@arkhamnist - Tumblr Blog

OH NO! CLARK KENT IS IN LOVE — IS THIS IS? TATTOO. . .

clark kent x tattoo artist!reader.

summary ꒰♡꒱ Clark Kent never cared much about the tattoo world, but everything changes when he suspects he's drunk? he doesn't know yet and sees you. Maybe now he can actually dive into that world.

content warnings ꒰♡꒱ Clark being the dream guy, lots of fluff references, reader and her best friend call each other 'slut', a little shout-out to Jimmy x Kara, a nod to another david character hehe i love the davidverse — blink and you'll miss it, Clark being the antithesis of punk rock, the tattoo is in reference to david and his love for star wars, reader eats meat, and has several tattoos, lots of silly jokes! the real trigger warning here is a mention of Trisha Paytas.

wc ꒰♡꒱ 8.7K

paxton's silly note ꒰♡꒱ this came because I gave myself a full-time playlist of one my favorites band yeahhhhh the strokes, the whole story is full of references to the band!!! like reptilia, and is this it? like I love themmmmmm forever. If u want listen to them while you read the story and pls let me know if u like it, would love to write a second part. ۶ৎ

my ko-fi !

Ever since he could remember, Clark had been raised by Ma and Pa Kent with those famous Southern values they're known for, and at no point in his life did he ever think about complaining. That was the lifelong gift his parents gave him. And then, after finishing up at the dance with his first high school girlfriend, he decided to dive into the real world and head to Metropolis to follow the path he always wanted.

So when he established himself as the great adult he already is, he didn’t have any eye to spare beyond work and his activities as Superman, so thinking about something as trivial as getting a tattoo never even crossed his mind when it came to seeking pleasures; but his whole perspective changed one day when he decided to celebrate another big cover in the Daily Planet at a shady bar downtown with his other coworkers.

It was a bit late, and Clark was walking Jimmy home because neither of them could afford to call a taxi, and since he was the only sober one in the group, taking his best friend home was the least he could do. The night ended so quickly, and even Lois had left at just the right moment because her nausea from mixing so many cocktails decided to stick with her for the rest of the night. Meanwhile, the only thing his best friend could do to avoid passing out was talk about the last date he had the previous Thursday — which, to Clark’s surprise, had been with Kara. As Olsen tried to skip over all the details that any relative would hate hearing about what he called “the best night of the month,” the only thing the kryptonian could do was nod and act like it didn’t bother him that his cousin and his best friend were fucking together.

The sky was shining with more stars than usual, and the waning crescent took the mist around them in its shadow, reminding him of the call he had this morning with his mom because Pa Kent had gone to the farmers' market to sell stuff and Clark wanted to know all the details.

The sidewalk was cold, even for him, and no wonder, a couple of hours ago it had been raining. The only places open at this time of night were the ridiculously crowded bars, which they checked out until they found the one that was easiest on everyone's wallet. Metropolis had its own life at night, but recently, with all the sightings of criminals going around, people had been staying inside, and only the brave ones were out on the streets so late at night.

He listens to his phone, the GPS's robotic voice guiding him to Jimmy's apartment, and just a few meters away from holding his friend by the shoulders again, his eyes stop at a bar he’d noticed before. The long line of people waiting to get in makes him realize it’s probably one of those new places that somehow blow up overnight thanks to Instagram. He watches the bouncer shoo away what he suspects are underage kids, tossing an ID into the dirty puddle on the corner. He sees the group complaining among themselves, and next to the same bar, he notices the big neon sign that says “Open” in that typical green store color. Up above the building, there’s a large sign spelling out “REPTILIA” in shades of purple and black, with a smaller sign accompanying the letters in dark green.

He listens to Jimmy mumbling incoherent words and adjusts him on his arm again to get closer to the shop. His shoes hit the wet ground, and there he sees it—the glass lets him see inside, and he's surprised that a tattoo shop is open to the public at such a late hour. It takes him a second through the glass to realize it's a pretty big studio. There's a woman behind a desk listening to music on her iPod, but he doesn't see anyone else. He notices hundreds of pictures of famous bands on the walls, and all the work materials he can see are black, along with the curtains that he assumes hide the work rooms. He manages to catch the song the girl is listening to quietly, even with the music from the bar next door.

He's curious that a seemingly unimportant shop like a tattoo parlor is open at such late hours. Didn't the owner know Metropolis was going through a rash of crimes? And even more so when he sees the working hours that suggest it closes at 7:30 PM, how is it even open to the public? His protective instincts scream at him to do something, maybe warn the woman about how dangerous it is to keep this business open, but Jimmy's complaints grow louder than before. And as he thinks about heading back to the apartment before Olsen can vomit or worse, his face completely falls.

Clark notices how you lift your eyes from your device to listen to music, and there he sees you. Your look seems surprised, but both of you try to let it slide because there's nothing weirder than seeing two guys on the verge of fainting in front of your store so late, like they want to break in. You try to put on a more serious and scared look in front of the man who clearly seems nervous under your gaze, which Clark notices. He freezes for a few seconds because you keep judging him. Your left eyebrow raises slightly, and all he can think about is that even though he's not drunk — and he can't be — he feels an awful urge to throw up.

If he had followed his gut, he would've rushed in in no time to warn how dangerous it was, but I'd be lying if I said the tattoo studio and you didn't pique his curiosity at least a little that night.

A whole week passes until Clark takes the same route from the bar to your studio, walking at that usual fast pace of his because the idea of going like Superman scared him for an entire day. But this time he asked for permission to leave work early just to visit the store, clearly for safety reasons. Why did it take him so long to muster the courage? After leaving Jimmy in his room, he decided to sleep in the guest room, and from that moment until today at lunch, he couldn't stop thinking about silly ideas about you and your mystery. He holds his bag over his right shoulder and promised himself he would only go in and act casual if you had the studio open. If he didn’t see you today, he swore he wouldn’t dig any further into it because it wasn’t his business, and every time he thought about it he got more than nervous.

He still had a lot of doubts, and deep down he was hoping you'd answer them all because he couldn't sleep. His reports have been vague, and lately he's been getting news through phone notifications and Instagram ads, tattoo studios scattered all over the city, as if you hadn't just wandered into his thoughts without even knowing more than that you use a discontinued iPod.

He kept walking until he reached the same corner where he saw the teens running from the guard the other night, and his chest hurt for a second, just one. He notices the neon red sign that says "Closed" and his pout shows even though nobody else notices. He sees his reflection in the glass, where he can see the whole room with the lights off, and for a second wonders if you were ever real, maybe now he actually had a chance to get drunk on this planet and he was just like Jimmy. Surely you were just a hallucination for his brain, taking control of his entire being as if you’d known him all his life.

His plan wasn’t good enough, and now he feels a bit embarrassed even though no one knows what he did. He turns around and smiles kindly at the bar’s security guard, and he’s thankful it’s empty because that way he can hang out for a bit and have whatever he wants, maybe even call Kara, just to see if it’s true that now he can get drunk and pass out on Earth. He puts his bag on the stand and glances at the menu for a second until he feels someone from the bar approaching. He lifts his head to grab a beer to warm up, and the biggest surprise hits him when he sees you. The menu slips from his hand onto the bar, and he also notices your gaze, you recognized him too, and your lingering look meets his as he hears your voice.

"So it's you," you point at him with the freshly washed glass you're drying and nod as if something he doesn't know makes sense. "The weird stalker from the other night... yeah, I don't think I could have such a bad memory."

Clark coughs for a second and shakes his head repeatedly, now really feeling embarrassed. "Me? Wel... Well I guess I don't really know what you're talking about," he tries to backtrack because he clearly looked like a horrible guy that night, though according to his theory he was drunk and hopes that's all it was, just without the effects of talking loudly and puking all the alcohol from the drinks. "Actually, I'd never been here before... and... and I'd never seen you."

Your big sarcastic smile spreading across your face catches him by surprise, and from the short sleeves of your work uniform, he can see angel wings tattooed on your left arm, along with a cartoon character he doesn’t fully recognize on the other arm. You looked intimidating. "That’s weird, because I swear I saw you the other day... It looked like you wanted to break into the studio with your friend, the thief."

"WHAT?" he drops his glasses on the bar. "I was just looking, I didn’t want to steal from you or anything! I’m a really honest person, I’d never do something like that! Also, my friend was drunk, he wouldn’t have a chance to steal from you. I swear!"

"So, you’re admitting that you got stuck in my shop, huh..." He looks at your right hand and notices some numbers tattooed on your pinky, and for a moment he wonders if it hurt or if you’re more tolerant to pain than most. He thinks you probably should’ve felt it, because the ink running across those patches of skin he’s seen has completely impressed him. He was never really a fan of tattoos, but he never hated them either. Back in his teenage years, they caused quite a stir and a lot of curiosity because he always wanted to show at least a bit of rebellion, but his heart never let him, and it just wasn’t in his nature. He knew his parents wouldn’t make a huge fuss, but they wouldn’t be thrilled either to see their little 16-year-old Clark with a big tattoo on his back of The Mighty Crabjoys; plus, they might tell him he’d regret it, but Clark knew that couldn’t be true.

¡He loves The Mighty Crabjoys!

"No, well... I mean, yes, but it's not what it seems! I would never be a thief alone..." he puts his two palms on the bar to give seriousness to the matter although he knows that probably at this point you are making fun of him "My friends and I went out to drink for a while and I was the only one sober so I had to accompany my friend Jimmy to his home, but before passing by his apartment we found this bar and I just saw the studio open"

Your eyes stare at him intently, and with every word he said, you just nodded with a growing smile. Maybe he explained too much, and you didn’t even care what he did before ending up stranded like a completely lunatic in the store.

"And what do you want me to bring you?" you point to the menu that was still between the bar and her hands. "You're lucky there's hardly anyone here; we usually start getting people around 3:00 pm."

For a moment, he forgets about his original mission until you turn away for a second to rearrange the glass among the others, and he decides to ignore your request because he remembers what made him nervous in the first place. "So, you have two jobs?" you hear his doubt as you deny it, and he doesn’t even give you time to answer before his big mouth opens again, "Or does your boss at the studio make you work late and in the mornings you do it here?"

"No, no, no," you grab the cloth and start wiping the bar while clearing up the doubt that not only decided to bother him that day, but the whole week. "I don't even have a boss," you laugh as if it were the silliest idea in the world, and for you, it is. "I know the bar owner, and since its recent opening, I've been helping out... Sometimes, and only because he's short on staff."

"So you just work there regularly?"

Your smile softens in an instant, before your expression turns a bit neutral. "If being the owner means working, then yes, I work there regularly."

"How do you manage to do so much? I can barely handle my time, and... I'm just a journalist!"

"So you'll be surprised to hear that I'm also finishing my postgraduate degree..."

He laughs loudly, "Wow..." you don't let him finish before you hit him with a question.

"Which Daily are you a journalist for?"

"The Daily Planet," he nods, like he loves his job, and maybe he really does.

You smile, satisfied. "Good Daily. Honest news."

"Yeah, well, that's what we try," he smiles, and you notice the dimple on his right cheek.

His eyes widened for a moment because he had just created a whole drama in his mind about why a boss would be so evil to keep his workers until such late hours. It seemed ridiculous to him, and even more than that, terrifying for a civilian like you.

"So why are you working so late? That’s really dangerous, did you know that?" His tie loosens a bit, and he puts his glasses back on because he doesn’t want you to hear, he needs you to.

"With the help I've been getting here at the bar, I've been able to have night dates since I don't have time in the morning, and it's also convenient for some people to meet at night."

"It might be really dangerous... For you."

"Now you really sound like a stalker, don't you?" You hesitate before handing them a glass of beer and muttering that the drink is on the house.

"Swear I'm not."

"Your words tell me otherwise."

"No, no, no," he repeats several times, because with just a few words you manage to make him very nervous even if all you do is give him a suspicious look. "I'm just saying... It's really dangerous, you know, because there are thieves everywhere these days."

You laugh before nodding like he's right. "Actually I'm from Gotham, so I get what you mean; I'd say I'm even used to it."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean it's right."

You just look at him before telling him to enjoy his beer and heading off to help another customer, whom Clark notices is looking at you more than any decent guy should. He takes a sip of his own drink, and his question of whether he can get drunk on this planet now remains unanswered; maybe he should come here more often.

To his delight, you were the only artist in your shop, and he’s surprised to see how huge the studio is, although maybe the other side of the glass was playing tricks on him. Even on your studio’s Instagram posts, though, it looked spacious, tidy, and really nice. The name Reptilia is shown along with a phrase he guesses is from a movie, and he notices that you also have open bookings. He goes to your profile picture and finds your name, muttering it to himself because he’s really scared someone might find him at work, kind of like a messed-up teenager with hormones and curiosity through the roof.

He looks you up on Google, and all the reviews don't surprise him because he expected you to be that good. He notices how much of a big deal you've become in the city, even his boss's daughter, Perry, got a tattoo from you. And when he checks out all the photos of your other happy clients along with comments from people asking for any open spot because they wouldn't want to get tattooed by anyone else but you, it totally gets his blood pumping.

Your art leaves him speechless, and that same tingle he felt in his teenage years comes back from the ashes of what he is now: a man eager to protect another citizen; but he visualizes it, and boy, does he. Your light strokes and the way you hold your camera for photos make him nervous. He feels it beyond just an emotion, and it gets worse because he can’t stop staring at the only photo you have where you’re in profile. He checks out all your other tattoos, now recognizes the numbers on your pinky even if he doesn’t know what they mean, notices the beetle on your forearm, and he just wants to keep exploring, exploring, and exploring.

The comments praising your work never stop coming, and happy clients show up with every post with a witty line you come up with, like: 'Pain is temporary, but now you have a little bit of my soul on your skin. Mission accomplished!'

The last post you made was about a client for whom you did a bat that had the texture of their skin as if it were lace, LIKE REAL LACE! And that thrill of excitement never leaves him; for the first time in a long time, he really wants and feels the need with all his might to have your amazing art forever inked on his skin, like it's a secret between the two of you and no one else knows the meaning beyond a post with a clever caption.

He even talks about it with Lois, but for Clark, she just doesn't get it; or at least she doesn't want to.

"Have you heard of Reptitlia?" He approaches her with a cup of the coffee she so hates in his hands.

"What, the song?" Lois frowns and accepts the rubber-flavored liquid. "Yeah, sure, I love The Strokes."

"What song!? I'm talking about that amazing tattoo studio," he bursts out, with that squeaky kid tone when he's shocked, and doesn't let Lois speak because he strides off to ask Jimmy if he knows the studio, not the silly song that probably has no connection to your shop.

Two weeks go by during which he keeps dropping by your studio without fail, and he also can't stop pacing around his apartment because what the hell could he get tattooed? It couldn't be the emblem of his suit since it might make him look like a Superman fanboy, and really, no one but himself would know the meaning. He wants something people notice and know that you did it; the woman who runs her own tattoo studio, also helps run a bar, and is doing a postgraduate degree. Was there anything you didn’t do?

Because now you and your tattoos are a mystery he desperately wants to figure out.

Pinterest, Tumblr, Google, Instagram, those are the places where he looks for tons of tattoo ideas that he could get while lying in his room at night, staring at the ceiling, hoping for a groundbreaking idea that he could have marked on him forever. Where else could it be? On his back would be too abrupt — since he’d probably get something small, on his chest would be too serious because no one besides him would see it, and he wanted everyone to notice the movement of your hand along with the ink that would stick with him for life. And on his foot? No way, it had to be a good spot, one where everyone could admire your work.

And one afternoon, while he's fighting Toyman downtown and gets a toy that he immediately recognizes smashed against his face, out of nowhere he comes up with the brilliant idea that it must be about your new, beautiful tattoo, which only one person could have done; and that was you.

He feels it in the way his heart beats, like a big mystery that takes over him day and night. That thing he has of not just wanting your ink on his skin, he also wants to know every trace of you. He stares at your photo over and over, etched in his brain like a masterpiece. Your skin haunts him, and you tempt him more and more.

He waits without wanting to scare you for anything in the world, even if he doesn't know who's going to your store to check on how you were or if you were busy, he had already seen you and is sure that he would recognize you anywhere; yesterday he went one last time in the afternoon and saw a guy at the entrance talking to someone else. The guy had a piercing on his left eyebrow and was writing in a notebook—maybe scheduling an appointment with you, which makes him even more nervous because now there might not even be a free spot in your schedule. He feels like an idiot for the rest of the day because of this. After lunch today, he grabs his laptop and starts checking your Instagram profile, nervously hits the follow button, and writes hoping you're not the one managing the account, because being embarrassed would be an understatement. He doesn’t sleep until he gets a message asking for the tattoo details and to make an appointment in five days.

Your day is busier than you'd like. You have psychopathology classes from 9:00 to 11:30 AM, then you’re going to see a client whom you’ve been tattooing a broken-winged angel across her back—you’d already done three sessions and still had more to finish. After that, you’d be doing a tattoo for your neighbor, because for the first time in ages, since you offered to do her a small one for free. At the end of the day, you’d help your brother with the bar. It hadn’t even been a month since it opened, and people were still coming in in droves, so even though your tattooing activity had slowed down these weeks, you still had a tight schedule to keep for yourself and your clients.

You greet your worker named Scott, who goes to have lunch in the back of the studio, and you sit at his desk to see if anyone else shows up besides your 4:30 PM client, so you start waiting for something to just happen. You grab your phone and change the music playing in the shop to something else, check out the magazines Scott has about current fashion trends, and just pass the time hoping the afternoon goes by faster; after a while, you notice him.

That blink at the speed of light that you couldn't help but notice since that night and the time you went to your brother's bar. The mysterious journalist kept passing by the shop without any fear of being caught, and you try with all your might to ignore his presence, but for a few seconds, it's impossible not to pay attention to him.

Come on, he's craving that much!

You noticed him from the very first moment you saw him that night; you knew he wouldn't do anything wrong. From that instant, you recognized his face from the Daily Planet, the newspaper you always read without fail, and it was obvious that his face was more than familiar, but you couldn't tell him that or shout across the glass because, objectively, knowing he was a journalist, you still didn't want to say anything and decided to turn a blind eye. He was with a drunk guy, and you didn't know what to do or how to react, so you figured you'd just leave it as it was and tell your brother about it later as a funny midnight story.

And you just let it be, going with the flow and sticking to your routine until your brother had a ballet performance for your niece, which meant you had to open and spend the whole day there with his new employee. But she was just a first-semester student at the local Metropolis university, so you didn't like pushing her too hard; plus, she was only doing it to pay off her debts to him. You knew that neither of them had any real interest, so you started doing everything just to at least keep control of the bar until your brother arrived. A customer here, another there, ordering simple cocktails to pass the time; men in suits bringing their flings, spending ridiculously on drinks hoping to impress, and the worst part is, it works on them. Until you got tired of mopping and started cleaning the glasses, one by one, humming a song until you feel a weight behind you, and you put on your best sales smile so that no one else notices just how tired you really are, and when you turn around, you feel like your breath stops for a few seconds.

You can't help but let out a surprised sigh, and when you see him looking up at you, it's even better because you realize at that moment that he remembered you too; you quieted the screams your brain was letting out with all the neurotransmitters and tried to calm yourself down by putting on your tattoo artist vibe, just that.

You tell him the most selfless thing you can think of because your brain had just suffered an electric shock and all your conversation ideas went out the window, so you let him explain every tiny detail of his night because honestly, he has a way of acting and keeping his presence that no one ever has before. He talks while moving his arms as fast as lightning, and every time he gets excited with every word he says, his glasses slide down his nose, giving him a messy look that makes you think. You analyze him like he’s one of those canvases you dream about, then run to your studio to draw because you’re afraid your mind will magically erase him.

You watch him tell you that he would never be capable of being a thief, and even though you recognize him and his work, you want to keep chatting about anything with him, so your completely trivial questions won’t let go until you decide you’ve had enough of your secret romance that you know isn’t really a romance. But something in your brain creates that spark you don’t want to let go of, so you offer him one of the cheapest beers and move on to another customer who’s been waiting for your attention because you got distracted.

You don’t notice when he leaves, but you do notice when he watches you through the glass longer than you’d like, not because it makes you uncomfortable, but because you realize you both got on the same boat of interest, and it hurts your chest because of that. You couldn’t handle another run-in with someone just to have that adventure end wherever it always does, in a damn adventure because you’re used to people getting bored of you after getting the sex they so wanted.

But it's still tricky for you. Now, instead of buying it weekly, you buy the paper every single damn day when you leave your house, hoping to see his name or photo as a writer in some silly news story of the day. Your brother even starts wondering since when you’ve been reading so much, and you get worried about city news, but you don’t know how to answer him without feeling embarrassed. You just want to know everything about that stranger who has drunk friends, and he, being the younger brother he is, would only make fun of your new fling— which isn’t really a fling and he’s always stuck studying to see if anything happens during the day; that’s how much of a goofball he is.

You decide you need to pull yourself together and calm down over something that won’t go beyond a few glances. You feel like a freaking teenage virgin having her first crush, which is ridiculous because you barely even know his name. You tell yourself a million times that he probably wasn’t even interested in the bar drinks, let alone the tattoos you do. He looks like a nerd, and he probably is work suit, thick glasses that make him look a bit sexier than he actually is, and shiny black shoes like he’s been washing them in the machine for over 100 years. You tell yourself he’d never be interested in a tattoo.

And everything goes on normally over the next few days, you don’t stop giving Scott free time because you feel like the journalist could show up at any moment to mess with your hormones and make your heart race, and one day while you’re finishing cleaning the machines and putting all your tools away, you notice your employee smiling at the store computer like a fool until he comes up to you yelling.

"Do you happen to have a guy hanging around here, or is it because he insists that you be the tattoo artist?" He laughs, leading you to the counter so you can see the series of messages left by the last person you would expect. "Looks like he doesn’t know you’re the only one who does tattoos here." It takes you two seconds to realize who it is, and your look is probably the most obvious you could have made, so Scott notices and doesn’t give you time to dodge his pile of questions, which now scare you to answer. "You know him, right?" he blurts out something like an excited squeal. "Is he your new adventure or something?"

"WHAT?" you yell a few seconds before catching yourself. What the hell was that journalist doing to you? You’re not like that at all, it wasn’t you. "He’s not my adventure or anything like that, I just saw him at the bar, that’s all. I swear!"

"What do you admit you saw him with?" he laughs in your face, mocking gracefully "You're a slut."

"Yeah, but no more than you! I don't even know his damn name, don't make up silly stories."

"Yeah, right, and I'm Trisha Paytas."

Scott shakes his head, and he knows you're lying. You go way back from college, you could never hide a secret from him even if you tried and even if your life depended on it. You were that bad at lying. But you keep your composure as you read every message in the chat bubble. You feel nervous, and even though you knew your heart could race from one moment to the next, you’d never felt it like this before. This stranger freaks you out with just a few simple messages. Even though you haven't replied to them, for a second you think maybe you have, and your imagination runs wild a bit more. Even after you told him you own the studio, he still asks for and craves your presence.

You snatch the laptop from Scott's hands and start going through everything again. You look at his profile picture and keep a serious face, but the photo seems to be of him with who you think is his mom, and your soul leaves your body. There aren’t more photos than you’d expect, and his username along with his bio and a song from some dumb band fascinate you way more than they should. He has a picture from his college graduation, one with his pet, and another with what seems to be his family on a farm. Everything captivates you, from the silly captions to the fact that he doesn’t post much often, you don’t get it and you hate yourself for it.

"I already scheduled you an appointment," says your employee and friend as if it weren't a heart-stopping issue.

You try with all your might not to act surprised, but your nerves blossom, and all you can do is pray to the universe that you don't look as embarrassed as you feel. "So... did he explain what tattoo he wants?"

Scott shakes his head and picks up the laptop, then closes the window you had been staring at like a maniac. "You'll have to find that out... in five days."

"That fast?"

"Don't be silly," he says, taking you by the shoulders and cuddling his hands, giving you a little massage. "You've got this handled."

"Don't be an idiot, just tell me what he wants to get tattooed," you reply, and feel the fake anger you were trying to maintain gradually turning real.

The huff he lets out makes you want to strangle him for a few seconds, but then he explains the tattoo and the spot where the journalist wants to get it, and if that weren't enough, for you it all makes perfect sense.

"Did he seem interested? I mean, from the messages," you ask, planting the doubt, and you know there's no turning back.

"For the tattoo? Yeah, it looks like you haven't read the messages."

"Asshole, you know what I mean." But Scott doesn't let it go.

"What do you want me to say? He's really a big fan of your work."

Now the vein on your neck was sticking out a bit, and you knew he was teasing you, but you couldn't completely blame him; if he were in your shoes, you'd be mocking him every chance you got.

"Yeah, of my work, of course."

Now he smiles like a total cynic and you fall for his trap like an idiot. "Ohhh, you mean if he's interested in you! Wow... I swear I hadn't thought of it that way..."

"Well, that's pretty obvious, dummy..."

"Well, if you want my point of view," he says as he shuts the laptop and watches you turn to grab your keys, "He is interested, and he seems like the type who doesn't get tattoos, so he could be doubly interested."

You let his little game slide, and when you leave the store, you look at the moon, hoping the universe helps and that the five days pass faster than usual.

To Clark's surprise, the five days pass faster than he would like, because now he would see you in a couple of hours and he hadn't practiced in the mirror what he would say or what tone of voice he would use.

He needs more time!

He tells Perry that he has a cold and spends the whole day at home thinking about how to act around you, but slowly comes to the conclusion that he should just be himself, after all, he doesn't think you have a different personality around him. He waits for the time to come and walks to your studio with his nerves on edge. The cold atmosphere catches him a bit off guard, and although he wanted to follow the advice you gave him in a message to wear a short t-shirt, he couldn't because the rain would get him wet, and there’s no way he wanted to show up to the date looking like a homeless guy.

He fidgets with his apartment keys and can't help but buy you a coffee. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how you like it, but black coffee with just a couple of teaspoons of sugar seems to be one of your options, so he thanks the cashier at Jitters for both drinks and heads back to you. As time passes while he's on his way, he gets even more nervous, and when he sees the "Reptilia" sign a few meters away, he realizes there's no turning back — it's now or never. He takes a few deep breaths and walks into the studio, noticing the two coffees, flashes his best smile just for you, and the moment he’s about to say hi, he sees the same guy from before at the desk, jotting notes and humming along to the background music.

Immediately, the guy looks up and smiles politely at him. Clark walks over and interrupts him before he can speak.

"You're Clark Kent, right?"

"Uh... yes, I came to..."

"The date this afternoon, right?" Clark quickly nods. "Is this for us?" he asks, pointing to both cups he’s holding.

Clark doesn’t know what to say, and for a moment he thinks about saying they were for you and him, but his heart won’t let him, so he nods and hands them over, even though it depends on his confidence to talk to you. "Uh, yes, sure, all yours."

The guy chuckles under his breath and gets up to let you know that your client had arrived. "That's great, because we didn't get a chance to have lunch today," he says, pointing to it when he turns around for a second. "Also, you can't have coffee before getting a tattoo, it's like a basic rule," to which Kent nods again as if it were obvious to him, of course, it wasn't.

Dumb, dumb, dumb. Of course he couldn’t have caffeine, it was so obvious even if his blood levels weren’t the most common. How could he not have known? He silently thanks your employee because if he had come to you with both drinks, all he would have done is make a fool of himself. Though for a second, he likes to think that you wouldn’t have made fun of him.

He adjusts his glasses and notices that his hands are a bit sweaty. How could he be sweating? It wasn’t in his DNA to have these kinds of behaviors. He decides to rub his hands against his pants because he doesn’t want you to touch his sweaty hands. You step through what you think is his personal workspace and approach him, probably with a witty comment that would make him nervous, but he just finds you smiling at him. The corners of your lips curl involuntarily as you take his hand without thinking. Your hand is pretty warm, and even though it’s much smaller than his, he feels it quite firm as his fingers wrap around yours.

You tell him your name as if it weren’t already embedded in his brain, then thank him for the coffee, and he celebrates for a second because obviously you like your coffee completely black; in fact, you tell him it’s your favorite and guide him to your studio, not without first giving your employee a strange look that even Clark himself can’t understand. You move through your curtain, and when he enters, he sees your entire studio, notices several art pieces on the wall, and some band posters he doesn’t recognize, but the way you look at him, signaling him to take a seat, gives him the courage to keep talking to you. He sits while waiting for your instructions, and when you approach him, he doesn’t expect you to want to talk to him, but as you explain the process you’re going to carry out and what he just needs to do as if everything were clear, you explain everything with delicacy and passion, reassuring him it might hurt a little, and recommending how to take care of himself to avoid any problems.

"So, journalist, what would you like to get tattooed?" you smile shyly before sitting next to your pencil to sketch whatever he wants, even though secretly you had made several drafts to help for this moment. "Or where would you like to get it?" you act as if you don't know and you didn't beg Scott to tell you because you were going to go crazy.

"Aren't you the one I spoke to on Instagram?" Your voice drops an octave and you feel bad for a second because, just like your best friend teased you that day, you're doing it with the hot journalist, even though you weren't the one he talked to.

Well, yeah, it's me... but I don't always handle the account, Scott mostly does.

You hear him let out a sigh, and you're not sure if it's one of disappointment or calm; you prefer to stick with the second idea until he rolls up his sleeve and points to what he wants. Your toes wiggle inside your ballerinas, and you know that what he's about to ask is the silliest but also the sweetest thing anyone's ever asked you to do.

You notice his arm and wonder if he works out after work, he probably does, and honestly, you haven't seen any other journalist with his kind of physique. He moves his knees against the seat, and yours touch his for a second; you decide not to take it too seriously.

"I want a tattoo of the hilt of a lightsaber, similar to Luke Skywalker's," he leaves the answer in the air before observing you more clearly: "You know him, right?" to which you nod and wait for him to finish speaking: "I wish it was in black ink, and small... Maybe about 5 to 7 centimeters, you can make them the grip bands, the metal rings and also the activation switch on top of the tattoo... Only if you can, of course"

Your sketchbook looks at him as if you hadn't thought about it since you knew what he wanted, and you just hope your expression isn't too obvious. You smile a little and tell him he can wait there seated while you make a few samples to show him.

He stays seated, waiting while you combine all the previous sketches you've made, and you start talking to him. He seems nervous, and you think he might be; you joke, saying it's normal for beginners, but when he tells you he's not nervous about the tattoo or the pain it might cause, you don’t know how to respond, so you ignore that growing feeling in your chest that speaks like your little evil devil on your shoulder, telling you that he, like you, is interested. You wish you didn’t believe it with all your might, but your state of disillusionment is way too excited; it's jumping for joy and external confusion.

When you hang out while working on the design, you bring up any topic of conversation, and he keeps talking about how he left his family farm to come to Metropolis and study what he's always wanted, even though he never misses visiting his parents and taking care of the cows one by one during vacations. You show him the largest sketch you've made, the thin lines manage to stand out against the shape of the lightsaber, and the details of the rings captivate him in an almost silly way. He has no words to tell you because you've left him stunned and he just wants to tell you that you deserve the success you have as an artist because every stroke and shape you give your work, he hasn't seen in anyone else. The only thing you end up doing is looking like a winner to him, and he wonders, 'How do you do it?' You don't know him well enough to have such a big effect on him. He decides that if he likes the design and shows you the arm he wants tattooed, you ask if he's ready, and the murmur he lets out hits your cheeks along with his mentholated breath.

Clark wonders what it is about your personality that makes you able to turn a heart as strong as his. He feels sick but at the same time so safe with you. He feels the glove in your hands as you guide him, and lets you adjust his arm to clean the area properly. He smells the antiseptic through his nostrils as you start preparing the skin. You ask if he’s still nervous, but he can’t answer; he’s just waiting for you to get started so he can take in the whole situation.

I'm going to shave the area a bit... You know that already, right?

He nods, relaxed and sees you taking the disposable razor and then passing the blade with a softness that even he himself did not believe, you touch his skin and although he cannot feel your fingers as he wants, his brain sends messages to his whole body making everything seem as if it were a personal secret between you, and even if you followed all the rules with each of the clients, you made them feel beyond, as if it were an intimate act. You disinfect the area again and when you are going to place the insole in the area you notice how your fingers tremble slightly, by inertia he raises his arm towards you and takes you by the wrist, he is surprised for a second when he makes that movement, he notices how you stop because of your nerves and look at him with those eyes that remain so many in his mind.

You look at him and Clark feels a bang, he knows that what he did even though he didn't have a sexual assignment, it came to both of them and there was no way to hide it now.

"I think I should be the nervous one..." he says as if it were an open secret between you, moving his thumb over your pulse, waiting for you to relax."

Yeah..." you murmur more to yourself than to him, "You're completely right, sorry, that was unprofessional."

"Don't worry."

You take a slow breath and both return to their previous positions, Clark extends his arm to you, and when he gives you the go-ahead you press the insole with the previous firmness that you did not have and rub it with a softness that even surprises you, you decide to warm the skin before removing and ask him if he likes it, although by his face he makes you understand that he does. When he gives you his approval, then you order him to settle down so that no one is uncomfortable and so on. Clark lies down and waits until he hears the hum of the machine approaching him.

He's doing it, he's really doing it.

He hadn’t told anyone that he was planning to get a tattoo, and he can’t wait to show everyone at Planet the reason he missed work today. He relaxes before you start and just lets time pass while the hum of the machine works on his skin, taking the shape you’re giving it. It doesn’t hurt; it feels like a tiny, painless pinch. You even mention that he seems to tolerate a lot of pain, and he responds that it runs in his genes—so technically, he’s not lying.

You get to know someone to the point where they’re surprised at how they act around you, and they tell you about Martha and Jonathan, their life on the farm, and how sometimes interesting it is to live in Metropolis coming from a family of farmers. Occasionally, you notice their Southern accent slip out, and when you point it out, they respond with a completely embarrassed laugh. It doesn’t take long until you finish the tattoo, go over the aftercare process with them again, and give them a kit with some recommendations to keep in mind.

"Do you do all that with your clients?' he asks you, and you hesitate, not sure what he means. 'I mean, you put your heart and soul into every tattoo and then treat them like royalty."

Your laugh makes him laugh too, and you respond with a confidence that his presence seems to melt away. "Well, only to those I think deserve it."

"Good to know," he says, not sure what else to say. When he approaches the counter to pay the other half of the amount he had already paid earlier, he thanks Scott before heading to the bathroom, leaving him alone in the shop.

He thinks about leaving, but he can’t leave without saying goodbye to you. He didn’t thank you the way he wanted, and just as he’s about to enter again through the curtain, you come out, wiping your hands on your pants, and he’s still surprised to see you.

"Hasn’t Scott charged you yet?"

“Yes! I just... wanted to thank you for this amazing tattoo, you probably already know it, but really everything you do is pretty spectacular. I'm amazed at your talent as an artist, and I don’t mean that in a bad way! You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met in my life, and I genuinely feel in love with what you do,” Clark sighs and pours out all those words that honestly overwhelm you, but you thank him when he finishes, and he lunges at you for a hug. He takes all the air out of your lungs as his hand rests on your back. “You’re incredible at everything.”

“Woah, I, well... thank you so much, Clark, I really appreciate your words with all my heart,” you smile, ending the hug. “I’ve also read your articles, and believe me, your writing is flawless; every piece is really amazing.”

"Do you think so!? Thank you very much seriously, it means a lot coming from you, after all you are the great creator of this and that is so much to say" he points out his tattoo more excited than he himself thinks, and knows that he can no longer wait to show it to Kara.

You appreciate his beautiful words, more than anyone else but coming from him is something that although it does not bother you, you prefer that he does not think that way "This is all for you, Clark, the design, the details that made me prepare your design, is yours, not mine. Believe me when I tell you that it was designed only by you and for you."

And that precise moment, Clark feels it, his brain goes through a state of shock and now he just wants to tell you that you are not only the best tattoo artist but the coolest person he knows, every detail of you surprises him even more, and best of all, you are still a mystery from head to toe, that he is even more exalted to know.

"Are you hungry?" he asks gently because he remembered what Scott said about you not having eaten all day since you were busy with work, and he felt a bit bad for a moment that you were neglecting yourself just to take care of your job. "I mean, there's a place that sells amazing shawarmas, and... I'd like you to try them, I'll pay! Only if you want, of course!"

Damn.

You can't say no, you think for a second, of course not. But what can you do? Damn, damn, damn.

You don’t think about anything else because you see the message Scott sent you telling you not to be silly and to go, so you quickly fix your hair in front of him and tell him yes. I mean, why would you say no to going out? It wasn’t part of your plans, but you say yes with all the happiness your body can muster, and he takes you out until he interrupts your thoughts.

"Before we go, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, of course!"

"Does the name Reptilia have anything to do with a band?"

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