A/N: hey all! It's been a while since I posted anything new, I know. Here's the thing, I love feedback, be it good, bad, or just plain silly. Let me know what you think!!

if you saw the latest episode, then you know Chloe and Jimmy (Olsen, though they didn't come out and say it- but it is, we know it is!) had sex. In my fic, he's the same age as Chloe, maybe a few months younger, so that would make him 15/16 (and in my mind, conveniently happens to look like Adam Brody-the only man alive who could ever possibly bring the bow-tie back to high fashion. And for that, Adam Brody, I salute you!). In it, he's also gotten an internship at the DP.

This is the story of them.

Another A/N: I own nothing, if I did, Lana would be written out entirely…or she would simply be better written. Chloe would have a slough of male admirers, who love her for her strength and her faults, Clark would tell Chloe his secret, and maybe he wouldn't feel so alone, and Lex, I reiterate, would alternately be naked and chained to my—I mean, A A bed, and dressed in a fuzzy man sized bunny-suit. The first is a fetish, the second is just funny. And Clark would mysteriously loose all his shirts. And possibly some pants...and now we know why I am in no way affiliated with the network, or the show. Damn.

The Photograph: In the park

I am not a virgin.

I've never made allusions to the fact that I was, or still am, I just didn't bring up the fact that I wasn't. So maybe that would explain that deer-in-the-headlights look in Lana's eyes when I told her. However that look does tend to be one of her favorites…I guess I can't really fault her though. She is supposed to be my best girlfriend, and whereas I have watched all the Molly Ringwald movies I could get my hands on (as does any normal girl), I still am a little hesitant on the gossip bit of the girlfriends thing.

I don't think it was wrong to keep it to myself.

And so I sit, my comforter lazily draped across my bare knees, running my fingers lightly over the edges of the photo-box. It was a light terra-cotta color, like it was bleached from being left in the sun. The corners of my mouth pulled up in spite of it all. French script covered it, barely recognizable, but that was ok, because if I tried hard I could read it. Painted flowers were strewn about, and it all seems a little corny, and way to girly for the hard-hitting investigative journalist that I try to portray. But a girl's gotta have a vice, and mine, for all its faults, is being a hopeless romantic.

Better than being a heroine addict.

The lid's off now, fallen to the wayside, lying against my thigh. Inside is my summer away from Smallville, mine, my own. No Lana to linger in the spotlight, no brooding Clark Kent secrets, no side-long glances from Pete. It was my dream, and I did all I could to get it.

I worked for Lucifer himself…to give him information on my best friend. I thought I could get away with it, I thought I could just slide by, give him as little as possible, and come out unscathed. Well, I know now how well that turned out. I grimaced slightly.

That summer was my respite. My reprieve from it all.

My hand dips into the box, flicking over snapshots of buildings, summer friends, odd things I still laugh over—the guy who liked to preach in the shopping cart on the corner of seventh and Steven Ave, telling us all we were bound to hell because Spongebob was leading us into degradation and evil. I watch my first Spongebob ever because of that.

I hesitate for a moment, lingering over a picture of me I swear I've never seen before. It's black and white, in the park with the fish pond. I wore a white dress, but the way the sunlight is hitting me, it seems luminous, glowing almost. I'm sitting on the cement wall above the blackish-grey pool, one foot dipping in, lost beneath the water. My other knee is hitched up under my chin, my arms wound around myself comfortably, covered in a cardigan of some indiscriminant dark shade. My head is tilted upwards, catching the light, it glances off my hair; my eyes are closed, and my mouth is stretched in a happy grin.

"Jimmy. You swore you didn't take any pictures that day," I murmur, reminiscing.