen, nearly knocking it to the floor before catching it at the last second. His ears go a little red.

You sigh, sliding into the seat. “Okay, let’s just get this done. One response paper, four pages max, Pastwell said.”

Clark nods, flipping his notebook to a clean page. “Yeah. Easy enough. I did some reading earlier.”

You arch a brow. “You did? Already?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Figured I owed you, after… you know.” His eyes flick down to the faint coffee stain still visible on your sleeve.

“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, pulling out your own notebook.

For a few blessed minutes, silence falls. You jot down bullet points, Clark scribbles something on his page, and the sound of rain fills the gaps between you. But then, inevitably, he speaks.

“So… what year are you?”

You don’t look up. “First.”

“Same. Well, technically second. I transferred.” He pauses, then adds quickly, “Not because I spilled coffee on anyone. Just… y’know. Different reasons.”

You finally glance up, giving him a flat look. His attempt at humor is so clumsy you almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Clark,” you say evenly, “if we’re going to survive this partnership, you need to understand something.”

He blinks. “What’s that?”

“I don’t do small talk when I’m still sticky.”

His mouth opens, then shuts again. His shoulders hunch like he’s been scolded by a teacher. “Right. Got it. No small talk. Strictly academic. Like lab partners.”

“Exactly.” You underline a note with unnecessary force.

There’s another pause. Then—

“…So do you like rain?”

You slam your pen down.

Clark freezes, wide-eyed. “Sorry! Sorry. Last one. Promise.”

You lean back, folding your arms. “Do you always talk this much?”

He hesitates, then gives a small, almost boyish smile. “Only when I’m nervous.”

Something in your chest stutters—just for a second—but you squash it down immediately. “Well, then you’d better learn how to shut up fast. We’ve got work to do.”

His grin lingers anyway, like he knows he’s won the tiniest sliver of ground.

Clark keeps his promise this time—no small talk, no random questions about the weather. Just pen scratching against paper as he writes a header in neat block letters: Response Draft.

You peek at it before you can stop yourself. His handwriting is surprisingly careful, the kind you’d expect from someone who probably got scolded for sloppy cursive as a kid and overcorrected for life.

“I was thinking,” he starts, keeping his tone lower now, almost cautious, “that we could split it in half. Two pages each. Then just… merge it together later.”

“That’s lazy,” you reply without looking up. “And Pastwell will know. He’ll tear it apart if it doesn’t sound cohesive.”

Clark frowns, chewing on the end of his pen. “Okay, fair. So… one of us drafts, the other edits?”

You hesitate. That’s closer. You hate to admit it, but he’s trying.

“I’ll draft,” you say finally. “You edit. That way if we fail, I know exactly whose fault it is.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but he nods. “Deal.”

You start sketching an outline, bullet points forming quickly across the page: key terms, framework, thesis idea. It’s clumsy at first, your mind still prickling with leftover irritation, but slowly the rhythm takes over. You jot, he leans in to glance, and when he adds a thought, it’s not half bad.

“What if,” he says, tapping lightly at the margin of your notebook, “instead of just summarizing the framework, we compare it to one of Pastwell’s published papers? I skimmed one earlier.”

You blink at him, thrown. “You already read Pastwell’s stuff?”

Clark shrugs, cheeks pink. “Figured it couldn’t hurt. He seems… intense.”

You snort. “That’s one word for it.”

“Okay, then what’s your word for it?” he asks, tilting his head.

You don’t miss a beat. “Dictator.”

Clark chuckles under his breath, the sound quick but genuine, and for the first time all day it doesn’t make you bristle.

The minutes blur as the rain outside drums steadily, no longer mockery but something steadier, almost like background music. Your pages fill with notes. Clark’s edits land in the margins, his handwriting neat where yours rushes. Somehow, the two styles don’t clash as much as you expected.

By the time the clock on the wall ticks past six, you realize you’ve gotten further than you would have on your own.

You sit back, stretching your cramped fingers. “Not terrible.”

Clark raises an eyebrow. “That your version of a compliment?”

“Don’t push it,” you warn, though the edge in your voice has softened.

He smiles, more relaxed now, and leans back in his chair. “Noted.”

For a second, it’s almost comfortable. Almost.

And that’s when your phone buzzes—Nathaniel.

A text flashes across the screen:

[Did he spill more coffee on you yet? Should I bring towels?]

Your groan echoes through the library. Clark tilts his head curiously, but you snap your phone shut before he can see.

“Nothing,” you mutter. “Absolutely nothing.”

By the time you both finally call it quits, the library has grown nearly empty. A few stragglers linger at computer stations, but the tables around you have been abandoned, chairs stacked unevenly. Even the rain has quieted, reduced from its earlier downpour to a steady drizzle against the windows.

You cap your pen and snap your notebook shut. “That’s enough for today.”

Clark nods, setting his pen carefully on top of his notes, like he’s afraid to make a mess. “We actually got a lot done.”

“Shocking,” you say flatly, though you can’t stop the small tug at your lips.

He doesn’t argue, just gathers his things in silence. The awkwardness creeps back in—thicker now that the work is finished and there’s nothing left to buffer the space between you. You sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward the doors, half-expecting him to peel off in another direction.

But when you push through the glass exit and step under the darkening sky, Clark is still there, a few steps behind you.

The drizzle is cool, misty, soaking into your already-ruined shirt. You sigh, tilting your head back for a second, letting it speckle your skin. Rain usually feels like comfort.

Tonight, it feels like a compromise.

Clark shifts awkwardly beside you, clutching his notebook tighter against his chest. “Do you… want to walk back together?”

You glance at him, arching a brow. “Why? So you can spill another drink on me?”

His face flames, and he rubs at the back of his neck. “That was—yeah. Fair.”

You almost laugh. Almost. Instead, you shove your hands into your pockets and start walking. “Fine. But only because it’s on your way.”

The path glistens under the lamplight, puddles catching the glow in fractured patterns.

Your footsteps splash lightly in sync for a few paces before Clark finally speaks again.

“I really am sorry, you know.” His voice is quiet, earnest in a way that makes you clench your jaw. “About earlier. I wasn’t paying attention. I should’ve been.”

You want to brush it off, keep your armor up. But the way he says it—like he’s been holding onto the words all day, waiting for the right moment—makes it harder to stay sharp.

You glance at him, studying his profile. His hair is plastered to his forehead, rain dripping from the ends. He looks almost ridiculous, tall and awkward and far too sincere.

“Don’t make it a habit,” you say finally.

He exhales, and for the first time you notice it sounds like relief.

By the time you reach your dorm, the drizzle has tapered into a soft mist. You stop at the bottom of the steps, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder.

“This is me,” you say, half-expecting him to keep hovering.

Clark nods, stepping back. “Right. Okay. See you in class.”

You give him a small wave—more reflex than intent—before climbing the steps. At the door, you risk one last glance over your shoulder.

He’s still there, hands shoved in his pockets now, standing like he’s not sure what to do with himself. And for a moment, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—today’s rainy day wasn’t a total loss.

Your dorm is blessedly warm when you step inside, the heater humming low against the steady drip of rain outside. You peel off your damp jacket, drop your bag by the desk, and collapse onto your bed without even bothering to change.

The scent of coffee still clings stubbornly to your clothes, sharp and sweet. You bury your face into your pillow to muffle a groan. If today had been a test, you’re pretty sure you scraped by with a D at best.

You stare at the ceiling for a while, letting your thoughts tumble.

Professor Pastwell and his thirty-second threats.


Nathaniel, grinning like he’d just won a bet you didn’t know you were playing.


Clark Kent—walking coffee disaster turned unwanted project partner.

You close your eyes, trying to shove his face out of your mind. It doesn’t work. You can still see that half-smile, awkward and earnest, like he couldn’t quite believe you hadn’t bitten his head off at the library.

“Ugh,” you mutter, rolling over and pulling your blanket up to your chin.

The rain patters against your window, softer now, steady as a heartbeat. Normally, that sound would lull you into calm. Tonight, it only stirs a weird mix of irritation and… something else you refuse to name.

You grab your phone, scrolling through texts. Nathaniel sent a meme—something about coffee explosions. You don’t dignify it with a reply. Barry sent a thumbs-up emoji, no doubt proud you survived your first day.

You type a quick response to him: Still alive. Barely. Thanks for the save at the lab.

Then you toss your phone aside and let your eyes drift shut.

Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.

And if it’s not—well, you’ll just blame Clark Kent.

[wallowingselfpity]

summary: you’re sent to metropolis after a murder occurs in their jurisdiction, a murder that you knew tied to two other ones in central city. they were tied- you just couldn't figure out where the knot was to unravel this whole mess. you've been here for almost a week now and the most you've done is bicker with a six foot something reporter from the daily planet with stunning blue eyes.

word count: 2246

authors note: it’s finally here! here’s my first clark kent fic and im super excited for this that i actually have other chapters thought out for this and im turning it into a series!! literally made a post about this back in july and now its finally out! i hope you all enjoy! pls leave feedback and if you’d like to be tagged in part two- reply down below! love you all!!

You needed a break. Your eyes were starting to sting from how long you've been staring at the floor. Your knees were beginning to hurt. It would probably be wise to stand and stretch them out but you had a job to do.

Three murders in the span of two months. Two in your own city and now one in Metropolis. You were assigned to travel out here to see if there was anything connecting the three. So far, the only thing connecting them were the victims. Couples in their mid-thirties. No kids. No pets. Nothing else. You needed more.

"Working hard, or hardly working?"

You finally let your eyes shut, head slightly dropping forward as you took a deep breath. Not in contentment, no it was more in annoyance. "Do you always end up at the wrong place at the wrong time Mr.Kent?"

Finally lifting yourself up from your crouched position, you turn towards your left and there he is. Clark Kent. The Daily Planets recent golden boy. The only reporter that seems to always land an interview with this city's hero, Superman. He is also the current reason there's a new throbbing headache brewing in you. At least that's what you tell yourself as it's easier to blame him than to blame work.

Clark opens his mouth, ready to reply but your attention is stolen for a second as someone from forensics walks up to you and hands you a piece of paper.

As you read the words on the paper, you can feel Clark's stare. “Crap,” you whispered, hoping Clark couldn’t hear you. You didn’t want to give anything away to the media. You couldn’t. The murders in Central City were brutal. It was already hard keeping the media out of what you had going on at home, if this murder was connected, it was going to be even harder.

Metropolis did not want the public to panic. They’ve already been dealing with other out of this world things, a murderer on the loose would just bring worse things to the table.

“Is it that bad?” Clark sees the frustration on your face, even with him almost fifty feet away.

You hand the paper back to forensics, finally turning your attention to the reporter, “You know I can't tell you anything about this case goldilocks.” It’s a new nickname you came up with for him after some other officers showed you all of the prints from the daily planet with his name on them. You had asked them who he was after being ambushed by him in a coffee shop your first day here.

“Come on,” Clark huffed, his eyes showing a little desperation in them as he watched you approach him, “Perry wants something written about this case on his desk by this afternoon and if I don’t give him something, I'm going to be put in sports.”

“Oh geez,” You winced, “not the sports column.” You had no actual pity for him. Let him suffer writing sports for a few days. It would give you some peace and quiet.

“You know I hate writing about sports.”

“Right,” You nodded your head, doubt clearly written on your face. You were sure this guy played quarterback in high school. There’s no way he didn’t like sports. “as if i’m supposed to care.”

Clark knew he wasn't going to get anything out of you, so he decided to move on. "Here." He held out the coffee cup, the one he had been holding for a while now, and hoped you accepted his peace offering.

"Bribery?" You blinked at the cup in surprise, "I expected better from you Clark."

"What?" Clark could feel the heat creep up his neck. "No! It's- this isn't a bribe or.... anything," He hesitated as he glanced down to the cup in his hand and back up to the look on your face. You looked like you were losing your patience with him, which, truth be told, you kind of were since you are on the job. "I still feel bad about the coffee incident the other day."

Coffee incident? What coffee.... oh. That coffee. The one coffee you wanted to enjoy your first day in the city before the warfare of this case started. You were excited to try it. It was a new Jitters coffee shop that had just opened in Metropolis a few months back. Your brother recommended it, saying it was so much better than the one in Central City so of course you wanted to try it.

What you weren’t prepared for was for this guy, all six feet of him, to knock straight into you, spilling your coffee and the three he had in his hands all over you. None of it got on him and it pissed you off.

“Oh geez! I’m so sorry!” He at least did look sorry, but you didn’t care. You just had four cups of coffee dumped all over you and you weren’t wearing that black shirt you had originally planned to wear. No, you decided today would be a good day to wear white. White blouse with a navy blazer and navy slacks. The coffee was definitely noticeable.

You took a deep breath to calm yourself down, taking a glance at your watch and seeing that your spare ten minutes were up and you had to get to the Metropolis station asap to be informed on more case details, “I really don’t have time to deal with this right now.”

“Well ca- can i buy you another coffee at least?” he said, turning back quickly to grab a handful of napkins the barista handed him. He leaned forward, his arm out ready to try to clean your shirt before realizing he was going to touch you and you might see it as inappropriate, which you did.

You could see his cheeks begin to burn, embarrassment clearly written on his face, "no thanks, im late for work.” you grab the napkins from his hands and turn, heading straight for the door.

You thought that would be the end of it.

You figured he’d leave it at that, chalk it up to one of those awkward moments that people like to forget and never bring up again. You even told yourself he probably had a thousand other stories to chase, a dozen more people to bump into, and not enough time in the day to keep orbiting you.

You were wrong.

Clark Kent is persistent — annoyingly so. The kind of persistent that doesn't come with loud knocking or raised voices, but quiet check-ins, inconveniently timed coffee drop-offs, and that impossibly earnest look that says he cares, even if you didn’t ask him to.

Which brings you back to now.

You’re still holding the coffee he just gave you. It’s warm in your hands, and despite your better judgment, it smells really good. He got your order right. You didn’t even tell him what you liked. You narrow your eyes at the cup suspiciously.

“You ask someone?” you ask, half-playful, half-accusatory.

Clark shrugs with that annoyingly casual way he does everything, hands tucked in his coat pockets. “Just overheard one of your guys talking. Said you go heavy on cinnamon. Figured it was worth a shot.”

You glance back at the scene behind you — the stark white walls of the apartment now marked with evidence tape and chalk outlines. The sterile smell of bleach fighting to cover the coppery tang in the air. You’re

reminded of why you’re really here. Of why you can’t let him distract you.

And yet…

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you. Not like a reporter. Not like a man trying to sell a story.

Like someone who knows something. Or maybe someone who's trying not to say something.

You don’t like that.

“Alright,” you mutter, “you’ve got two minutes, Kent. You want something. Spit it out.”

Clark lifts a brow, like he wasn’t expecting you to crack.

“You’re connecting this to Central City,” he says quietly.

Your jaw tenses. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You feel your stomach twist. You’ve been careful — careful not to say too much, careful not to link the cases out loud, careful not to light the match before you know what you’re burning. But he’s sharper than you gave him credit for. Maybe he’s not just some pretty face with a press badge.

“Look,” he continues, voice low, like he knows not to push too hard, “I’m not trying to get ahead of you. I’m not trying to print anything that’ll jeopardize your case. But I am trying to help.”

You raise a skeptical brow. “And what exactly could you do to help, Goldilocks?”

He smiles — just a little. That half-smile that makes you want to roll your eyes and also punch him in the arm for being so damn sure of himself.

“I talk to people you don’t. I see things you might miss. That coffee shop you stormed out of your first day?

There was a guy sitting in the corner with a city planning file open. That same guy was outside the building today when we pulled up. Didn’t have a camera. Didn’t have a badge. Just… stood there. Watching.”

Your fingers tighten around the coffee cup.

“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” you ask.

“Because I didn’t want to seem like I was interfering. You’ve got this whole… lone-wolf-don’t-mess-with-me energy.”

You scowl.

He smiles wider.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes searching yours, “you’re looking for a knot, right? Maybe you’ve been tugging at the wrong end.”

You don’t answer right away. Your brain is already pulling threads together. A guy with city planning files. A repeat face. Someone who knew where to be — and when.

A chill slides down your spine.

Clark sees it.

“You recognize the guy,” he says, quiet now. Almost careful.

You nod slowly.

You do.

Because you have seen him before.

In a surveillance photo.

Central City.

The second murder.

You turn back toward the crime scene — toward the taped-off room and the shell of a life left behind in blood and copper. Your coffee is forgotten, your pulse kicking up.

You’ve got something now. A name to chase. A face to find.

And unfortunately… you might need help chasing it.

You turn to Clark, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free.

“Okay,” you say, voice low, steady. “You want your story?”

He perks up instantly, the shift in his expression subtle but unmistakable — a flicker of hope, of curiosity, of something that looks too close to relief.

“You’re coming with me to Central City.”

His eyes widen, brows lifting like you’ve just handed him a golden ticket. “What—? Really?”

You nod once, firm. “But you don’t get to publish a single word. Not until I say.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he wants to smile but knows better. “Deal.”

You step past him, the hallway of the crime scene behind you cold and suffocating. You don’t look back until you’re nearly at the stairwell. When you do, he’s still standing there, processing, stunned that you actually invited him into the eye of the storm. And maybe a little scared of what that means.

Good.

He should be.

Because you’re not bringing him along for the ride. You’re bringing him into the fire. And once you get back to Central City, there’s no more comfort of clean lines and polite interviews. There’s rot underneath the streets of your city — rot you've been trying to dig out for months, and now it’s found its way here.

You need to end this before it spreads further.

You take the stairs two at a time. The moment your feet hit the concrete outside, the night air greets you, sharp and biting. The city's lights paint the sidewalk gold, but everything feels dimmer. He follows a few steps behind, close enough that you can feel the weight of his presence.

“I’m driving,” you say as you unlock the car.

“Wasn’t going to argue,” Clark replies. He slides into the passenger seat like someone trained to follow orders — or someone who knows when they’re in over their head.

You don’t speak for the first few minutes on the road. Your thoughts are a whirlwind — images, reports, names, timelines, and now this new face. The man from the coffee shop. From the second crime scene. From the shadows. You’ve been pulling at threads for weeks, and finally, finally, something is tugging back.

“Have you ever been to Central City?” you ask, eyes on the road.

“Once,” Clark says, his voice softer now. “Briefly. Didn’t get to see much.”

“You’re about to,” you mutter. “Hope you brought a jacket.”

He chuckles, and it irritates you that it actually makes you want to smile. You don’t. Not yet.

You flick on the turn signal, merging onto the highway.

You don’t tell him what you’re really thinking — that maybe the killer isn’t done, that maybe there's another name already lined up. You don’t say how tired you are, or how the walls are closing in, or how this whole damn case is starting to feel personal.

But you do say this:

“Clark?”

He glances at you.

“If you step out of line — if you endanger my case, or yourself — I will leave you on the side of the road.”

You don’t wait for a reply.

You just keep driving

[wallowingselfpity]

summary: there's a new photographer in the city of metropolis and clark kent is determined to find out why the hell this kid thinks its okay to climb super tall buildings for pictures of superman while all peter parker is trying to do is pay his rent.

word count: 4076

authors note: i swear im writing my other clark fics but i had to get this one out dont hate me!! but i loved this idea from @rustedachilles and i just had to write something for these two cause yes they would be besties even with the age difference im sure of it!! anyways detective!reader x clark kent is coming next so be ready! lmk if yall want a part two to this as well cause i might have something planned.

Peter Parker sat in the back of a rattling bus, hunched beneath the weight of a worn backpack, his hoodie pulled up over his head despite the late summer heat. Outside the scratched window, the towering skyline of Metropolis rose like a city of tomorrow—cleaner, shinier, and somehow colder than New York. It wasn’t the chaotic patchwork of Queens or the familiar chaos of Manhattan. Everything here seemed more pristine, more polished. Like a movie set.

Peter wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

It had been three months since he left New York behind. Three months since the funeral. Since the battle that shattered Midtown and tore apart what little normalcy he had left. Aunt May was gone. MJ was… gone too, in a different way. And Ned—well, Ned couldn’t even remember who Peter was. The spell had worked. Too well.

Now he was truly alone.

He didn’t come to Metropolis for adventure or heroics. He came because it was far enough away to disappear. He needed space. He needed a life that wasn’t always gasping for air between battles and broken hearts.

Peter’s eyes scanned the passing buildings of the streets he has grown familiar with now. It had only really taken him two weeks to grow a routine. Wake up, eat something from his fridge that hasn't expired ( although most days he went without eating anything because his fridge was almost always empty ), try to find some work, which became a new step to his routine recently after getting fired from this pizza place a few blocks down after showing up late, again.

“Next stop, Docksider Avenue.”

The bus hissed as it came to a stop, the doors squealing open with a tired groan. Peter stepped off onto the cracked sidewalk, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. His feet moved on instinct now—past the boarded-up pawn shop, past the dented mailbox with peeling stickers, and finally to the rusted gate of his apartment building.

Peter buzzed the front door even though the lock was already broken. A tired buzz echoed back, and he pushed it open with his shoulder. The building smelled like damp carpet, mold, and takeout containers that had missed trash day. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead in the hallway, casting everything in a pale, sickly glow.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, avoiding the third step, which creaked like it was one cough away from collapse. His apartment—Unit 3C—was at the end of the hall. The door had been painted over a dozen times, but the paint always chipped off, revealing the layers beneath. He slid the key in, wiggled it just right, and gave the door a hip-check until it finally gave way.

The apartment greeted him with silence. No hum of a roommate’s TV. No May asking about his day. Just the quiet hiss of the radiator and the muffled sound of the city outside.

A mattress sat on the floor in one corner, sheets hastily thrown over it. His camera bag sat next to a secondhand desk, cluttered with memory cards and loose change. A half-eaten sandwich from yesterday waited on a chipped plate by the sink. The fridge hummed in protest as he opened it—two eggs, a bottle of ketchup, and half a gallon of milk. Expired.

Peter sighed and closed it.

He dropped his bag on the bed and toed off his sneakers, sinking down onto the mattress with a quiet grunt.

The springs creaked under him. He rubbed his face with both hands, the weight of the day settling into his bones.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t home.

But it was something. For now.

And in his world, that had to be enough.

Unfortunately , it wasn’t.

Not when Peter was already three days late on rent and had only managed to come up with half.

As he walks up the steps to his apartment, Peter’s thoughts are running around, trying to come up with ways to get the rest of his rent so he’s not kicked out and in the streets.

Peter had just reached his door when he heard the unmistakable jingle of keys and the heavy, deliberate footsteps of Mr. Gallo, his landlord.

“Parker,” came the gruff voice behind him.

Peter winced and turned around slowly, already fishing into his backpack. “Hey, Mr. Gallo. I was actually hoping I’d see you.”

Mr. Gallo was built like an aging boxer—broad-shouldered, thick forearms, and a permanent scowl carved into his stubbled face. He wore a shirt two sizes too small and smelled vaguely of cigars and floor cleaner.

“You got my money?” Gallo asked, arms crossed.

Peter pulled a folded envelope from his bag and handed it over. It was noticeably thin.

“That’s... half,” Peter admitted. “I’m working on getting the rest. I picked up some freelance photography work downtown. I just need a few more days.”

Gallo slid a finger under the envelope flap, flipped through the bills inside, and grunted. “Freelance, huh? That’s a fancy word for 'no paycheck yet.’”

Peter gave a weak smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Gallo stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he handed the envelope back.

“Listen, kid. I’ve got three units with busted heat and a leaking roof over 2B. I’m not running a charity. You want to stay in 3C, I need the rest by Friday.”

“Friday. Got it. I will. I promise,” Peter said quickly, nodding like it might make the cash materialize faster.

Gallo narrowed his eyes. “I like you, Parker. Quiet, don’t throw parties, don’t bring weirdos around. But the rent don’t care if you're a nice guy. Friday, or I post the notice.”

He turned and started back down the hallway, muttering something about “damn artists” and “freelancers.”

Peter watched him go, then slipped into his apartment and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

He leaned against it for a moment, sighing. The half-empty fridge hummed in the background, mocking him.

Friday was four days away.

Time to suit up.

Time to be Spider-Man again.

Standing under the towering skyline of Metropolis, Peter felt a gnawing uncertainty. The city was shinier, quieter—cleaner, even. It didn’t have that grimy New York edge. Didn't have what Peter was used to seeing everyday but that's what he signed up for. Something new. Something bigger than himself. But most of all, it already had a hero.

Superman.

That was the problem.

Peter figured he’d start simple. Do what he knows. Peter crouched in the shadowed edge of a rooftop, just above the Narrows in Hob’s Bay, adjusting the settings on his camera. Wind tugged at the red and blue fabric of his suit beneath the hoodie he hadn’t fully zipped. His mask was rolled up to his nose, revealing only his mouth and chin, just enough to keep him breathing without fogging up the lens.

This part of Metropolis wasn’t in the tourist brochures. Down below, alleys twisted like mazes between shipping containers and crumbling brick buildings. Steam coiled from sewer grates. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a siren wailed and faded.

Peter pulled the mask down, zipped up the hoodie, and web to the side of a nearby crane. He perched there for a moment, surveying the street below.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Just need something… something classic. Web-slinging, wall-crawling, maybe a dramatic silhouette. No pressure.”

He set the camera to timed burst mode and webbed it to a lamp post across the street, aiming it carefully. He’d done this dance before in New York—pose, snap, move, repeat. Back then, it was second nature. But here, under the unfamiliar skyline, it felt strange. Like he was performing for a crowd that hadn’t even noticed him yet.

He took a deep breath, shot a web to the side of a brick warehouse, and swung.

Click-click-click.

Three shots caught him mid-air, legs curled, arm extended.

He landed, pivoted, and ran full speed toward a nearby wall. He leapt, stuck, and climbed—fast. The camera fired again.

Click-click-click.

Backflip off the edge. Twist. Land in a three-point crouch on a fire escape.

Click.

“Still got it,” he whispered, grinning beneath the mask.

But it wasn’t just about poses. He needed action. Something real.

Almost on cue, a shout echoed down the alley.

“Hey! Get back here!”

Peter turned in time to see two figures sprinting out of a bodega—one with a bulging backpack slung over his shoulder, the other a clerk chasing them, waving a flashlight and yelling.

Spider-Man was moving before his brain even finished the thought. He launched off the fire escape and swung low, closing the distance fast. The thief veered down a narrow side street. Peter banked hard, planted a webline on a dumpster, and slingshotted himself forward.

The camera caught it all from above, still snapping.

He landed directly in front of the thief, who skidded to a halt, wide-eyed.

“Hey, do you have a moment to talk about our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?” Peter quipped, tilting his head.

The guy turned to run the other way, but a web snapped out and caught his ankle mid-step. He crashed to the pavement, hard.

Peter casually walked over, webbed the stolen bag to a nearby post, and turned toward the camera with a perfect over-the-shoulder hero pose.

Click.

A minute later, he had the thief zip-tied and a quick note webbed to his chest: “Property returned. Guy's fine. — Spidey”

By the time the police arrived, Spider-Man was already swinging away, high above the rooftops, retracing his way to the lamp post where the camera waited.

He plucked it down gently, checking the preview screen.

Perfect arcs. Crisp action. Clear face shadows—just enough to be mysterious, not enough to ID. He even caught a dramatic flare of lightning in one of the shots.

Peter grinned under the mask. He slung the camera back into his bag, zipped up his hoodie, and vanished into the skyline.

Peter tightened the straps on his backpack, heart thudding as he stood in front of the towering glass doors of The Daily Planet. The spinning globe above the entrance gleamed in the morning sun like a golden promise. He stepped inside, swallowed by the hum of voices, the rhythmic clacking of keyboards, and the faint aroma of burnt coffee and ink.

He waited at the front desk, awkwardly fidgeting while a receptionist finished a phone call.

"Can I help you?" she asked, barely looking up.

"Uh, yeah. I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Perry White? I’ve got some freelance photography I think he might want to see."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, ma’am.”

The receptionist studied him for a moment before picking up her phone. Peter tried not to shift too much, though his palms were already starting to sweat.

Minutes later, he stood in the editor’s cramped office, photos spread across the desk like trading cards.

“These are pictures of... Spider-Man?” Perry asked, squinting at one.

“Yeah,” Peter said, smiling. “Caught him this morning. I figured with a new hero in town, maybe—”

“I’ve got a new intern who takes better phone pictures than this,” Perry grunted. “You want to sell photos? Bring me Superman. That’s the story. That’s what sells papers in this town. Spider-guy... bug-man... whatever—no one's paying attention to that when Superman's out there saving the world every other Tuesday.”

Peter stood silently, a warm feeling taking over his ears as he's hit with rejection.

“Close the door on your way out, son,” Perry added without looking up.

Peter walked out of the office, head down, photos clutched in hand. He was halfway down the bullpen, eyes on the photos, mentally cataloguing which shots might look better with tighter crops, when—bam—he collided with someone broad and solid.

The photos flew from his arms, fanning out across the glossy floor like oversized playing cards.

“Oh, man—sorry, sorry!” Peter said quickly, dropping to his knees.

“No, that was my fault, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the man said in a warm, steady voice as he knelt down too.

Their hands reached for the same photo—Peter’s favorite one: Spider-Man swinging against the Metropolis skyline. Their eyes met, and Peter blinked.

He recognized the face instantly. Clark Kent. The tie, the glasses, the ever-so-slightly crooked posture meant to downplay a frame that could stop a truck. He looked exactly like the articles he’d read—and like the Daily Planet press badge swinging from his collar.

Clark smiled politely, handing Peter the photo. “This is... actually really good. You took these?”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean, yeah—I did. Thanks.”

Clark flipped through a few more prints. “You’ve got a real sense of movement. Composition too. These tell a story.”

Peter chuckled lightly. “Appreciate that. Not that it matters much. They’re not Superman.”

Clark looked up at that, head tilting. “Superman’s not always easy to catch on camera.”

Peter shrugged. “Neither is Spider-Man.”

Clark extended a hand. “Clark Kent. Reporter.”

Peter shook it. “Peter Parker. Freelance.”

Clark’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Freelance photographer?”

“Yep. Mostly city stuff, street shots. Action, when I can get it. Pays... okay. Well. Barely. Honestly, today was my first real break in a while.”

Clark glanced toward Perry’s office and nodded. “I get it. Breaking in here isn’t easy.”

He hesitated for a beat, then asked, “Would you be interested in taking a few photos of Superman for me? I’ve been covering a few stories lately, and my usual photographer is tied up with some international assignments.”

Peter blinked. “You want me to take pictures of Superman?”

Clark smiled. “You’ve clearly got the reflexes for action shots. And the eye.”

Peter hesitated, fidgeting slightly. “I mean... yeah, definitely, I’d love to. But I’d have to... y’know... be paid for it.”

Clark laughed gently, the sound calm and genuine. “Of course. This isn’t charity work—I get a photo budget for assignments. You’ll get your rate.”

Peter’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “Okay then. Yeah. I’m in.”

Clark took a small notepad from his pocket and scribbled down an address and time. “Superman’s going to be helping with a rescue op near the West River industrial zone this afternoon. Nothing huge—at least, not yet. But you might get a few good shots of him in flight or lifting something that shouldn't be liftable.”

Peter nodded, mentally calculating battery life and lens options. “Got it. What kind of shots are you looking for, exactly?”

Clark gestured broadly. “Mid-action stuff. Heroic angles. Flight, strength, clarity—something that shows hope. If you can capture the humanity behind the cape, even better.”

Peter was already thinking through possible rooftops. “Yeah... yeah, I can do that.”

Clark adjusted his glasses, voice lowering slightly. “Just be careful. Superman’s rescue ops can go from calm to chaos in about half a second.”

Peter nodded again but only half heard him. His thoughts were already spinning: light balance, shutter speeds, timing. Superman. In flight.

He didn’t notice the way Clark gave him one more lingering glance, eyes narrowing ever so slightly in quiet curiosity.

“See you there,” Clark said with a smile before disappearing back into the bullpen.

Peter stood there a moment, blinking, photos in hand, heart racing again.

Superman photos.

Paid gig.

Byline next to Clark Kent.

This city might just work out after all.

The wind off the West River carried the scent of burning rubber and rusted metal as Peter Parker walked through the industrial zone. Rusted shipping containers lined the cracked concrete.

The place looked abandoned, but that morning, Clark Kent had said it would be the site of a Superman-led rescue op—some kind of cleanup operation after a chemical spill caused by a malfunctioning LexCorp drone truck.

Peter wore a faded jacket over a shirt he thrifted the other day, camera bag slung across his shoulder. He’d already webbed up three cameras to different high vantage points—one strapped to a busted security pole, another fixed beneath a twisted scaffolding beam, and a third nestled in a rusted-out window frame across the yard.

Each one pointed toward the active zone, set to timed bursts with motion triggers.

The wind picked up. Peter zipped up his jacket and squinted into the distance.

“Come on, Big Blue,” he muttered. “Anytime now.”

And then—a boom.

Concrete exploded across the lot, sending chunks of debris sailing like shrapnel. A massive mechanical arm burst through the side of a nearby warehouse, followed by the rest of its body—a hulking, reinforced LexCorp exo-loader, clearly hacked or malfunctioning. Sparks flew from its joints, and the red glow in its visor pulsed like it was scanning for something—or someone—to crush.

Peter dropped behind a container, eyes brows furrowed in confusion. “Guess it’s not just a cleanup after all.”

A sonic crack split the air as Superman arrived, landing in a blur of blue and red between the loader and a trapped group of workers huddled near a toppled forklift. His cape whipped behind him as his eyes glowed with heat vision, warning shots blazing into the air.

Peter's cameras started firing in rapid bursts.

“Perfect,” he whispered, heart pounding.

He webbed to a nearby platform for a better vantage point, angling his lens just right. Superman moved fast—one moment shielding the workers, the next grabbing a support beam and redirecting the falling loader arm like it was nothing but cardboard.

Then, mid-action, Superman’s head snapped toward Peter.

Before Peter could react, Superman was right there, landing next to him with a gust of wind and concern etched across his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Superman said firmly, eyes scanning the area behind Peter. “This thing’s targeting anyone moving. You need to leave. Now.”

“I was just—” Peter started, half-raising his camera.

Superman held up a hand. “No photo’s worth your life, okay? Go home. It’s not safe out here right now.”

Peter blinked, “Right. Totally. Going. Home.”

Superman gave him a quick nod, then rocketed back into the fray before Peter could even finish pretending to leave.

Peter waited a beat, then turned back.

"I'm not missing this shot."

He sprinted low and fast, ducking behind a crumbling wall and switching to a telephoto lens. The loader was swinging wildly now, tearing into the side of a building, and Superman was locked in a blur of counterattacks—dodging, shielding, protecting.

Peter snapped shots between bursts of motion—Superman mid-punch, lifting a fallen beam, catching a runaway truck with one hand.

Then the loader's head turned.

Toward Peter.

A flash of red light sparked from its chest port. A blast fired—loud, fast, uncontrolled.

Peter leapt backward, webbed up, and flipped—but not fast enough. The edge of the blast caught his side mid-air and sent him tumbling into a pile of metal debris.

Pain exploded in his ribs as he landed hard.

“Okay,” Peter groaned, gasping. “That’s... fair. That’s what I get.”

He lay there for a moment, checking to make sure nothing was broken. His shoulder screamed in protest.

Still, the camera was somehow still intact, cradled in his arms like an egg.

“That’s gonna be a good one,” he whispered through gritted teeth, before crawling to a safer corner.

An hour later, Peter was back in his apartment, ice pack pressed to his ribs, bandage on his forehead and laptop glowing in the dark.

The photos were incredible.

Superman mid-air with debris exploding behind him. Superman lifting the loader’s arm with workers scrambling to safety. Superman pausing mid-flight to glance off-frame—probably toward him.

Peter couldn’t help smiling. These weren’t just action shots. They were stories.

He clicked through them, curating, touching up lighting here and there. He couldn’t wait to show Clark.

Though, come to think of it... he hadn’t seen Clark anywhere at the site.

Not once.

Peter paused, tapping a key idly. Clark had said he’d be there, hadn’t he?

He frowned slightly, made a mental note of it... then shrugged it off.

"Probably got tied up somewhere."

Still, as he saved the final photo set and leaned back with a satisfied sigh, a small grin tugged at his lips.

Superman might’ve told him to go home... but Peter Parker got the shot.

And he was definitely getting paid.

The next morning, Peter stood in front of the towering globe above the Daily Planet, clutching a manila envelope tight against his chest.

A breeze tugged at the edge of the bandage on his forehead, reminding him with a dull throb of just how close things had gotten yesterday. He’d cleaned the cut, patched it up, and decided it looked better than the bruise on his ribs felt.

But none of that mattered.

Not right now.

Because inside that envelope were the best pictures he’d taken in months—maybe ever. Action shots of Superman that looked like they’d been pulled straight out of a blockbuster. Heroic, sharp, intense. The kind of work that could land him a real freelance contract. Maybe even a front page.

Peter practically floated through the Planet’s bullpen, dodging coffee runs and half-shouted edits. He spotted Clark at his desk, typing something methodically, glasses slightly down his nose. He looked calm. Focused.

Peter approached with a smile so wide it almost hurt.

“Morning, Mr. Kent,” he said, dropping the envelope gently onto the desk. “Got plenty for you to choose from.”

Clark looked up. “Peter—hey.”

Peter peeled the flap back and fanned out a few prints, spreading them across the desk. “There’s about two dozen in here. I sorted them by angle and lighting, but honestly? They’re all solid. You’ve got Superman mid-lift, shielding people, fighting off that—whatever that thing was. The lighting in the warehouse collapse one? Unreal.”

Clark’s eyes moved from the photos to Peter’s forehead. His brow furrowed. “You alright?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Clark tapped the corner of one of the photos. “You’re hurt.”

Peter self-consciously reached up, brushing the bandage. “Oh. Yeah. It’s nothing. Just caught a bit of the blast. But the shot I got right after? Worth it.”

Clark's jaw tightened as he continued flipping through the photos. The shots were incredible—no denying that.

But they were close. Too close.

Most had been taken from dangerous angles—under crumbling scaffolding, within feet of explosions, almost in Superman’s line of fire.

Clark looked up again, this time more sternly. “Did you even hear me when I told you to stay back? To be safe?”

Peter’s smile faded. “I—I was careful.”

“Peter,” Clark said, voice calm but firm, “these are the kinds of pictures someone gets right before they end up in a hospital bed.”

Peter flushed and looked down. “You asked for action shots.”

“I asked for shots,” Clark said, holding up one of the photos. “Not a suicide mission. I told you it could get dangerous, and you still ran toward it.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “I got the photos you wanted.”

“I didn’t want you hurt.”

Peter stepped back, frustration rising in his chest like a swell. “Why do you even care? You weren’t there. You said you would be.”

Clark's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

Peter bit his tongue but couldn’t stop the words. “You’re sitting here telling me what’s too risky while you didn’t even show up. I was out there alone, trying to make rent, trying to give you exactly what you asked for.”

Clark didn’t answer at first. He just looked at Peter with something that wasn’t anger... but wasn’t soft, either.

“I don’t feel comfortable using these,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Not if you got hurt taking them.”

Peter felt the air go out of his lungs. “But they’re good,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “They’re really good.”

“They are,” Clark said. “But a few cool photos aren’t worth your life. Not to me.”

Peter could feel the pressure behind his eyes. His throat burned. He looked down at the photos, now scattered across the desk—bright, sharp, perfect... and suddenly completely useless.

He swallowed hard and nodded once.

“Thanks for the chance,” he said, voice brittle.

Clark started to say something else, but Peter turned, already moving toward the door.

He left the photos behind.

He didn’t look back.

And as the elevator doors closed behind him, Peter stared at his reflection—at the tired eyes, at the bruised pride, at the bandage that suddenly felt like it meant more than a scratch.

This city was supposed to be a fresh start.

But somehow, it felt just like home.

[wallowingselfpity]

clark kent x reader but its kind of sort of inspired by 27 dresses??? 🙂‍↔️✨🙂‍↔️

[zannolin]

damn i wish u guys could read this fic i haven't written and this fic i haven't finished writing and this fic i'm putting off outlining and this fic i outlined but haven't started and this fic i'll never write and this other fic i haven't written and this fic that exists only in vague impressions in my head that fall apart every time i try to commit them to the page and th

[wallowingselfpity]

me with the clark kent fic but i have half of it written

[zerozerozio]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[boimann]

reblog to let people know it's ok to bother you with questions and statements