#Kent Carter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sobbingscripter · 16 days ago

Text

Tags: [mlw][crack][fluff][reader's their karma][inc. Michael Carter; Lex Luthor; Clark Kent][Lex is like, a lil' inappropriate but not much][Clark is a meet-cute][drabble][multi-shot]

Interviews have always been Michael's favourite part about being a superhero. Alongside the adoring stares and the lingering touches of pretty journalists, Michael got to partaking in his favourite hobby:

Yapping about himself.

"I've got an interview on Titty Talk." Michael boasts, gloved hands resting on his carved hips, muscles bulging in his freshly dry cleaned suit, smelling like fabric softener and expensive tastes. Golden strands perfectly styled, curtain bangs framing his face perfectly, glittering blue eyes and the rest of the Justice League could swear he wasn't THAT tan yesterday.

"Don't do it." Bruce barely looks up from the computer, gloved fingers flying across the holographic keyboard, Victor standing at his side before grinning down at Bruce. "Nah, Batman. Let him learn."

Bruce let's out a little huff, conceding and internally amused at the fact that Michael would willingly be emasculated on national television, but the twinkle of amusement in his eyes is hidden by his cowl.

Victor glances at Michael, sepia skin a perfect contrast with shiny silver, and he grins, dimples deepening in chiselled cheeks.

"I wanna get one last look before you lose your nuts." Victor snorts.

"She's gonna eat you alive." Barry interjects with a giggle, an apple clutched in his hand.

"No she won't." Michael dismisses them with ease, plopping down into one of the seats at the table and glancing lazily towards where Bruce and Victor are gathering data on the next mission.

"She will." Clark drawls, stepping into the hall with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, worn and half of the Doc McStuffins caricature scuffed away from years of use. "You think I need more than 5 minutes to end a space fight?" He lets out a scoff. "I take a while longer. That way, I'm late to the interview and she doesn't wanna do it anymore."

Clark brings up a hand, a calloused finger tapping his own temple.

"Weaponized incompetence."

"It can't be that bad." Michael huffs.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

"Booster Gold, are you aware that your suit is actually orange and blue, instead of gold and blue?"

This is bad.

This is really bad.

You're giving Michael an identity crisis and he just sat down, muscular hands rub along the bulging muscles of his thighs as he shifts in his seat, gloved fingers interlocked and clasped. And he hums.

"Uh... It was hard to get something accurately gold so I picked this shade. It's bright, it's bold, it's Booster." He gives you one of those dazzling smiles, dimples popping and teeth glinting in the lovely (and flattering) light of your studio.

It's less bright than any other and it makes him a bit more comfortable than he thought light could ever.

"Shein has realistic gold shades."

"Well, I can't buy my hero suit from Shein, now can I?"

"Do you have something against Asian-owned businesses, Mr Booster Gold?"

Michael's mouth falls open. But no. No, he won't get caught off guard by you. He trained for this.

And by trained, he means he took that vigorous pep talk from Victor before coming on here.

It wasn't useful but by God, it was inspiring.

'Don't look her in the eye. She will emasculate you. If you do look her in the eye, she'll take that as a challenge and emasculate you. Don't try to charm her. Play to the audience, not to her. You'll never play to her. Ever.'

Now that Michael's looking back on it....

It wasn't inspiring at all.

That's the kind of advice you give someone who feeds tigers in a zoo.

"Uh, no. I'm just against fast fashion." Michael answers with a smile. "Most of the clothing ends up in landfills, getting burnt and harming the ecosystem."

He's doing good.

Michael glances towards the clock on the wall and his fist clenches the tiniest bit.

'Jesus fucking Christ, it's only been 3 minutes!'

Michael continues to stare at you as you speak and he's zoning out. He knows he shouldn't but when you're not berating him, you're not half bad.

Pretty eyes that lower to read the questions and notes on the pastel clipboard in your lap, long lashes that flair in just the right ways and perfect, pouty lips that purse when you're trying to come up with how to word your sentences.

No wonder you're so fucking popular.

You're absolutely candid.

You say whatever you want, as soon as it comes to your mind.

Michael shifts in his seat, his impressive height giving him the lovely advantage of catching a glimpse at your clipboard. Only to find the page completely empty, instead, having a little dick drawn onto the page instead.

It's adorable and Michael's lips twitch as he watches you absentmindedly draw the accessories.

A Santa hat, little boots and gloves.

"Give it a belt." Michael hums softly and he watches your hand still, eyes glancing up at him and for the first time ever, he watches the way those eyes fucking shift. And it's like slow motion to him.

Watching the way they soften, the way your lashes fan out so perfectly to frame your eyes. Those pretty, fucking doe eyes.

But it's as gone as soon as it was there, being replaced with the Cunk of superheroes. And you've got that blank, empty stare once again and you shift, crossing your legs over one another.

"Rumour has it, you're in a committed relationship." Your voice breaks the silence in the room, and you lean against the back of your chair, your snowy cable knit sweater looking so cozy and demure against the pastel shades of your seat. "Are you?"

'Finally, a normal question.'

Michael smiles one of those dazzling smiles, letting out a charming chuckle before carding his fingers through his hair and he shifts in his seat, muscular thighs spreading and flexing.

"No, I'm not."

"I can see why." You mutter under your breath and you nearly let out an actual laugh when you watch the way Michael's face falls. Brows relaxing, lips parting just a bit as he stares at you.

You can swear you watch the sparkle leave his eyes.

"Hmph."

That's the only sound that leaves Bruce as he brings his mug to his lips, the bold printed '#1 Dad' hiding the smile that threatens to break his composure.

Costume clad heroes all surround Bruce's seat, multiple sets of eyes locked on the screen, all collectively taking a sip of coffee, each having their own mug.

Each time Diana lifts her mug, the grinning face of Zapp Brannigan peeks at the screen, cocky grin greeting everyone and each time Barry moves to take a slurp, Megan Fox's sultry face makes its appearance.

Barry does a double take, glancing at the mug in Victor's hand before letting out a snort.

"What's with the cup?" Barry snickers and Victor examines his mug. "Dave Chappelle as Batman."

"Is it true that you are a closeted homosexual?" You question with a hum and Michael slumps in his seat, dragging a hand over his features.

Only 20 more minutes, he should be able to soldier through this.

"No. I'm not." He hums. "While I support the LGBTQ community, I'm not a member. I like women."

"Then why don't women like you?"

Michael's trying hard to not quit this interview halfway. He would've done so already if you weren't giving him that face that makes it look like you're asking genuine questions, your face framed by your hair and your eyes wide and expectant.

"Women like me." Michael reassures with a self-assured scoff. "They like me a lot."

"Where are the women who like you?" You question, before glancing around the studio. "Where?"

This is antagonizing and Michael's not kidding when he says he can hear the laughter of the other people who work on the set. Snickers and giggles alike, and brilliant eyes narrow at you when your lips part again.

Michael's expecting a question that would actually make him quit halfway.

But all you do, is let out a sneeze.

It doesn't sound like a cute kitten sneeze, or one of those Disney sneezes. It's masculine and raw, quiet but very clearly happening.

"Bless you."

Michael's voice is a gentle timbre, low and inviting, as he tilts his head as he watches you before crossing his arms across his chest, biceps bulging and flexing with the motion.

And your mouth goes dry.

"We're gonna take a quick ad-break before continuing the rest of the interview." You give the camera a polite and gentle smile, and when the director yells 'cut!', you pull the earpiece out of your ear and you let out an exhausted breath, lips parting to let out a hot puff.

And the lights dim for a moment, before you glance towards Michael, regarding him with a cursory sweep over his body.

Tall, muscular and gorgeous, toned like a Greek God.

"The questions are gonna get worse, by the way." You hum at him, your lips twitching into a grin.

And Michael melts at the sight.

"Yeah, whatever."

Lex understands that he's a very, very bad man.

He does evil things.

But nothing warrants the fact that his new P.A is a complete and total pain in the ass.

He's attempted to fire you 4 times already, but each time, you just come back and he finds you seated in that office right next to his, the glass wall separating the two of you.

The worst part about you, is the fact that you don't even pretend to look busy.

You just... Sit there. Clicking keys and moving your mouth around on that stupid Chicken Little mouse pad.

Lex let's out a breath, steely eyes shutting for a brief moment before he clicks the button on his desk, watching you shift in your seat as you wait for instructions.

"A coffee, please. You know how I take it."

"Your coffee's on the way, Mr Luthor."

You've got such a sweet voice, the kind of voice that he likes having relay his day's schedule to him. Pencil skirt, silk blouse and perfect heels. Sometimes, you wear tailored dress pants and God, it just does something to h—

Lex watches you, his lips parting in pure, unfiltered shock as he watches you pick up the to-go coffee cup on your desk, taking one last sip of your coffee before walking down the passage and you enter his office. Placing the coffee on his desk, and you give him one of those lovely smiles.

"This cup is half." Lex comments, staring at you through his lashes, expression slowly hardening because how the fuck do you have this level of audacity.

"I got you half a cup." You lie. "Call it assistant's initiative to protect your sleeping habits."

"This coffee's cold."

"So you can drink it faster. A chilled coffee for a man on the go."

"This coffee was yours."

"I'm a woman on the go."

Lex has to admit it. You'd make an excellent politician with the way you talk shit so easily, the skill comes to you naturally.

And Lex let's out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Get me an actual coffee."

When you do return with his coffee, steaming and hot in your filled hands. One of those plastic little rowers that they give you to stir your to-go coffee, a doughnut, a plastic container with your pinkie tucked into the hole that pierces the tabs you use to open it up and your car keys between your lips.

You set everything down on Lex's desk, and he lets out a hum.

"Did they stir it?"

And he could actually catch flies with how wide his mouth falls open when you pop off the lid of his coffee, and stir it with your pinkie.

Worst part is, it's the pinkie of the hand that's holding the spoon-thing, and you lick your digit, nodding your head.

"It's good."

Lex tries to make the least use of you through his day, he really does. For fuck's sake, he even went to the printer himself. Ignoring the gawking gazes because why would he have to do menial tasks himself when he has an assistant.

Lex gives a practiced grin to the man in the seat across from him.

A potential client who's been here for exactly 8 minutes and Lex's easy going facade nearly shatters when he hears that beep that indicates you're using the intercom.

"Mr Luthor, your 10 o'clock is here." Your voice is the epitome of usefulness but God, you're the complete opposite. And Lex glances at you through the glass, finding you staring back at him expectantly and he presses the button on his own desk.

"I can see that. Because he's in my office."

Lex's frustration bleeds into his tone, annoyance and seething temper threatening to take him over but he can't get up.

Mainly because your insolence gives him an erection that shames the socialites that Lex usually finds himself alongside in the tabloids.

Painfully aching and dampening the taut fabric of his boxers, but Lex continues the meeting with ease, trying not to glance in your direction as manicured nails tap on the keys of your mouse as you play....

What are you playing?

Stretching his arms overhead, Lex leans back in his seat in an attempt to peek at your screen and he merely catches a glimpse of himself in Sims. The sight which brings a cocked smile to his lips before turning his attention back to the client.

The meeting goes well, exceptionally so and it's only when Lex rises and has his hand gripped in a firm handshake when he realises he's wasted an hour of his time.

"That assistant of yours." He whistles. "I'd love to break her in."

Lex's grip increases tenfold, the veins of his hand and forearm bulging beneath his lightly bronzed skin and he runs his tongue over his teeth.

And he makes a certain tilt of his head that has Mercy peeking her head into his office, monotonous expression indicating that she already knows what her job will be.

"Mercy will escort you to the parking lot." Lex gives a pinched smile.

It's only when Lex receives that simple 'thumbs up' emoji, that he relaxes in his seat, head tipping back and he lets out an exhausted groan.

And he reaches for his coffee, his palm suspiciously cold and he lets out a sigh.

Before taking a drink of your cold, half-empty coffee and being able to taste the hint of your lipbalm on the mouth piece just makes Lex's bloodflow problem so much worse.

And that beep rings out again.

"If you keep having that erection, I'm gonna call HR."

"Blow me."

"Right to HR!"

"What— what is this?"

Clark's eyes narrow at the light being switched on, brilliant blue eyes squinted as he stares at Jon, the boy shifting uneasily on his feet as he stares at his father.

"I have a project due tomorrow." Jon murmurs sheepishly, big blue eyes avoiding the stare of his father as Clark slips his glasses on. He doesn't need them but he likes the feel of something perched on his nose with it's legs tucked nearly behind his ears.

Clark let's out a deep breath, carding thick, calloused fingers through thick, raven strands before he glances at the bedside clock.

"Jon, it's 11. At night." Clark grunts out, shifting beneath the covers and he sits back against the headboard, rubbing his temples with frustration.

A particularly gruelling mission left Clark with a harsh headache, with even worse lethargy to accompany the throbbing pain in his scalp.

"I know, but I forgot but the teacher's mean and I don't want her to give me a 0." With each conjunction, Jon's voice gets weaker, tinier, eyes welling up with tears as he sniffles, balled fist rubbing at his nose and his eyes.

Clark let's out a deep breath. Removing his legs from beneath the thick covers, and slipping on his slippers, heading to the attached ensuite and having his late night pee prematurely. The door's slightly ajar, the light of the bedroom peeking into the bathroom just enough for Clark to see properly.

His headache renders him to the weakest species ever.

Human.

"What's the project?" Clark hums sleepily, his hands underneath the running water before he dries them, shuffling back into his bedroom.

"I can't remember..." Jon mutters, nearly flinching at the heavy breath that leaves Clark. A sigh that only an exhausted and overworked single parent can give.

"What's your teacher's email?"

From: [email protected]

Subject: 4th grade project

Good evening, I hope this email finds you well. Apologies for the late disturbance.

I have an enquiry about the 4th grade, class B project.

What is it?

You stare at the email on your screen, letting out a little huff of a breath before answering that they need to make a volcano, seeing as the history curriculum are doing a section on Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii.

Clark let's out a breath, eyelids heavy and the sleeves of his robe are rolled up to his elbows, muscular forearms flex and fingers are covered in translucent sludge as he takes yet another strip of newspaper, layering it one over the other. He glances at Jon from the corner of his narrowed eyes, the 10 year old shifting on his feet, watching as his father completes his project for him.

"Plug in the hairdryer, please." Clark hums softly, watching as Jon basically scrambles to plug in the hairdryer, setting the device on the table and Clark let's out a soft, exhausted breath. Before grabbing the hairdryer, switching it on and blowing the layer dry.

And he stares at Jon the whole while.

The air is thick with tension and Clark purses his lips, occasionally glancing towards the volcano. It's lumpy, conical and it's very clearly rushed, but Goddammit, it's a volcano and that's what matters. He can cover the flaws with black paint and soil.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

You're surprised to see a grown man in your classroom after school, a project in his large, muscular hands, glasses braced on the strong bridge of his nose as he sets it down on the nearest desk.

Eyebags, slumped shoulders and a pointed scowl on his face as he stares at Jon, who simply gives him a toothy and appreciative grin.

"I'm sorry for bringing his project in late. The soil and grass used had ants." Clark states, hands tucking themselves into the pockets of his jeans, fabric stretched taut over sinewy muscles, flannel shirt accentuating the curves of his biceps and his broad shoulders, and Clark's tongue runs over his bottom lip.

Watching as you inspect the volcano, the tip of your pen lifting various (and accurate) plants that litter the base of the volcano, before you nod your head.

It's just a model, but it could be functional if you were to add baking soda. Red liquidy jelly runs down the side of the volcano, mimicking lava and you give Jon a proud smile.

"Good job." And you tick his name off the register, glittery pink pen standing out against the starch white paper and you reach for a sheet of stickers, placing one on Jon's cheek.

A kitty saying 'mewow' and by Clark's surprise, you reach out, placing a sticker on his shirt of a tortoise saying 'you did so shell!'.

"I could tell by the email that you did everything anyway." You give Clark a sympathetic smile, smile lines on your pretty face, hair framing your features so lovely as you look up at him through your lashes.

And placing it on his other pec.

And Clark let's out an exhausted laugh. "Yeah. I did." He hums softly, before reaching out towards Jon, ruffling the boy's hair before snatching his sticker.

"You didn't do shit."

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