blair ❀

“..and then i had this interaction ꨄ︎

𑁤 blair’s navigation ..! sheher, 18, bi, clark kent lvr

۶ৎ superman , spiderman , ariana , catwoman , dc

masterlist | req : open | spotify

↳ rules

clark kent x journalist!reader • wc : 3,789 • playing : stateside

synopsis : You’re the Gotham Gazette’s sharpest investigative reporter—you’ve got the ink under your fingernails and the cynicism to match. When your tight-lipped boss, Tim, drags the whole office to Metropolis for a "Journalism Ethics" conference at the Daily Planet, you expect a week of boredom and bright lights. What you didn't expect was Clark Kent.

warnings/tags : angst, fluff, meetcue, alcohol mention, y/n used, SMUTT MDNI 18+ (small make out, size kink, brief handjob, pussyjob, dom!clark, dom!reader, fingering, oral,)

reader warnings/tags : fem reader, reader has freckles, physically able.

blair’s message : hiii!! before you throw tomatoes, i’m so sorry i haven’t been active. it was recently my birthday and i went on a long trip and .. totally forgot about making fics. so to celebrate my return, here’s smut! it’s my first time writing smut so i apologize if it’s bad. thank yeww. (also finished heated rivalry, THAT SHIT WAS SO GOOD OH EM GEE)

The air in Gotham didn't just sit; it clung. It tasted like iron, exhaust, and the kind of secrets that only came out after midnight. You liked it that way.

You adjusted the strap of your leather satchel, weaving through the morning crowd outside the Gotham Gazette. You weren’t just a reporter; you were a shark in a blazer. With your hair tucked neatly behind your ears and your dark eyes scanning the headlines on the kiosks, you looked exactly like what you were: someone who knew where the bodies were buried and exactly which politician had the shovel.

You pushed through the heavy revolving doors, three minutes behind schedule. Not that you cared. You’d been up until 4:00 AM chasing a lead on the Falcone family’s latest money-laundering front.

“Y/N.”

The voice was like a dry radiator. You didn't even have to look up to know it was Tim, your editor. He was a man who looked like he’d been folded into a suit three sizes too small and hadn't smiled since the 90s.

"You're late," Tim says, his voice like sandpaper. He doesn't look at his watch; he doesn't have to.

"I was chasing a lead on the Crane shipment," you counter, not breaking your stride as you set your bag down. "The dockyards don't run on a clock, Tim."

Tim’s eyes narrow slightly as he hands you a heavy manila folder. "Forget the docks for a second. Let me explain this to you. Tomorrow we are going to Metropolis to have a conference with the Daily Planet."

You blink, the word hitting you like a physical weight. "Uhm, what?"

"The Daily Planet is hosting a conference on global journalism ethics," Tim says, his expression turning uncharacteristically thoughtful—which usually means he’s thinking about the budget. "And we're sending our best reporters to represent the Gotham City Gazette."

He pauses, leaning over your desk. "Which means you're going."

"Metropolis?" Your brain short-circuits for a second. "Tim, I’m in the middle of the dockyards investigation. Why am I going to the city of sunshine? They don't even have crime over there, they just have... cats in trees and guys in capes."

Tim scoffs, already turning on his heel. "Don’t care. Pack when you get home. The whole office is going."

"But—"

"Pack a bag," he barks over his shoulder. "Try to look like you haven't been living in a warehouse for a month."

You sink into your chair, staring at the folder. You catch your reflection in the darkened computer screen—the light dusting of freckles across your nose makes you look softer than you feel, a "cute" trait you’ve spent years trying to overcompensate for with a sharp tongue and a sharper pen.

"Metropolis," you mutter to yourself, tossing the folder onto your desk. "This is going to be a long, miserable trip."

———-

The next morning, the Gotham Gazette team looked like a funeral procession as you stepped off the bus in front of the Daily Planet. The building was all glass and gold, topped with that massive, rotating globe that seemed to scream, “Look how optimistic we are!”

Tim, your boss, adjusted his tie with a grimace. "Try not to bite anyone," he whispered to the group. "We’re here for ethics, not to start a turf war."

You rolled your eyes, adjusted your blazer, and stepped through the revolving doors. The lobby was humming. It was too bright, too clean, and everyone looked... happy? It was suspicious.

“Gazette team? This way," a voice calls out.

You turn, expecting some stiff corporate type. Instead, you see him.

Clark Kent.

He’s huge—wide shoulders that barely fit in a suit that’s seen better days, with a jawline that looks like it belongs on a coin. He looks like he’s never had a bad day in his life. He’s leaning against a desk, adjusting his glasses, looking every bit the "Golden Boy" of the industry.

"Welcome to the Planet," he says, stepping forward. His voice is a warm, steady baritone that grates on your nerves instantly. He extends a hand. "I’m Clark. I’ve followed your work on the Narrows redevelopment. It was... gritty."

You don't take his hand immediately. You scan him—from the perfectly messy hair down to the polished shoes. "Gritty is a nice word for 'real,' Kent. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of 'real' over here. Too much sun, probably."

He doesn't flinch. In fact, his eyes—a blue so clear it feels like an insult to Gotham’s gray—crinkle at the corners. He notices the way you’re bristling, and he definitely notices the light dusting of freckles on your nose that you’ve spent all morning trying to hide with powder.

"I think we'll get along just fine," he says, his voice dropping an octave, a small, challenging smirk tugging at his lips. "Even if you are determined to hate the weather."

———-

The first seminar is a drag. You're sitting in the back, leaning your chair against the wall, when the seat next to you is claimed.

Clark sits down, his frame taking up twice the space of a normal human. He sets a coffee in front of you. Black. No steam.

"I saw you eyeing the machine. It’s tricky," he whispers.

"I don't need a tour guide, Kent," you mutter, though you take the cup. "And I definitely don't need a rival paper’s star reporter hovering over my notes."

"Rivalry? Is that what this is?" He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours. The heat coming off him is distracting. He looks down at your notebook, where you've scribbled 'Optimism is a blindfold' in the margins.

He reaches over, his large, warm hand briefly steadying your pen as you go to cross it out. "Don't. It's a good line. A bit cynical, but... it suits you."

You pull your hand back, your heart doing a weird, sharp thud against your ribs. "You don't know me."

"I'd like to," he says, and for the first time, the "Boy Scout" mask slips. There’s something sharp in his gaze, something that suggests he’s a lot more observant than he lets on. "I have a feeling this week is going to be a lot less boring than you planned."

———

The hotel bar in Metropolis is exactly what you expected: overpriced, smells like expensive gin, and filled with reporters from the Planet acting like they just won a gold medal for existing.

You’re sitting in a corner booth, hunched over a legal pad, trying to make sense of your dockyard notes while ignoring the soft jazz playing in the background. You’ve got a scotch in your hand that cost more than your first car, and you’re still wearing your blazer because the air conditioning is set to "arctic."

"watcha doing?"

You don't even have to look up to know it’s him. The air in a five-foot radius around Clark Kent just feels... warmer. He slides into the booth opposite you without waiting for an invite, looking entirely too comfortable for someone you’ve known for six hours. He’s ditched the tie, and the top button of his shirt is undone.

"Go away, Kent. I’m working," you mutter, not lifting your pen.

"It’s 9:00 PM. The conference doesn't start again until ten," he says, leaning back. He’s so big the booth actually creaks under him. He sets a glass of water down next to your scotch. "And you look like you’re about to bite the head off the next person who asks you for a quote."

"Only if that person is you." You finally look up, meeting those infuriatingly steady blue eyes. "What do you want? Come to gloat about your Pulitzer? Or are you here to tell me my 'Gotham grit' is showing again?"

Clark leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. The clumsy vibe is still there, but there’s an edge to his expression now—a challenge.

"I’m here because I think you’re bored," he says softly. "And because I think you’re hiding behind that notebook so you don't have to admit you’re actually enjoying yourself in a city that doesn't smell like a tailpipe."

"I'm not bored. I'm focused," you snap. You reach for your drink, but he moves faster, his large hand gently catching your wrist.

His skin is hot. Not just warm—hot. The contact sends a jolt through you that has nothing to do with the alcohol. You freeze, staring at his hand where it circles your wrist, his thumb resting right over your pulse.

"Your heart is racing," he observes, his voice dropping to a low, rough hum. "Is that the scotch, or are you just that annoyed by me?"

"I'm annoyed," you lie, your voice slightly breathy. "You’re a distraction, Clark. I don't do distractions. Especially not from rival papers."

He doesn't let go. Instead, he shifts his grip, his fingers sliding down to lace through yours, pinning your hand to the table. It’s an assertive move, one that doesn't fit the clumsy reporter persona he wears in the office.

"I'm not a distraction," he says, leaning in until you can smell the mint on his breath and that clean, ozone scent that seems to follow him everywhere. "I’m your competition. And if I were you, I’d be very worried about what happens when the competition starts getting... personal."

He glances down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, his gaze lingering on the freckles across your cheeks.

"You've got a bit of Gotham on you, alright," he whispers. "But I think I might like the dark. It makes the light look better."

You pull your hand away, your skin tingling where he touched you. "You’re a lot more dangerous than you look, aren't you?"

Clark just grins—that slow, devastatingly handsome smirk. "You have no idea. Want another drink? Or are we going to keep pretending we aren't thinking about the same thing?"

————

The elevator ride up to the 12th floor is suffocating. It’s just the two of you, the silence punctuated only by the soft hum of the machinery and the sound of your own heartbeat thudding in your ears.

Clark is standing too close. In the cramped space, his physical presence is overwhelming. He’s staring straight ahead at the polished brass doors, but you can see the muscle in his jaw working. The "clumsy reporter" act from the lobby is dead and buried.

The doors slide open with a soft ding.

The hallway is lined with thick, plush carpeting that swallows the sound of your footsteps. You reach your door first—Room 1204. You dig into your pocket for your keycard, your fingers shaking just enough to be annoying.

"You’re doing it again," Clark says. He’s stopped a few feet away, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe of the room opposite yours.

"Doing what?" you snap, finally swiping the card. The light flashes red. Access Denied. "Damn it."

"Deflecting." He moves toward you, his shadow swallowing yours against the mahogany door. He doesn't stop until he’s inches away. He reaches out, taking the plastic card from your hand. His fingers are steady, his touch lingering against your palm. "You’re so used to fighting for everything in Gotham that you don’t know what to do when someone actually wants to give you something."

"And what exactly are you offering, Kent?" you challenge, leaning back against the door. "A tour of the monuments? A front-page lead?"

He swipes the card for you. The light turns green with a soft click, but he doesn't open the door. He steps even closer, pinning you between the wood and his chest. He places one hand on the door above your head, his large frame creating a private alcove in the dimly lit hallway.

"I’m offering a truce," he whispers. His blue eyes are dark, focused entirely on your lips. "Stop looking at me like a lead you need to debunk. Just for tonight."

"I don't do truces with the competition," you breathe, though your hands find the lapels of his jacket, bunching the fabric. You can feel the heat radiating off him—it’s like standing next to a furnace.

"Liars get caught, remember?" Clark’s voice is a low, gravelly rasp.

He leans down, his nose brushing against yours. The friction is electric. He pauses there, giving you every chance to push him away, to make a sharp comment, to retreat back into your Gotham shell.

But you don't. You lean in, closing the gap.

The kiss isn't sweet like you thought it would be. It’s desperate and heavy, a collision of pent up tension. Clark groans low in his throat, his hand moving from the door to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He tastes like the expensive scotch and something uniquely him—something clean and powerful.

He backs you into the room, the door clicking shut behind you both, cutting off the rest of the world. He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Still think this is a long, miserable trip?" he murmurs against your skin.

"Shut up, Kent," you manage to breathe out, your hands already working to unbutton his shirt, revealing the sculpted chest beneath. He smirks, stepping back just enough to let you take in the view. You don't waste time, your hands exploring every inch of him, tracing the lines of his muscles, the soft curls of hair on his chest.

Clark's hands aren't idle either, his fingers deftly unzipping your dress, sliding it off your shoulders to pool at your feet. He takes a step back, his eyes roaming over you, taking in the black lace bra and panties you wore. "gosh, Y/N," he breathes, his voice hoarse. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."

You smirk, stepping closer to him, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. "And you talk too much." You unbutton his pants, and tug down his boxers, revealing his thick, hard cock. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, enjoying the way his breath hitches.

Clark's hands find your hips, pulling you closer, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. He pulls back, just enough to slide them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your skin.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the edges of your pussy, teasing you. You moan, your head falling back, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. He doesn't make you wait, his tongue finding your clit, licking and sucking, his fingers sliding inside you, pumping in and out.

You can't help the moan that escapes your lips, your hips bucking against his face. Clark's hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you in place, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault. You can feel the pressure building, your orgasm just out of reach.

Clark stands, his lips finding yours, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his lips, the mix of your arousal and his tongue driving you wild. He lifts you, carrying you to the bed, laying you down gently. He hovers over you, his cock pressing against your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low growl.

You nod, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer. He slides into you slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your hips bucking against him.

Clark sets a slow, steady pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside. You can feel the pressure building again, your orgasm just within reach. Clark's hands find yours, intertwining your fingers, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.

"You're so tight," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm not going to last much longer."

"Don't stop," you breathe, your hips bucking against him, meeting his thrusts. "I'm close."

Clark's hand slides between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow circles. The sensation is too much, your orgasm crashing over you, waves of pleasure washing through you. Clark groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own orgasm hitting him. He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing heavily, your hearts pounding in sync.

He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You can feel his heart beating, the steady rhythm lulling you into a sense of contentment.

"Truce?" Clark asks, his voice soft.

You smirk, your hand tracing patterns on his chest. "For tonight," you agree.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that come morning, you’ll be back to trading sharp words in the newsroom, but tonight, the only headline that matters is the way he’s holding you.

The sun in Metropolis is relentless. It pours through the hotel curtains at 7:00 AM like a personal attack, hitting your eyes with a brightness that feels illegal.

Beside you, the bed shifts. Clark is already awake, propped up on one elbow, looking infuriatingly handsome for a man who hasn't had coffee yet. His hair is a disaster, and there’s a faint red mark on his collarbone that definitely wasn't there yesterday.

"Morning," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He reaches out, his thumb grazing your cheek, tracing the line of your freckles. "You're frowning. Still thinking about the dockyards?"

"I’m thinking about how I have to look Tim in the eye in forty minutes without him smelling 'Metropolis Golden Boy' all over me," you mutter, though you don't pull away from his touch.

"Just tell him the air here is good for your complexion," Clark grins, leaning down to steal one last, slow kiss. "It's not a lie."

Thirty minutes later, the elevator doors open to the Daily Planet lobby. The transformation is instant. Clark hitches his shoulders, adjusts his glasses until they’re slightly crooked, and assumes that "aw-shucks" posture that makes him look half a foot shorter.

You, meanwhile, have pulled your hair back into a tight, lethal ponytail and buttoned your blazer to the chin. You look like you’re ready to testify at a grand jury.

"There you are," Tim barks. He’s standing near the fountain, checking his watch. He looks at you, then at Clark, who is currently pretending to struggle with a jammed ballpoint pen. "You’re late. Again. And why do you look like you’ve actually slept for once?"

"New pillows," you say flatly, not missing a beat. "Metropolis luxury. It’s disgusting."

"Right. Whatever," Tim grunts, handing you a schedule. "Kent, I hope you’re ready to get humiliated. Our girl here found a hole in your paper’s lead on the LexCorp merger. She’s going to tear your ethics panel apart."

Clark looks up, blinking behind his lenses with a look of pure, feigned innocence. "Is that so? Well, I look forward to the challenge. I hear the Gazette doesn't pull any punches."

He looks at you, and for a split second, the mask slips. The "farm boy" eyes sharpen, flashing with the memory of the night before—the heat, the grit, and the way you’d whispered his name against the pillows.

"I’ll try to be gentle, Clark," you say, your voice dripping with professional venom that only the two of you know is a lie.

"Don't bother," he says, a small, private smirk playing on his lips as he turns to lead the way to the seminar. "I like it better when you’re tough."

Tim watches him walk away, then looks at you. "See? That’s what I'm talking about. Don't let that farm-boy charm fool you. He’s the competition. Stay sharp."

"Always, Tim," you say, clutching your notebook. "Always."

The conference ends not with a bang, but with the quiet, hollow realization that the clock has run out.

The final night gala is a sea of clinking champagne flutes and self-congratulatory speeches, but you’re standing out on the balcony, staring at the Metropolis skyline. It’s beautiful, sure, but it feels like a movie set. In four hours, you’ll be on a train heading back to the rain, the shadows, and the crushing weight of the Gazette’s deadlines.

"The train leaves at midnight," a voice says behind you.

You don't turn around. You know the weight of his step. Clark joins you at the railing, his tuxedo jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks less like a reporter and more like the heart of the city itself.

"I have a story to finish," you say, your voice sounding brittle even to your own ears. "The dockyard lead didn't go away just because I spent a week playing 'ethics' with you."

"I know," Clark murmurs. He moves closer, his arm brushing yours. The heat is still there, constant and grounding. "But Gotham is a long way away. And you're a hard person to track down when you don't want to be found."

You finally look at him. The rivalry is still there—that sharp, electric friction that defines you both—but it’s softened by something achey and real. You’ve spent your whole life being the "sharp girl" who doesn't need anyone, yet here is a man who saw the grime and the freckles and the fire, and didn't blink.

"Don't get sentimental, Kent," you whisper, though your hand finds his, fingers lacing together one last time under the cover of the dark. "It’s just a city line. I’m sure you’ll find another rival to keep you busy by Monday."

Clark’s grip tightens, his thumb tracing the back of your hand with a slow, deliberate pressure that feels like a promise. "I don't want another rival. I want the one who told me optimism is a blindfold and then proved she was the only one in the room with her eyes open."

He leans down, kissing your temple, his breath warm against your skin. The angst of the coming distance settles in your chest, a sharp contrast to the fluff of the week’s stolen moments. You think about the cold apartment waiting for you back in gotham, and then you look at him—blindingly bright and devastatingly sincere.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you realize that while you’re leaving his city, you’re definitely taking the win—because you’re the only person in the world who knows exactly what it takes to make the Golden Boy lose his composure.

©blairsxx | all rights reserved

if you want to be tagged, dm me or comment down!

summary : ever since you was an intern, you have always had a embarrassingly big crush on Jimmy Olsen .. like every girl in the office did. He was sweet and kind to you. So when he told you he was going to ask a girl out, you acted like you didn’t care. You wrote a goodbye letter to him. Him and your best friend started dating, and you was supportive. So when the letter gets out .. clark is your only way out.

clark kent x reader

warnings : angst, fluff, awkwardness, clark as peter, jimmy as josh, and manon as margot (expect she isn’t your sister), Y/N used (sorryy), a little rushed, jimmy being clueless like always, jimmy’s impeccable game.

blair’s message : hii!! i kinda don’t like this, mostly because i wrote this while watching the movies soo.. sigh. This isn’t a new theme, i just wanted it to match the movie !

When you first started at the Daily Planet, you were twenty-one, nervous, and convinced you were going to spill coffee on someone important.

Which, to be fair, you almost did.

Twice.

Your first week as an intern was chaos. You got lost in the hallway. You printed the wrong documents. You once called Perry “Sir” so many times in one conversation that he eventually told you to stop.

But somehow… you survived.

And somehow…

You fell in love with Jimmy Olsen.

It wasn’t dramatic at first.

It was quiet.

It was the way he always saved you a seat in meetings.The way he’d bring you snacks when you forgot to eat.The way he laughed too loud at his own jokes and then looked at you first, like he wanted to see if you were laughing too.

You were.

Always.

Jimmy was sunshine in human form. Everyone loved him. Everyone.

And you were just… an intern.

So you never said anything.

You just kept it inside.

Let it grow.

Let it hurt.

It happened late one night.

You were still at the office, long after everyone else had gone home. The building was quiet. The lights were dim. Metropolis glowed through the windows.

You were supposed to be finishing reports.

Instead, you were staring at a blank piece of paper.

Your heart was heavy.

Because that day, Jimmy had told you about a girl he liked.

Not in detail.

Just casually.

Like it didn’t shatter you.

“I think I might ask her out,” he’d said, smiling.

You’d smiled back.

“Yeah,” you’d said. “You should.”

Then you went to the bathroom and cried.

That night, you wrote the letter.

You didn’t mean to.

It just… happened.

Jimmy,

I know you’ll probably never read this. And that’s okay. I don’t want you to. I just need to say it somewhere.

I’ve loved you since my first week here. Since you helped me find the copy room and pretended you weren’t lost too.

Since you brought me coffee when I was exhausted. Since you believed in me before I believed in myself.

You’re my best friend. And I know I’ll never be more than that. But I’m grateful I got to love you at all.

before you was hers.. you were mine. I love you jimmy, goodbye.

— Y/N

Your hands had been shaking when you finished.

You folded it carefully.

Put it in a small teal box you kept in your desk.

Closed the drawer.

And never opened it again.

Three years later, you weren’t an intern anymore.

You were a full-time reporter.

Respected.

Trusted.

Still awkward sometimes.

Still emotional.

Still very much trying to pretend that chapter of your life didn’t exist.

Jimmy had moved on.

A lot.

He’d dated half the office.

Then Manon.

Sweet, kind, beautiful Manon.

Your best friend.

Who loved Jimmy like he hung the stars.

And Jimmy loved her too.

So everything was fine.

Everything was over.

Everything was buried.

Until one morning…

You walked into work.

Coffee in hand.

Bag on shoulder.

Mind on deadlines.

Put your things down.

The first thing you notice when you sit down at your desk is that something is wrong.

Not in a dramatic, world-ending way.Not in a Superman-is-fighting-an-alien way.

In a quiet, subtle, terrifying way.

Your desk drawer is open.

Just a little.

Barely an inch.

But you know—you know—you closed it last night.

You always do.

You’re weird like that.

You blink at it.

Once.

Twice.

Your heart starts to pound.

Slowly, cautiously, like you’re approaching a crime scene, you reach down and pull it open the rest of the way.

Pens.

Sticky notes.

Old receipts.

Lip balm.

And then—

Your teal box.

Still there.

You grab it immediately, fingers shaking as you flip the lid open.

Empty.

No.

No, no, no.

Your stomach drops straight to the floor.

It’s gone.

The letter.

Your hands started shaking.

Your stomach dropped.

Your chest tightened.

No.

No no no no no.

You looked up.

And that’s when you saw Jimmy.

Staring at you.

Wide-eyed.

Pale.

Like he’d seen a ghost.

Oh.

Fuck.

You spend the entire morning avoiding Jimmy.

You become a professional at it.

You pretend to be deeply invested in your computer. You take phone calls that don’t exist. You “suddenly remember” meetings that aren’t real.

Every time you feel his eyes on you, your chest tightens.

You can’t look at him.

You can’t explain.

You can’t survive that conversation.

Around noon, you decide you need water.

Or air.

Or a new identity.

Anything.

So you stand up and walk toward the break room.

You’re halfway there when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey—wait, Y/N—”

Jimmy.

Your heart starts pounding.

No.

No no no.

You walk faster.

You push into the break room.

And freeze.

Clark Kent is there.

Standing by the coffee machine.

Sleeves rolled up.

Glasses slightly crooked.

Focused very seriously on pouring creamer like it’s life-or-death.

Of course he is.

He looks up.

“Oh—hey,” he says softly. “Morning.”

You barely register it.

Because behind you…

You hear Jimmy enter.

Your brain short-circuits.

Fight.

Flight.

Freeze.

You choose chaos.

You turn.

Grab Clark’s collar.

And kiss him.

Right there.

In the break room.

At noon.

In front of God and everyone.

Clark freezes.

For half a second.

Jimmy freezes longer.

Then—

Clark kisses you back.

Not rough.

Not aggressive.

Soft.

Careful.

Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Jimmy stands there.

Staring.

Processing.

Then slowly…

He nods.

Murmurs, “Oh.”

And leaves.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

You pull back, breathing hard.

Your forehead rests against Clark’s.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Clark blinks.

Twice.

“…You’re welcome?” he says uncertainly.

You look up at him.

“Thank you.”

“For… that.”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah. Uh. Anytime.”

You avoid Jimmy.

You avoid Manon.

You avoid eye contact.

You consider quitting journalism and becoming a lighthouse keeper.

Two hours later, Clark shows up at your desk.

He stands there awkwardly.

Hands in pockets.

Shifting.

“Um… could we talk about… what happened?”

You sigh.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You stand and drag him into an empty hallway.

And then—

You tell him everything.

About being an intern.

About the letter.

About Jimmy.

About Manon.

About how you feel like your life is over.

By the time you’re done, your eyes are watery.

“I’m sorry,” you finish. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Clark looks at you.

Really looks.

Soft eyes.

Gentle smile.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says quietly.

You turn to leave.

And then—

He grabs your hand.

“Wait.”

You look back.

His ears are red.

“So, um,” he says. “We could… pretend to date?”

“…What?”

He panics.

“What?”

You stare.

“…Fake date?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “So Jimmy thinks you’ve moved on.”

You think.

Actually think.

“…That could work.”

His eyes light up.

“But,” you add, “we need rules.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have paper?”

He immediately pulls out a tiny notepad.

You squint.

“…Why do you have that?”

“Journalism habit.”

You snort and take it.

You write at the top:

CONTRACT

Rule #1: No real feelings.

Rule #2: Public affection only..

Rule #3: End it if someone gets hurt.

Rule #4: No sleeping over.

Rule #5: No kissing.

You pause.

“…Wait. We already broke rule six.”

Clark coughs.

“…Technically.”

You glare.

He smiles shyly.

God.

He’s cute.

You sign it.

He signs it.

You shake hands.

“Okay,” you say. “We’re fake dating.”

“Okay,” he replies. “We’re… fake dating.”

Neither of you sounds convinced.

Clark is a very good fake boyfriend.

Too good.

He brings you coffee.

Walks you to your car.

Keeps a hand on your waist in public.

Defends you when people gossip.

Smiles at you like you’re the only person in the room.

And it starts to hurt.

Because you start noticing things.

How he watches you when you laugh. How he remembers your favorite snack. How he gets jealous when other guys talk to you. How his voice softens when he says your name.

And one night…

You fall asleep on his couch.

Watching a movie.

Your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe too loud.

Just lets you rest.

And thinks—

I’m in so much trouble.

It happens slowly.

So slowly, you don’t notice at first.

You start saving a seat for Clark in meetings.

He starts waiting for you before leaving.

You text him at 2 a.m.

He texts back immediately.

You know his coffee order.

He knows when you’re lying about being “fine.”

You stop calling it fake in your head.

He never does.

Because Clark Kent is in love with you.

And he’s terrified.

He realizes it on a Tuesday.

You’re in the archive room together.

Dusty shelves.

Dim lights.

You’re laughing about something stupid you saw.

And Clark looks at you—

Really looks.

Your smile.

Your crinkled eyes.

Your hands when you talk.

And it hits him.

Hard.

Oh.

Oh no.

I love her.

His chest tightens.

He drops the file he’s holding.

You kneel to help him.

Your fingers brush.

He almost says it.

He doesn’t

Jimmy corners you after work.

By the elevators.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You freeze.

“Can we talk?”

You glance around.

“No,” you say.

He sighs.

“Y/N.. about the letter.”

Your heart drops.

“I need some .. closure about it.”

You can’t breathe.

“I never meant to embarrass you,” he continues. “I just… I needed to understand.”

You stare at the floor.

“I loved you,” you admit.

“Past tense.” you add quickly.

He nods.

“I know.”

He hesitates.

“…Do you love Clark?”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

And that’s your answer.

©blairsxx | all rights reserved

if you want to be tagged, dm me or comment down!

everyone knows .. (except you)

summary : Clark Kent has the most hopeless crush on you.. it’s honestly surprising how you don’t know when the whole office does. So when Jimmy catches clark looking at your instagram during your guys lunch break.. it gets a little awkward.

clark kent x reader

theme : second hand embarrassment??, fluff, ron and cat mention, reader being oblivious and clark being in love, jimmy and lois being matchmakers, y/n used (sorry gulp),

blair’s message : for the party instagram post, i lowkey got the picture idea from hallie steinfeld.. oops. anyways enjoy this fic, i thought it was cute!

word count : 991

divider : @ianrkives

The Daily Planet is already buzzing when you walk in.

Phones ringing. Printers whirring. Voices overlapping in a constant, familiar chaos that somehow always feels like home.

And then there’s you.

You push through the glass doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Your black pencil skirt hugs you perfectly, professional and elegant, and your dark red blouse makes you stand out just enough to turn a few heads.

Not that you notice.

You’re too busy smiling at Ron from accounting as you pass by, waving at Cat Grant across the room, and nearly bumping into Jimmy Olsen because he’s walking backward while texting.

“Whoa—sorry!” Jimmy laughs.

You laugh too. “Maybe watch where you’re going, Olsen.”

“No promises.”

Across the room…

Clark Kent freezes.

He had been in the middle of typing up notes for his article. Fingers hovering over the keyboard. Glasses slightly crooked. Hair doing that soft, slightly messy thing it always does.

Then he looks up.

And sees you.

In that skirt.
In that blouse.
Smiling. Laughing. Existing.

And his brain immediately shuts down.

“…Oh,” he breathes quietly.

Lois, sitting at the desk beside him, notices instantly.

“Oh no,” she mutters. “Not again.”

Clark stares.

And stares.

And stares.

His ears turn pink

Then red.
Then dangerously close to matching your blouse.

He swallows.

You look… incredible.

Not that you don’t always look incredible. You do. Every day. But today? Something about the way the fabric fits you, the way your hair falls over your shoulders, the way you walk like you belong everywhere you go

He’s done for.

Completely.

Across the newsroom, a few reporters exchange tired looks.

Another day.
Another episode of Clark Kent Being Down Horrendous.

Perry White walks past Clark’s desk and stops.

“…Why are you smiling like that?”

Clark jolts. “Huh—what—sorry, Mr. White!”

Perry squints. “Focus, Kent.”

“Yes, sir.”

Perry walks away, shaking his head.

Lois smirks. “You’re staring.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

“You haven’t blinked in thirty seconds.”

Clark blinks rapidly. “See?”

Lois rolls her eyes.

Meanwhile, you make your way over to Jimmy and Lois’s area.

“Good morning!” you say brightly.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lois replies.

Jimmy grins. “You look nice today.”

“Thank you,” you say easily.

You lean against Jimmy’s desk, chatting with them about some show you watched last night. Lois complains about the ending. Jimmy argues with her. You laugh softly at both of them.

And Clark?

Clark hears your laugh and melts.

It’s quiet. Soft. Warm.

Like it was designed specifically to ruin him.

His lips curve into a small, unconscious smile.

He pretends to type.

He is not typing.

He is thinking about how pretty you are.

𓂃₊ ⊹

By lunchtime, the office has calmed down a little.

You’re back at your desk with a Caesar salad balanced in front of you, fork in hand. One leg is crossed over the other, posture relaxed. You scroll through your phone between bites.

Lois is sitting on the edge of your desk, ranting.

“And then he had the audacity—the audacity—to say it wasn’t his fault—”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding.

“I’m serious, men are—”

“Emotionally confusing?” you offer.

“Yes!”

You giggle.

Across the room, Clark sits at his desk.

Trying very hard not to stare.

Instead, he’s on his phone.

On Instagram.

On your page.

Again.

He told himself he’d stop.

He lied.

He scrolls slowly, carefully, like each picture is something sacred.

There’s one of you at the beach.
One with Jimmy and Lois.
One in your favorite café.

Then he stops.

A party photo.

You’re standing under soft lights, smiling brightly. You’re wearing a white off-the-shoulder dress that slips gently down your arms. The photo is a little blurry, taken mid-laugh.

You look unreal.

Clark’s heart does a dangerous thing.

“…Wow,” he whispers.

He zooms in.
Then zooms out.
Then just stares.

Jimmy appears out of nowhere.

“What are you looking at?”

Clark jumps.

“AH—!”

His phone almost slips out of his hands.

“Nothing!” he blurts too loudly.

Jimmy’s eyes narrow.

“…Nothing, huh?”

Before Clark can react, Jimmy snatches the phone.

“Hey—Jimmy—!”

“BRO.”

Jimmy starts laughing.

Clark’s soul leaves his body.

“Give it back—!”

“Oh my god,” Jimmy says, wheezing. “You’re stalking Y/N’s page again!”

Across the room, heads turn.

Including yours.

“…Huh?” you murmur.

Lois looks over. “What now?”

Jimmy holds up the phone.

“IS THIS Y/N’S NEW POST?”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“My—what?”

You stand up and walk over.

“What do you mea-” you trail off.

You stop.

Because you see it.

Your Instagram.

On Clark’s phone.

Open.

Zoomed in.

On your face.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Clark looks like he might pass out.

“I—I can explain—”

Jimmy cackles. “He’s been stalking your page for MONTHS.”

“Jimmy!” Clark yelps.

Lois stands up slowly.

“…Wait.”

She looks at Clark.

Then at you.

Then at Clark again.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” you ask.

Lois grins.

“You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

The entire office watches.

Clark’s face is now fully red.

Lois puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N,” she says gently.

“Clark is in love with you.”

Silence.

“…He’s what?”

Clark squeaks. “Lois—!”

You stare at him.

Clark stares at the floor.

Your heart starts racing.

“Clark?” you say softly.

He finally looks up.

Eyes nervous. Hopeful. Terrified.

“I—I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he says. “I just… I think you’re amazing. And kind. And beautiful. And—and I really like you. A lot.”

You’re quiet.

Then…

You smile.

“Clark,” you say.

“Yes?”

“…Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He blinks. “I—You—you’re—you’re you. I didn’t think—”

You laugh softly.

The same laugh he loves.

“I like you too,” you admit.

His brain shuts down.

“…You do?”

“Yeah.”

Jimmy grins.

Lois fist-pumps jimmy.

Clark just stares at you in disbelief.

Then he smiles.

And it’s the happiest anyone’s ever seen him.

©blairsxx | all rights reserved

if you want to be tagged, dm me or comment down!

ᛝ the shelf .. !

summary : While working out in the living room, of your shared apartment with your boyfriend Clark Kent. You accidentally break a shelf .. so now you have to distract clark when he comes home from work, so he doesn’t see the disaster you made.

clark kent x reader

themes : established relationship, fluff, reader being a trouble maker 🤝🏻 clark being used to it, pet names : baby, honey, sweetheart,

a/n : this has been in my drafts, and im way too tired to write a whole other fic 💔 blame my new job, because wow. anyways i thought this was cute and i hope you enjoy ! and new theme!!

You’re in the living room, leggings on, hair tied up, playlist blasting through your phone speaker.

Sweat clings to your skin as you push through your last set of squats, thighs burning, lungs begging for mercy.

“One.. more..,” you mutter.

You bend down for one final rep—

—and suddenly, your foot slips.

“AH—!”

You stumble, arms flailing, body jerking backward.

Your elbow smacks into the tall wooden shelf behind you.

There’s a split second of silence.

Then—

CRASH.

Wood splinters.

Books, picture frames, and little knickknacks explode onto the floor.

A framed photo of you and Clark at the pier shatters.

A plant rolls dramatically across the rug.

Everything… is ruined.

You freeze.

Chest heaving.

Eyes wide.

Mouth slightly open.

You slowly look down at the destruction.

Then whisper

“…I’m so fucking cooked.”

Your heart starts racing.

Clark.

Clark is coming home soon.

Clark, who lovingly assembled that shelf with his big careful hands.

Clark, who smiled proudly when he finished it.

Clark, who said, “It’ll last forever.”

It did not, in fact, last forever.

You pace.

Panicking.

“Okay. Okay. Think. THINK.”

You grab a pillow and try to cover part of it.

It does nothing.

You attempt to stack the broken pieces together.

It looks worse.

You consider pretending you were never here.

Too late.

You hear keys.

Your soul leaves your body.

The door opens.

“Honey! I’m home!” Clark calls out cheerfully.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

You sprint out of the living room like your life depends on it.

“Hi baby!” you say too loudly, way too fast.

Clark looks at you, instantly smiling.

“There you are,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss your cheek.

His lips brush your skin and you almost cry because he’s so sweet and you just destroyed his furniture.

He starts to walk past you.

Toward the living room.

You panic.

And grab his arm.

“uh-“

He stops.

Turns to you.

Smiling.

“Yes?”

“Let’s just—stay here!” you blurt.

He blinks.

“…Here?”

“Yeah! The.. hallway is nice. Very.. hallway-y.”

Clark raises an eyebrow.

Then chuckles.

“Okayyy..?” he says slowly. “What’s going on?”

“N-Nothing!” you say too fast. “How was your day? Did Perry yell at you? Did Lois steal your coffee again? Do you want snacks? I can get snacks—”

You start backing him toward the kitchen.

He gently grabs your wrists.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Baby. Look at me.”

You do.

Your guilty face gives you away instantly.

His smile softens.

“..What did you break?”

“..Nothing.”

“..Honey.”

“…A shelf.”

“..Which shelf?”

“..The… living room shelf.”

Silence.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I’m so sorry,” you rush out. “I was working out and I slipped and it fell and I tried to fix it and it’s worse and I didn’t mean to and I swear I’ll buy a new one and—”

Clark suddenly laughs.

You open one eye.

“…You’re laughing?”

He pulls you into a hug, resting his chin on your head.

“Baby,” he murmurs, amused. “It’s just a shelf.”

“But you built it,” you whine. “You were proud of it.”

“I was proud because you kept bringing me lemonade every ten minutes,” he says.

“…I did do that.”

“Exactly.”

He gently guides you toward the living room.

You peek.

The damage is… bad.

Really bad.

Clark takes it in.

Then shrugs.

“Okay, yeah. That’s… gone.”

You look up at him nervously.

He turns to you, smiling.

“Did you get hurt?”

“…No.”

“Then we’re good.”

Your heart melts.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I care about you way more than furniture.”

You wrap your arms around him.

“I love you,” you mumble.

“I love you too,” he whispers back.

Then he grins.

“Next time you work out, though… I’m spotting you.”

You laugh.

“Deal.”

Later, you’re curled up on the couch together, head on his chest, his arm around you.

The broken shelf sits sadly in the corner.

Clark kisses your hair.

“You know,” he says, “we can build a better one.”

“With super strength?”

“Maybe,” he teases.

You smile.

“Best boyfriend ever.”

He squeezes you closer.

“Always.

©blairsxx | all rights reserved

if you want to be tagged, dm me or comment down!

⟢ req rules !!

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

• i write fluff and angst ONLY !! eventually (when i get good at it help) i will write smut.

• if you request something, and i don’t get to it. i’m so sorry! i do have a life outside of tumblr, and the only reason why i post alot is cause i post my drafts. but eventually i WILL get to it.

• do NOT be all up in my dms, giving me werid messages and asking inappropriate questions. i didn’t think i would say that but here we are. i will block you and report.

• on the topic of having a life outside of tumblr, i do now have a job! (i fricking hate it but what can i say) if im to burned out, to write fics. i will be posting my drafts, and no i dont care if its good or not cause .. everything’s good in my book!

❮ back to nav

summary : You’re a flight attendant, you’ve seen thousands of random people on your flights. It’s not new, your used to it. Until on one flight, you see him. Clark.

clark kent x flight attendant!reader

theme : fluff, jimmy and lois being little matchmakers, (yesyes i know clark can technicallyyy fly but in this fic, he chooses not too 🥹), fem reader, clark being so cute,

a/n : just a little blurb, because work is actually killing me help 💔 this was supposed to end in smut, but it turned out so bad that I deleted it ughhh. i need someone to teach me how to write smut.

now playing : Airplane Mode | by : Limbo

You’re adjusting the cuffs of your dark blue uniform in the small galley mirror when the captain’s voice comes over the speakers, announcing that the plane has reached cruising altitude. The soft ding of the seatbelt sign turning off follows, and almost instantly, the cabin fills with quiet movement—people stretching, shifting, preparing for the long hours ahead.

You take a breath.

Another flight.

Another shift.

Another hundred strangers.

You smooth your skirt, check your hair one last time, and grab the service cart.

Time to work.

The aisle feels endless as you move forward, offering gentle smiles and polite greetings.

“Hi there.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Most passengers respond distractedly. Some barely glance up.

Then you reach Row 18.

Three people sit together.

By the window is a woman with sharp eyes and confident posture, typing rapidly on her phone. In the middle is a younger guy scrolling through pictures, occasionally snickering to himself. And on the aisle—

Him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark curls falling just slightly over his forehead. Glasses resting low on his nose. He sits with his hands folded neatly in his lap, like he’s afraid of bothering anyone.

He looks up when he hears your voice.

“Hi there,” you say warmly. “What can I get you all for lunch today?”

Jimmy looks up first.

“Oh—hey. Hi,” he says quickly. “Uh, wow.”

Lois elbows him lightly. “Jimmy. Focus.”

You smile.

“Chicken or pasta today,” you explain. “We also have fruit cups and cookies.”

“I’ll take the chicken,” Lois says without hesitation.

“Same,” Jimmy replies. “And, uh… two cookies if possible?”

You laugh softly. “We’ll see what I can do.”

Then you turn to Clark.

“And you?”

He blinks, clearly unprepared.

“Uh—chicken. Yes. Chicken sounds… really good.”

Lois smirks. “Smooth, Kent.”

He turns red.

You pretend not to notice, though your smile grows.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll be right back.”

As you walk away, Jimmy leans toward Clark.

“Dude,” he whispers. “She is gorgeous.”

“I know,” Clark mutters before he can stop himself.

Lois raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I mean—I didn’t mean—”

“Relax,” she says. “We’re teasing.”

But she’s already smiling knowingly.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

When you return with the trays, Clark straightens instantly.

“Here you go,” you say, carefully setting each plate down. “Chicken for all three of you.”

“Thank you,” Clark says sincerely.

“You’re welcome.”

Jimmy watches the interaction closely.

“…You’re totally blushing,” he whispers to Clark.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Later, you stop by again with drinks.

“Refills?” you ask.

“Yes, please,” Lois says. “And whatever you’re giving him—keep doing it. He looks happier.”

Clark chokes slightly on his water.

You laugh. “Noted.”

He stares at you, stunned.

You wink.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

As the hours pass, the cabin grows quieter.

You keep finding reasons to return.

Dropping off extra napkins.

Checking seatbelts.

Offering snacks.

Once, you slip a cookie onto Clark’s tray.

“For you,” you say softly.

His eyes widen.

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

Jimmy gasps dramatically. “Favoritism.”

You grin. “Maybe.”

Clark nearly melts.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

When mild turbulence shakes the plane, you brace yourself against the seat near them.

Clark’s hand moves instinctively, hovering near your wrist.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Thank you.”

Lois watches the moment, amused.

“Oh my god,” she mutters. “He’s in love.”

“I am not,” Clark whispers.

Jimmy snorts. “Too late, buddy.”

Later, during the quiet stretch of the flight, you pause beside them again.

“Long trip,” you say softly.

“Tell me about it,” Jimmy replies. “My legs are staging a protest.”

Lois sighs. “We’ve got work waiting for us the second we land.”

You glance at Clark. “Big story?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I’m… nervous.”

“You shouldn’t be,” you say gently. “You seem like someone who always gives their best.”

He looks at you like you’ve just said something life-changing.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

As landing approaches, passengers begin gathering their things.

You move to stand by the exit.

“Thank you for flying with us.”

“Have a great day.”

“Safe travels.”

Lois walks out first.

She pauses beside you.

“Take care of him,” she says quietly with a smile. “He’s a good one.”

You blink, then laugh softly. “I’ll try.”

Jimmy follows.

He gives you a thumbs-up. “Call him sometime. He’s hopeless.”

“Jimmy!” Clark protests.

You grin.

Then it’s just you and Clark.

He hesitates.

“Um… thank you. For… making this flight really nice.”

“It was my pleasure,” you reply.

As he steps forward, you gently touch his arm.

“Bye, Clark.”

He turns back, eyes wide.

“You remembered my name.”

You smile. “I read boarding passes.”

He laughs softly.

“Bye,” he says.

And as he walks away with Lois and Jimmy, heart soaring higher than the clouds, he knows this wasn’t just another assignment.

tags : @catsdenia @raggatasinthewind

©blairsxx | all rights reserved

ummary : after making a bet with your co-worker Cat Grant, and .. clark finding out about it. You now have to gain his trust and forgiveness again step by step but it won’t be easy. Of course because nothings easy in life.

clark kent x reader

theme : angst, reader is trying, cat grant cameo, lois and jimmy mention, clark avoiding reader, reader trying to get clark back, lois absolutely despising reader while jimmy is just disappointed, huge character development.

a/n : part 2 is hereee!! i’m so sorry if this doesn’t reach your expectations, i was having some trouble with brainstorming what part 2 would be. also i desperately need to learn how to write smut. (up and beyond is also in the workss!!)

now playing : seasons in the sun | by: bbr

The office had never felt so loud.

Every sound stabbed at you—the clacking of keyboards, the murmur of voices, the hum of fluorescent lights. You stood frozen where Clark had left you, your heart somewhere on the floor, shattered into pieces you didn’t know how to pick up.

You couldn’t breathe.

Cat wasn’t smirking anymore.

She looked… stunned.

“What the hell just happened?” she whispered.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because across the room, Clark wasn’t looking at you.

Not once.

He didn’t talk to you.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not the next.

At work, he was polite to everyone else. Gentle. Kind. The same Clark.

Just not to you.

When you walked into a room, he walked out.

When you laughed too loudly, he flinched.

When you passed his desk, he stared at his screen like you didn’t exist.

And that hurt worse than if he had yelled.

You tried texting him.

You: Clark, please talk to me.

No response.

You: I didn’t mean for it to go this far.

Nothing.

You: I really love you.

Delivered. Read. No reply.

You cried in the bathroom at work.

More than once.

You tried apologizing in person.

The first time, you caught him near the elevators.

“Clark,” you said quietly.

He froze.

Didn’t turn around.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Please, just let me—”

“I’m late,” he said quickly.

And walked away.

The second time, you left a note on his desk.

I’m so sorry. I’ll explain whenever you’re ready. I miss you.

He never mentioned it.

The note disappeared.

You didn’t know if he threw it away.

You didn’t want to.

Cat avoided you too.

Not out of anger.

Out of guilt.

She didn’t say it, but you could feel it.

She hadn’t meant for this either.

But that didn’t matter.

Because Clark was broken.

And it was your fault.

And everyone knew that.

A week later, you were sitting at your desk, staring at the same paragraph on your screen for the tenth time, when a shadow fell over you.

You looked up.

Lois.

Her arms were crossed. Her jaw was tight.

“You need to stop,” she said.

Your stomach dropped. “Stop what?”

“Pretending you’re the victim here.”

Your throat closed.

“I’m not—”

“You made a joke out of him,” she snapped. “You humiliated him. And now you’re crying like you got hurt?”

You didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Jimmy stood behind her, quieter—but no less upset.

“He doesn’t sleep,” Jimmy said. “He barely eats. He stares at his phone like he’s waiting for it to hurt him again.”

Your chest caved in.

“He keeps asking what he did wrong,” Lois added. “Like this was somehow his fault.”

You felt sick.

“You don’t get to fix this,” Lois said. “You don’t get to ‘explain.’ You already did enough.”

She turned away.

Jimmy lingered for a moment.

“He really loved you,” he said quietly.

Then he followed her.

you felt like throwing up. You never knew how horrible you could be.

After that, you stopped trying to corner Clark.

Stopped trying to force conversations.

Instead, you tried in smaller ways.

You brought him coffee.

Left it on his desk.

He never touched it.

You stayed late to help with his workload.

He thanked you politely.

Didn’t look at you.

You defended him in meetings.

He pretended not to hear.

Every attempt hit the same wall.

Distance.

Silence.

Pain.

The worst part was the way he still cared.

You saw it in tiny moments.

The way he slowed down when you walked behind him.

The way he glanced up when you laughed.

The way his jaw tightened when someone mentioned your name.

He wasn’t over you.

He was just hurting.

And you were the reason.

One evening, as you were packing up, you noticed him still at his desk.

Everyone else had gone home.

Your heart pounded.

You walked over slowly.

“Clark,” you said softly.

He didn’t look up.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” you continued. “I know I ruined everything. But I need you to know—none of it was fake. None of it.”

Silence.

“I fell in love with you,” you whispered. “I just… started in the wrong way.”

His hands stilled.

For a second, you thought he might turn around.

Instead, he gathered his things.

“I can’t do this,” he said quietly.

And walked past you.

You stood there alone.

Again.

And you realized—

Making it right wasn’t going to be one apology.

One conversation.

One promise.

It was going to take time.

And maybe…

He would never give it to you.

Clark still avoided you.

Just… not completely anymore.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There was no sudden forgiveness. No emotional confession. No big moment where everything magically became okay.

It was smaller than that.

Quieter.

Harder.

He still didn’t seek you out like he used to.

Still didn’t sit next to you at lunch.

Still didn’t text you.

But—

He stopped leaving rooms the second you walked in.

He stopped rerouting his entire day to stay away from you.

Sometimes, when you spoke in meetings, he listened.

Sometimes, when you passed him in the hallway, he nodded.

Once—just once—he even held the door for you.

And you almost cried.

Lois noticed.

She didn’t say anything.

But when Clark didn’t immediately shut down after you spoke in a meeting, her eyes narrowed slightly.

Like she was watching a fragile bridge form.

And waiting to see if you’d burn it.

Jimmy noticed too.

He started talking to you again.

Not like before.

But not cold either.

Careful.

Cautious.

You were careful too.

You never pushed.

Never cornered him.

Never demanded anything.

You spoke when necessary.

You smiled when appropriate.

You gave him space.

Even when every part of you wanted to close the distance.

One afternoon, you were both assigned to the same story.

Perry didn’t even look up when he said it.

“Kent. You. Conference downtown. Two hours.”

Your heart dropped.

Clark froze.

For half a second, you thought he might object.

He didn’t.

“…Okay,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Okay.”

The car ride was torture.

Silence filled every inch of the space between you.

The radio was off.

The city blurred past.

You gripped your bag in your lap.

Finally, you whispered, “I can drive if you want.”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

Another silence.

Then—

“You’ve been… different,” he said.

Your breath caught.

“Is that bad?”

He hesitated.

“…No.”

You glanced at him.

He was staring straight ahead.”

“your not..,” he continued. “trying to get my attention, or .. cornering me.”

You swallowed. “I’m trying to be better.”

He nodded slightly.

“I can tell.”

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it wasn’t nothing.

At the conference, you worked like a real team.

Passing notes.

Sharing sources.

Backing each other up.

At one point, your fingers brushed when you reached for the same folder.

You both froze.

Then pulled away.

But neither of you looked angry.

Just.. shaken.

Afterward, he walked you to your apartment.

Not all the way.

Just to the corner.

“I’ll… see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied softly. “Tomorrow.”

He hesitated.

“…Good job today.”

You smiled. “You too.”

He walked away.

You didn’t text Cat.

You didn’t celebrate.

You just stood there, heart aching and hopeful all at once.

Over the next few weeks, things stayed fragile.

Some days were good.

Some days he barely spoke to you.

Some days he laughed at your joke and you floated.

Some days he flinched and you crashed.

Healing wasn’t straight.

It zigzagged.

One evening, as you were leaving, he caught up to you.

“Hey,” he said.

You turned.

“Yes?”

“…Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Not a date.

Not yet.

Just coffee.

Your eyes filled.

“I’d love to.”

He nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

It wasn’t love again.

Not yet.

But it was a beginning.

At your house, you didn’t sleep.

Not really.

You kept checking your phone.

6:12 AM.

6:27 AM.

6:41 AM.

He hadn’t canceled.

Which meant he was coming.

Which meant you might actually cry into your coffee.

You got there early.

Way too early.

You ordered your drink and sat by the window, hands wrapped tightly around the warm cup like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time the door opened, your heart jumped.

Then—

Clark walked in.

Your breath caught.

He looked nervous.

Like you.

He spotted you and hesitated for half a second before walking over.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.”

Awkward silence.

He gestured toward the counter. “I’ll—uh—get my coffee.”

“You don’t have to,” you said quickly. “I already—”

“It’s okay,” he smiled faintly. “I want to.”

When he came back, he sat across from you.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Safe distance.

You both stared at your cups for a moment.

Then he cleared his throat.

“So… work’s been busy.”

You laughed softly. “That’s one way to put it.”

He smiled.

A real one.

Your heart stumbled.

“I almost didn’t ask you,” he admitted quietly.

“Why?”

He traced the rim of his cup. “I was scared it would… hurt again.”

You nodded. “That makes sense.”

“I’m still scared,” he added.

You met his eyes. “I know..”

You talked.

About small things.

Books. Movies. Articles. Your childhood.

Nothing heavy.

Nothing dangerous.

But it felt… familiar.

Comforting.

Like slipping into an old hoodie.

At one point, he laughed.

Really laughed.

And you forgot how to breathe.

You hadn’t heard that sound in a while.

“I missed that,” you blurted.

Then froze. “I mean—your laugh—I—sorry—”

He chuckled. “It’s okay.”

He looked at you for a long moment.

“…I missed you too.”

Your heart cracked open.

Outside, the air was cool.

You stood on the sidewalk, neither of you ready to leave.

“I had a good time,” he said.

“Me too.”

Another pause.

His hand twitched.

Almost reached for yours.

Then stopped.

You noticed.

You pretended not to.

Over the next weeks, coffee became routine.

Sometimes lunch.

Sometimes walking home together.

Always careful.

Always slow.

Always honest.

Lois watched from a distance.

Waiting.

Testing.

Jimmy relaxed little by little.

Started joking again.

Started trusting again.

One night, you and Clark were finishing an article late.

The office was nearly empty.

“You’ve changed,” he said suddenly.

You looked up. “How?”

“You don’t flirt your way through things anymore. You don’t cut corners. You don’t play.”

You swallowed. “I don’t want to be that person again.”

He nodded. “I’m glad.”

He hesitated.

“…What you did really hurt me.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt that stupid.”

You reached out.

Stopped.

Let him decide.

“I’m so sorry,” you said. “Every day.”

He looked at your hand.

Then—

He covered it with his.

Just for a second.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly.

“So am I.”

When you walked home that night, your fingers brushed.

Neither of you pulled away.

Tags : @garfieldhollander @catsdenia @cherryheairt

©blairsxx | all rights reserved

if you want to be tagged, dm me or comment down!

summary : You’re a famous figure in Metropolis. Everyone loves you! maybe except the other superhero’s in the city.. but hey that is not your fault if you keep taking their battles. One argument with the man of steel has him blurting out stuff he was never supposed to know about.

clark kent x spiderman!reader

theme : angst, some fluff at the beginning, canon events, Justice Gang, Guy absolutely hating you, miles and gwen cameo, and one little miguel mention, everything that happened with miguel and miles didn’t happen in this fic, clark being a dick, clark is called superman during any battle scenes, and that’s all! if i missed any write down in the comments.

a/n :i kinda got backtracked when i was brainstorming for “the bet” part 2 so super sorry! i think this might be my favorite thing i have ever wrote and i hope you feel the same way 🥹 also this could be a part 2 kind of situation, so if u want it, comment down!!

now playing : LoveGame | lady gaga

Metropolis loves you.

That’s not arrogance—it’s fact.

You swing through the skyline like you own it, white-and-grey webbing snapping against glass and steel as cheers echo up from the streets below. Phones are already out. Someone yells your name. Someone else yells “SPIDER-WOMAN, I LOVE YOU!”

You wave mid-swing, upside down, mask lenses narrowing into a grin.

Helping people is second nature. Saving lives? Easy. But the real thrill?

Stealing Superman’s spotlight.

You spot the Justice Gang three blocks away—big, loud, coordinated. Too coordinated. There’s a kaiju-sized monster tearing through a bank, and Superman’s already got his hands on it, trying to guide it away from civilians with that calm, careful strength of his.

Always careful. Always gentle.

Boring.

You arc high into the air and dive.

“Hey, Superman” you shout, landing on the monster’s shoulder. “You look like you could use some help!”

Superman’s head snaps up.

“Spider-Woman—wait—”

Too late.

You web the creature’s eyes, flip backward, slam your feet into its jaw, and yank yourself forward with a violent crack. The monster collapses in a heap of smoke and shattered concrete.

Dead. Done. Clean.

The crowd erupts.

Superman lands slowly beside the body, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. He looks… pissed.

You give him a two-finger salute.

“Next time, don’t take so long.”

Then you’re gone—swinging away as the city chants your name instead of his.

────୨ৎ────

The Watchtower is loud.

Guy Gardner is louder.

“I’m telling you, she’s just—ugh!” Guy throws his hands up, pacing. “We’re the Justice Gang. We have actual powers. And she just—shoots webs—and somehow she’s more famous than us!”

Hawkgirl has her boots up, flipping through a magazine like this conversation isn’t happening“You’re loud and still not our name, makes us sound like cowboys.”

Mr. Terrific types rapidly at his console, screens flickering with code and dimensional equations. “Fame is a social phenomenon, not a measure of effectiveness.”

“But,” Mr. Terrific says calmly without looking up from his screens, fingers flying across holographic code, “she consistently resolves conflicts faster than our average response time.”

Guy whirls. “That’s not helping!”

Hawkgirl doesn’t even look up from her magazine. “She’s popular,” she says lazily. “People like underdogs.”

Guy points at Clark. “Tell them! She stole your fight yesterday!”

Clark stands near the window, arms crossed, cape draped behind him like a shadow. He doesn’t respond right away.

“She puts civilians at risk,” he says finally. Calm. Controlled. “She doesn’t coordinate. She escalates.”

Guy scoffs. “Thank you! See someone gets that this girl is a serious threat. We don’t even know if she’s actually a good person or pretending!”

Clark’s jaw tightens—but he says nothing.

Mr. Terrific pauses, eyes narrowing slightly at something on his screen

Hawkgirl finally looks up. “What is it?”

“…Interesting,” Terrific murmurs.

Superman turns. “Michael?”

Terrific hesitates — then continues typing. “I’ve been running cross-dimensional scans. Her energy signature doesn’t match anything native to this universe.”

Guy groans. “Great. Another multiverse headache.”

Terrific’s voice lowers. “There are… others like her. Spider-themed. Across dimensions. Some are… well-documented.”

Superman frowns. “What kind of documentation?”

Terrific pulls up a projection. Blurred figures. Red and blue silhouettes. Names flash briefly — Peter. Gwen. Miles.

“And,” Terrific adds, carefully, “a recurring pattern. Something called canon events.”

Superman feels a strange weight settle in his chest.

────୨ৎ────

The next day, Metropolis burns.

A creature bigger than the last one tears through the downtown district, claws ripping into streets, buildings collapsing under its weight. Sirens scream. People run.

Superman is already there.

He’s doing everything right—pulling it away from crowds, shielding falling debris, taking hit after hit to protect the city.

And then—

You arrive.

“Miss me?” you call, swinging in from above.

Superman’s eyes flash. “Not now.”

You don’t listen.

You never do.

This time, the fight is brutal. Fast. Messy. You weave between claws, webbing joints, flipping and striking with lethal precision. One final blow—clean and decisive.

The monster crashes lifeless to the ground.

Silence.

Superman lands hard in front of you.

“Enough,” he says.

You turn, already prepping a web line. “Relax, Boy Scout. City’s safe.”

His hand shoots out

He grabs your wrist.

The contact sends a shock through you—heat, strength, restraint held together by something dangerously close to rage.

“Let go,” you warn.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says, voice low. “You don’t get to interfere, escalate, and kill without consequences.”

You laugh. It’s sharp. Bitter. “Consequences? That thing would’ve killed hundreds. You were holding back.”

“I was containing it.”

“And I ended it.”

You lean closer, voice dropping, dangerously. “Maybe that’s why people like me more.”

His jaw tightens.

“You’re reckless,” he says. “You don’t think about fallout.”

You grin beneath your mask, cruel and playful all at once. “And you’re just a stupid Boy Scout. An alien playing hero until one day you decide this city isn’t worth saving.”

Something breaks in his expression.

Before he can stop himself, the words spill out.

“At least I didn’t let my father and aunt die because of some canon event.”

The world stops.

Your grin vanishes.

Your body goes still.

“…What,” you say quietly.

Superman freezes.

Mr. Terrific words come back to him, “Alternate dimensions. Spider-variants. Fixed points in time.
A father. An aunt. Lost. Always lost.”

“What the fuck!” you scream, voice cracking through the mask. “Don’t talk about my dad and aunt!”

The city is silent around you.

Your chest heaves. Anger burns hot and ugly, grief clawing its way up your throat.

Superman looks at you like he’s just realized he crossed an unforgivable line.

“I—” His voice softens. “I didn’t mean—”

You back away, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to use that against me. Ever.”

A beat.

Then you turn and sling yourself into the sky, leaving him standing alone among the wreckage.

For the first time—

Superman doesn’t feel like the hero.

────୨ৎ────

You don’t stop swinging until Metropolis is a smear of lights behind you.

Your chest hurts — not from exertion, but from something tighter, uglier. The kind of pain that doesn’t fade no matter how fast you go. Wind tears past your mask, but it can’t cool the burn in your throat.

Dad.

Aunt May.

Names that don’t belong to him. Names that don’t belong to anyone but you.

You land hard on a rooftop, stumbling forward before catching yourself on the edge. Your breath comes sharp and uneven. For a second, you consider ripping the mask off just to scream — but you don’t.

You never do.

“Hey.”

A portal snaps open behind you.

You spin instantly, web shooters raised, muscles coiled—

“Miles,” you breathe.

He steps through first, hoodie up under his suit, expression soft but serious. Gwen follows, arms crossed loosely, eyes scanning you like she’s checking for fractures that don’t show up on the surface.

“Wow,” Miles mutters. “Different skyline, same emotional disaster.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “Did Miguel send you?”

Gwen snorts. “Please. If Miguel were here, he’d already be lecturing you about canon and probability curves.”

You roll your eyes. “Figures.”

Miles steps closer, careful. “We felt the spike. Emotional, dimensional — the whole thing lit up.”

You turn away from them, gripping the ledge. “He said their names. Out loud. Like it was a tactic.”

Gwen’s jaw tightens. “Superman?”

You nod once.

Miles curses under his breath. “That’s… not okay.”

“He doesn’t get to know that,” you say, voice shaking despite yourself. “That’s not his story. That’s not anyone’s story but mine.”

Silence settles — the kind only people who’ve lost the same things can share.

Gwen finally speaks. “Canon doesn’t mean permission.”

You glance at her.

“Losing them wasn’t destiny,” she continues softly. “It was tragedy. And no one gets to weaponize it.”

Something in your chest cracks — just a little.

Miles nudges you with his shoulder. “You wanna disappear for a bit? Lay low in another dimension? There’s a universe where Superman’s just a comic book.”

You almost smile.

“…Not yet,” you say. “I’m not done.”

©blairsxx | all rights reserved

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summary : clark has had a horrible day at work, including a patrol around metropolis? you can’t judge him when he comes home completely destroyed. so you do the one thing, that you think will help him. allow him to fully rest without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

clark kent x reader

theme : fluff, and even more fluff, a little soft make out, clark being super tired, pet names : “baby, honey”, not that much.

a/n : this could be counted as a blurb, but i got in the zone and wrote way more than what i was supposed to.. oops. but enjoy this until i finish part 2 of “the bet” !! not proofread gulp.

now playing : this is home | by : Cavetown

The sound of the front door opening makes you glance up from the TV. At first, you expect the usual—Clark’s gentle steps, maybe a quiet “Hey, honey.” But when you actually see him, your heart sinks a little.

He looks wrecked.

Not in a bad way—he’s still Clark, still impossibly handsome—but his shoulders are slumped, tie loosened, glasses slightly crooked. His curls are messier than usual, and the exhaustion in his eyes is so heavy it almost hurts to look at.

You mute the TV and stand immediately.

“Oh, baby…” you say softly, walking toward him. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head.

That’s all it takes.

You close the distance and wrap your arms around him, pressing your cheek to his chest. He hesitates for half a second before melting into you, arms coming around your back, holding you like he needs you to keep him upright.

You rub slow circles into his back. “C’mon,” you murmur. “Let’s sit.”

You guide him to the couch, and the second he sits, you climb into his lap like it’s muscle memory. Your legs wrap around his waist, arms draping around his neck, your forehead pressing against his.

Clark exhales, long and shaky, then buries his face into your neck.

You can feel how tense he is. How tired. How much he’s carrying.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you whisper.

He shakes his head again, arms tightening around you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

So you don’t push.

Instead, you run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, letting him breathe you in. You press a soft kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then just relax.”

He lifts his head slightly, just enough for your noses to brush. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion—but there’s so much love in them it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him.

It’s slow. Tender. Like he’s trying to pour all his exhaustion into you and trust you with it.

Clark sighs against your lips, hands sliding up your back, grounding himself. You kiss him again, softer this time, just a lingering press of comfort.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his.

“You don’t have to be Superman here,” you whisper. “You can just be mine.”

That finally makes him smile—small, tired, but real.

And he holds you like he’s home.

His head dips forward, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. You feel his body go heavier in your arms, muscles finally giving up after holding so much tension all day.

You smile softly, tightening your hold on him.

“clark…?” you whisper.

No answer. Just a quiet, sleepy hum.

His arms are still wrapped around you, but looser now—relaxed. His face is tucked into the crook of your neck, nose brushing your skin every time he breathes. You can feel his eyelashes flutter against you, fighting sleep for a few seconds longer.

“You don’t have to stay awake for me,” you murmur, rubbing slow, comforting circles into his back.

That does it.

His breathing deepens. Slows.

His grip tightens just a little—instinctive—before fully relaxing. His weight settles into you, warm and solid, like he finally feels safe enough to rest.

You shift carefully, making sure he’s comfortable, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other smoothing through his curls.

Clark lets out the quietest sigh.

He’s out.

You press a gentle kiss to his hairline, then another to his temple. You don’t move, even when your arm starts to tingle. Even when your back aches.

Because he’s asleep on you.

And you’ve never felt more needed.

So you stay like that—holding him, rocking him slightly, listening to his steady breathing—until the world feels quiet again.

And for once, Superman rests.

summary : after making a bet with your co-worker cat grant, you have to make Clark Kent fall in love with you within 7 weeks for 500 dollars. Three simple steps, make him ask you out, have him ask you to be his girlfriend, and say i love you. But is it really simple when you start falling for him, or when he finds out you played him.

clark kent x reader

theme : angst, reader is a bitch, leading on, cat grant cameo, lois and jimmy mention, could be fluff in part 2?? clark crying (how i like my men :p), not really much.

a/n : ahh! i’ve had this idea for so long. i might make this into a multi chapter but idk. not proofread sorryyy. if you want this to have a part 2, say in the comments!

now playing : don’t wanna fall in love | by : KYLE

divider : @cursed-carmine

The Daily Planet was loud in that familiar, comforting way—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, printers whining like they were on the verge of emotional collapse. You sat at your desk, chin resting on your palm, half-listening to Cat Grant while pretending to organize your emails.

Cat, meanwhile, was fully invested in the sound of her own voice.

“And I’m telling you,” she said, flipping her hair over one shoulder, “if I were ten years younger, this entire floor would be mine.”

You snorted. “Cat, you could own this entire building if you wanted.”

She smirked. “Correct.”

You glanced at her, amused. Cat Grant had that effect on people—commanding, sharp, impossible not to listen to. She leaned against the edge of your desk, arms crossed, eyes scanning you like she was evaluating a product.

Then she tilted her head.

“You know,” she said slowly, “it’s actually criminal how pretty you are.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I mean it,” she continued. “You could get any guy you want. Any of them.”

You laughed. “That’s… not true.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I just—guys don’t really—”

She cut you off. “Bet.”

You looked up. “What?”

She straightened. “I bet you could get any man in this office to fall for you if you actually tried.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Any?”

“Any,” she repeated.

Something mischievous sparked in your chest.

“Fine,” you said. “Let’s make it interesting.”

Cat’s lips curled. “Oh, I like where this is going.”

“If I can get a guy to ask me out,” you said, ticking off on your fingers, “ask me to be his girlfriend, and tell me he loves me—”

Within a time limit,” Cat added.

“—within seven weeks,” you finished, “you owe me $500.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

You grinned. “But you have to pick the guy.”

She turned slowly, eyes scanning the bullpen like a predator.

Your grin widened.

Please pick someone impossible.

Her gaze lingered on a few people. A married editor. A guy who barely spoke. Someone who was clearly gay. You were already preparing excuses.

Then she stopped.

Your smile faltered.

No.

Oh no.

Her eyes locked on him.

Clark Kent sat at his desk a few rows away, hunched slightly as he typed, glasses sliding down his nose. He was focused, as usual, jaw set in concentration, dark curls slightly messy. He looked… gentle. Sweet. Safe.

And stupidly attractive.

Your stomach dipped.

“Clark Kent,” Cat announced.

You blinked. “Absolutely not.”

She grinned. “Oh, absolutely yes.”

“He’s—he’s—” You gestured vaguely. “Clark.”

“So?”

“So he’s nice,” you said weakly.

“Perfect,” she said. “That’ll make it easier.”

You glanced at him. He was adjusting his glasses, completely unaware that his emotional ruin was being planned ten feet away.

“You’re evil,” you muttered.

She smirked. “You’re welcome.”

────୨ৎ────

You started the very next day.

You brought him coffee.

Not just any coffee—his coffee.

You’d paid attention. Black, two sugars. No cream.

“Hey, Clark,” you said, placing it on his desk.

He looked up, startled. “Oh—uh—hey! You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” you said with a smile.

His ears turned pink.

You hid your grin as you walked away.

Idiot.

Then you started making small talk.

“How was your weekend?”
“What are you working on?”
“Oh, that sounds interesting—tell me more.”

And Clark did.

He talked about everything. His farm. His mom. Journalism. He listened when you spoke, really listened, like every word mattered.

Which was annoying.

Because it made you feel weird.

Not bad weird.

Just… fluttery.

You ignored it.

This was a bet.

And you were winning.

────୨ৎ────

When he asked you out, it was clumsy.

Painfully clumsy.

He stood by your desk, hands fidgeting, shoulders tense.

“Would you—um—maybe want to get dinner sometime?” he asked. “With me. As a date. Not—like—not as coworkers—”

You smiled.

“I’d love to.”

He froze.

Then beamed.

Step one: complete.

That night, you texted Cat.

You: HE ASKED ME OUT.
Cat: Obviously.
You: This is too easy.

────୨ৎ────

The date was… good.

Annoyingly good.

He opened doors. Walked you home. Asked thoughtful questions. Laughed at your jokes like they were genuinely funny.

When he stopped outside your building, he looked nervous again.

“I had a really nice time,” he said.

“Me too.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He went red.

Like, red red.

You laughed, waved, and went inside.

The moment the door closed, you pulled out your phone.

You: Just got done with the date. I’m so winning this bet.
Cat: Knew it.

You leaned against the door, heart doing something stupid.

You ignored it.

────୨ৎ────

Days turned into weeks.

You talked at work. Went to the park. Shared lunches. Texted late into the night.

And every time you saw him, your chest did that thing.

You told yourself it was nothing.

It was just part of the game.

Right?

Halfway through week four, Clark showed up at your desk holding lilies.

Your favorite.

And a cinnamon bun from your favorite bakery.

Your stomach dropped.

“I—uh—” he swallowed. “I was hoping you’d maybe want to be my girlfriend.”

You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

“Yes.”

He looked stunned.

Then happy.

So happy.

Step two: complete.

Cat caught your eye from across the room, smirking.

You tried to ignore the twist in your chest.

────୨ৎ────

And then—

You started falling.

Hard.

You didn’t mean for it to happen.

That’s what you kept telling yourself.

You didn’t mean to start noticing the way Clark blushed every time you teased him. You didn’t mean to look for him the second you walked into work. You didn’t mean to feel your chest tighten whenever he smiled at you like you were the best part of his day.

But it happened anyway.

You became… a couple.

You sat closer to him at lunch. You stole his fries. He walked you home when it got late. Sometimes he brushed his thumb over your knuckles like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And every time, your heart stuttered.

This was bad.

This was very bad.

Because this was supposed to be fake.

────୨ৎ────

The night he said it, you were curled up on his couch, legs tucked under you, some random movie playing that neither of you were actually watching.

Clark was warm beside you. Solid. Safe.

You were halfway asleep when he kissed the top of your head.

Soft. Gentle.

“I love you,” he murmured.

step three : completed..?

Your entire body froze.

You looked up slowly, meeting his blue eyes.

They were hopeful.

Sincere.

Guilt slammed into you so hard you felt sick.

“I—” Your throat closed. “I love you too.”

The lie tasted like truth.

You kissed him.

And for the first time since the bet started, you didn’t want it to end.

────୨ৎ────

By week six, you were completely gone.

You laughed with him like it was easy. You felt at home in his arms. You caught yourself imagining things—real things. Long things.

And you told Cat nothing.

She still thought it was all a joke.

Still thought you were playing him.

And you let her.

The day before the end of the seven weeks, you and Cat were in the breakroom.

You were stirring your coffee, staring at nothing.

“You’re really doing it tomorrow, right?” Cat said.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“You tell him it was a bet. I give you your money. Clean.”

You swallowed.

“Right.”

She studied you. “You’re not getting attached, are you?”

You laughed too fast. “No.”

She smirked. “Good. Because he definitely is.”

Your chest tightened.

You didn’t notice Lois and Jimmy by the door.

You didn’t hear their sharp inhale.

You didn’t see them back away.

Until it was too late.

You and Cat walked out of the breakroom, still talking.

And then—

You saw him.

Clark stood near his desk, hands clenched at his sides.

Lois was beside him, furious. Jimmy looked sick.

And Clark—

Clark was crying.

Your world tilted.

“What’s going on?” you asked, stepping forward.

Clark looked up.

And the way his face broke when he saw you—

You had never felt pain like that.

“Was it real?” he asked.

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“Was any of it real?” His voice cracked.

Your heart slammed into your ribs.

“Clark, I don’t—”

“You made a bet,” he said.

Everything went silent.

Your blood turned to ice.

“I—I can explain—”

He laughed. It was broken. Wrong.

“You were using me?” he whispered.

“No—” You stepped toward him. “Not anymore. Not now.”

He shook his head.

“So I was just—what?” His voice rose. “A joke? A prize?”

Tears streamed down his face.

You had done this.

“I fell in love with you,” he said. “And you were keeping score?”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” he said.

And then he walked away.

summary : after a drunk hookup, with your co-worker Clark Kent. You both agree it was just a mistake.. until you both can’t keep thinking about it. So you try .. and try and each time keep getting interrupted.

clark kent x reader

theme : one night stand, angst, fluff, no y/n mention, jimmy and lois cameos, suggestive, almost kiss, 2 povs (clark & reader).

a/n : rewatched friends and i just remembered how cute monica and chandler is. So this is heavily based on the episode where Monica and Chandler first hook up in london. enjoy!’ and new theme!!

divider : @cursed-carmine

The ceiling is unfamiliar.

That’s the first thing you register—white, faint crack near the corner, soft yellow light spilling in from a lamp you don’t recognize. Then the scent hits you: clean laundry, coffee, something warm and comforting.

And then… him.

Clark is sitting beside you, back against the headboard, hands folded awkwardly in his lap like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His hair is messier than usual.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence is so loud it presses against your ears.

You swallow.

Your head aches faintly—remnants of the Daily Planet party, of too many drinks, of laughter and music and Clark’s shy smile turning into something bold for once.

Then he clears his throat.

“This was…” he starts.

Your heart stutters.

You cut in before he can finish. “A mistake.”

The word tastes bitter.

“…This was just a one-night stand,” you add quickly, like if you say it fast enough, it won’t hurt.

Clark nods immediately. Too quickly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I agree. I mean—of course. We were drunk. And it just… happened.”

The air feels colder.

You push the blanket away and swing your legs off the bed. “Can you—um—can you look away for a second?”

“Oh! Yes—yeah—sorry!” He turns so fast he nearly smacks his head against the wall.

You change quietly, hands shaking just a little.

You don’t look at him when you walk toward the door.

“Bye, Clark.”

“…Bye.”

And then you’re gone.

〢clark

He stares at the door long after it closes.

He tells himself it’s fine.

It has to be fine.

You said it first. You called it a mistake. That should make this easier, right?

So why does his chest feel like it’s caving in?

He rubs his face with both hands.

He’s Superman, for crying out loud—he can lift buildings, hear heartbeats across the city, see through walls.

But he can’t figure out you.

〢you

You’ve been staring at the same paragraph on your screen for ten minutes.

You haven’t absorbed a single word.

Every time you blink, you see him.

Messy hair. Soft voice. The way he said yeah like he was trying to convince himself.

You tell yourself it was nothing.

A mistake.

A one-night stand.

So why does your chest feel tight?

You glance up.

And there he is.

Clark is at his desk, glasses on, typing… and absolutely not typing because he keeps pausing, staring into space, then typing one word and deleting it.

You both look up at the same time.

Your eyes meet.

He looks away immediately.

So do you.

〢you

The coffee machine is too loud.

Or maybe your heart is.

You’re pouring yourself a cup when you hear his voice.

“Oh—hey.”

You turn.

Clark stands in the doorway, holding his mug like a shield.

“Hey.”

Silence.

Again.

He clears his throat. “So… how are you?”

“Good. Normal. Totally normal.”

He smiles weakly. “Same.”

Neither of you moves.

Then—somehow—you’re closer.

You don’t remember who stepped forward first.

His hand brushes yours.

Your breath catches.

Clark’s voice drops. “About yesterday… I know we said—”

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

And suddenly, he’s not your coworker.

He’s not the awkward guy who trips over his own words.

He’s the man you woke up next to.

His eyes flick to your lips.

You don’t mean to lean in.

But you do.

Just barely—

”CLARK!”

You jump apart so fast you nearly spill your coffee.

Lois storms in, phone pressed to her ear. “Perry wants that article now, Smallville!”

Clark nearly drops his mug. “Y-Yes! Coming!”

You stare at opposite walls like you’ve never met.

〢you

An hour later, you both are in the storage room.

You’re pretending to organize old files.

He’s pretending to read labels.

You’re both terrible liars.

Clark steps closer.

“Okay, we need to talk.”

You nod. “Yeah. We do.”

He lowers his voice. “Because I can’t stop thinking about—”

You step into him.

“You’re not the only one.”

Silence.

Then—

You lean in.

Slow.

Careful.

Just when your lips are about to touch—

“HEY! You guys seen the extra printer paper?”

Jimmy Olsen.

You leap apart.

Clark grabs a random folder. “Oh! Uh—yeah—organizing!”

You pick up a box. “Very… organized.”

Jimmy squints. “…You guys are weird.”

He leaves.

You and Clark stare at each other.

Then both of you start laughing.

Soft. Nervous. Fond.

“This is impossible,” you whisper.

Clark smiles. “Yeah.”

Then softer—“But I don’t want it to stop.”

summary: You work at the daily planet, and is a nepo baby. People pretend to like you even though they talk shit behind your back. You only have one person that you trust.. but one day you find that person listening to other people say stuff about you?

clark kent x nepo baby!reader

theme: angst, fluff at the end, hurt/comfort, bimbo like reader, no y/n.

a/n: i don’t really like this ughhhh 😞 also this is not proofread oops

〢 masterlist

Working at the Daily Planet feels a little like living inside a glass box.

Everyone can see you. Everyone has opinions. And no matter how carefully you move, someone is always watching, always judging, always deciding who you are before you even open your mouth.

You learned early that smiling made it easier.

Lip gloss reapplied between meetings. Laughing softly when people underestimated you. Letting them believe you were harmless, a little ditzy, a little shallow—because correcting them took energy you didn’t always have. Because fighting the nepo baby label felt pointless when it had already been stamped onto your forehead the moment you walked in.

Most of the office treated you like background noise at best, a joke at worst. Compliments came laced with condescension. Praise, (when it happened), sounded surprised—like they couldn’t believe you’d done something right.

Except Clark Kent never sounded surprised.

Clark asked how your weekend was and actually listened to the answer. He held the elevator when he saw you running late. He explained things without sighing or rolling his eyes, without making you feel small. When people talked over you in meetings, Clark always circled back and said, “I think what she was saying is—” and gave you space to finish.

You was heading toward the break room, phone in hand, already thinking about coffee, when voices drifted out the room. Familiar ones. Journalists you recognized. People who sat just rows away from you every day.

You don’t even realize you’ve slowed down until you hear your name.

“…seriously, she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her parents.”

Your stomach drops.

You stop just short of the doorway, heart beginning to pound as voices overlap.

“She’s nice enough, I guess,” someone else says, tone dripping with false generosity. “But let’s be real—she’s not exactly… qualified.”

A laugh follows. “Total nepo baby.”

Your fingers curl around your phone. You tell yourself to walk away. You’ve heard this before. You know this already.

But something keeps you there.

You lean just enough to peek inside.

There are three journalists gathered around the counter, coffee cups in hand, comfortable in their cruelty.

And then you see him.

Clark stands a few feet away, posture stiff, hands shoved into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t laughing. His jaw is tight, eyes focused somewhere just past the conversation.

“…I mean, she barely contributes,” one of them continues. “All fluff, no substance.”

You wait.

Your chest feels tight as you wait.

You don’t need Clark to yell. You don’t need him to argue. You just need him to say something. Anything. A quiet disagreement. A gentle correction. A sign that he’s on your side.

Seconds pass.

Clark says nothing.

Something inside you sinks, slow and heavy, like an elevator with a snapped cable.

You step back before anyone notices you, turning down the hallway with care, as if moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile composure you have left. You keep your head high all the way back to your desk. You sit down. You open your computer.

You do your job.

But it feels different now.

Every click of your keyboard sounds too loud. Every laugh nearby feels like it’s about you. When Clark leans over later and asks how your morning’s going, you answer with a quiet, neutral “fine” and don’t look at him.

When he brings you a spare highlighter you didn’t even realize you dropped, you thank him politely, distantly.

Clark notices. He always notices.

The day drags. You count minutes. You avoid eye contact. You pretend not to hear the concern in his voice when he asks if you want to grab coffee later.

By the time you stand to leave, your shoulders ache from holding yourself together.

You almost make it past him.

Almost.

“Hey,” Clark says, stepping gently into your path near the archive hallway. His voice is soft, careful. “Can we talk?”

You stop.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did I do something?”

You stare at the floor for a moment too long. Then you look up at him, and the words spill out before you can stop them.

“I heard them. In the break room.”

Understanding hits his face instantly, followed by something like guilt. “You— you heard that?”

“You were there,” you say quietly. “They were talking about me. And you just stood there.”

“I didn’t agree with them,” Clark says quickly. “I swear, I didn’t say anything bad about you.”

“I know,” you reply, voice trembling despite your best effort. “But you still didn’t say anything at all.”

That lands harder than you expect.

Clark exhales, shoulders dropping as if the weight of the day finally catches up to him. “I wanted to,” he admits. “I wanted to tell them they were wrong. That you work hard. That you’re smarter than they give you credit for. I just—” He hesitates, frustrated with himself. “I froze.”

You swallow. “Everyone talks about me like that,” you say. “I thought… I thought you wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark says, immediately and sincerely. “I should’ve spoken up. You deserved better than my silence.”

He steps closer, not crowding you, just enough to be there. “You matter. Not because of who your parents are. Because of you. And I hate that I didn’t prove that when it counted.”

The knot in your chest loosens, just a little.

“…It hurt,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says gently. “And I hate that I hurt you.”

There’s a pause. Then Clark offers a small, hopeful smile. “Can I take you out for coffee? To make it up.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d like that.”

Clark smiles back, warm and relieved.

And for the first time all day, you don’t feel quite so alone inside that glass box.

MASTERLIST

〢 angst - A smut- S fluff- F

clark kent —

⚡︎ - the cat and mouse | A & F

⚡︎ - i would’ve died for you again | A

⚡︎ - you didn’t stand up for me | A & F

⚡︎ - in london? | F

⚡︎ - the bet | A

⚡︎ - oh baby.. | F

⚡︎ - up and beyond..! | A

⚡︎ - the bet - 2 | A

⚡︎ - take off | F

⚡︎ - the shelf | F

⚡︎ - everyone knows .. (except you) | F

──

jimmy olsen —

ᡣ𐭩 - why would you do that? | A