kiss me superman !

my guilty pleasure

[superchickss]

my masterlist

18 l college student l dc writer l chronic reblogger l blk l f

last updated: 6/29/2026

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disclaimer: please do not repost my work anywhere nor feed it into ai databases/bots. I'm very strictly anti ai when it comes to my writing. hateful comments will be deleted <3 mlist below

characters :

Clark Kent (Superman)

between the headlines

living under you (one shot collection)

malboro reds (wip)

object of your affection (wip)

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

Kara Zor-El (Supergirl)

Diana Prince (Wonder Woman)

Zatanna Zatara

sigils on your skin (one shot collection)

my favorites

kind and generous clark kent x reader !

sweet mr kent clark kent x reader !

fuck awff rodrick x reader !

best friends brother cousin clark kent x reader !

angel on fire firefighter clark kent x reader !

words of betrayal clark kent x reader !

congratulations on your new improvements dick grayson x reader !

kisses from your past lover clark kent x reader !

icebreaker clark kent x reader !

*can you tell who my favorite character is lmao*

[quakeismyhero]

goodnight i just love her so much and i love the movie so much i haven’t felt this much joy in so long

[superchickss]

Why would I listen to what boring straight white men have to say about the new supergirl movie when obviously that movie was made for gay lil teenage girls - aka me

[superchickss]

supergirl movie came out - time to actually finish my abandoned dc fics

[anon-188]

a bridgerton-inspired series — clark kent

a prince who guards his kingdom by moonlight, and a lady who guards her freedom with ink. neither expects the other, and neither intends to yield. yet when one unexpected dance leads to letters, secrets, and a quiet war of pride, the season finds itself watching a courtship that was never meant to begin—and may be impossible to stop.

✦ Meet the Crown…

His Royal Highness, Prince Clark, Duke of Berkshire

Known throughout the ton for his disarming smile and quiet intensity, the prince carries the image of the ideal nobleman with effortless grace. He is polite, thoughtful, and endlessly patient. Yet behind the soft eyes and courteous bow lies a truth the court would never suspect: when night falls, the quiet prince becomes Berkshire’s hidden guardian, a figure of strength and unyielding resolve known only as The Blue Knight. A ruler by day, a savior by night—and entirely unprepared for the one woman immune to both.

✦ Meet the Quill…

Lady Y/N Y/L/N of Brookend Manor

A young woman society has never quite managed to contain—admired for her wit and quietly feared for the candor she cloaks in elegance. She observes too closely, thinks too sharply, and refuses to swoon simply because a room insists she should. Her charm is subtle, her mind anything but, and beneath her composed exterior resides a secret the ton has never even thought to question: she is The Silver Quill, the anonymous voice whose whispered pages keep the entire ton awake at night… including one very conflicted prince.

✦ read the latest scandal:

series warnings: contains mature content (18+), slow-burn romance, danger/peril, mild violence, secret identities, class/power dynamics, eventual smut.

chapter I • chapter II (coming soon!)

disclaimer(s): while i did do some research for the regency era, this story will not adhere strictly to historical accuracy. some details may be stylized, inconsistent, or intentionally anachronistic for narrative effect. // any images used are for aesthetic purposes only!

taglist: open! | notes: after four long months, it’s finally here! i’m so excited to share this with you all. please let me know what you think—i hope you enjoy it!! <3 (p.s. the aesthetics may change later. tumblr kept flagging the images i originally wanted to use, so this is the best workaround for now!)

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | all writing, layouts, and designs are my original content. please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

dividers are mine; images are from pinterest!

[marwrite]

i keep thinking of clark kent x bsf!reader where clark is so touchy and sweet with her but she tries not to read into it too much because he’s always been like that. maybe a little angsty even….

hands full

wc: 3k

Clark Kent is clingy.

He’s loving. He always has to be touching you, doing stuff for you, near you; whether it be leaning in for a hug first, or a coffee in your favourite mug before both of your alarms have even gone off.

It feels like just yesterday when you moved in, his deep voice asking you over the phone if you were okay and if you needed any help even though you’d only ever met him once at the apartment viewing. He’s touchy in the best way yet never seems to overstep any boundaries, something you both love and absolutely despise him for.

But recently, you noticed, he’s been even worse.

Not to say it was entirely a bad thing. Gut-wrenching, sure; painful, a thorn wrapped rose that made your head spin and your hands shake whenever you thought about it for too long.

Who could blame you? Your nervous system simply couldn’t tell the difference between a gun to your head and Clark’s soft lips pecking your cheek. It’s a zone that feels both like war and peace; with you, quivering right in the middle of it.

You moved in precisely three years ago. And in those three years, you learnt that you didn’t actually mind living with a man too much. Sometimes, it even proved helpful- like the time you’d texted Clark about a creepy man following you home and he showed up not even five minutes later, face flushed and tie blown to the side.

“Got caught up at work, sweetheart. Sorry.”

The creepy man veered down a separate path altogether, leaving you and your hunk of a roommate to walk the rest of the way in a comfortable silence.

You'd asked him how on earth he got to you so fast. He tried to lie- you could see it in his face, the struggle against the truth- but he ended up confessing everything to you regardless- only four months into living together, three months into a friendship that was getting closer and closer by the second.

Clark Kent, you decided right then and there, was safe.

Is safe.

Will probably always be safe.

Clark is steady hands on your shoulders when the world tilts too fast. A pat on your shoulder and a kiss on your forehead when the deadlines loom, when the weather shifts, when nothing's going right and the weekend just feels too far away.

Clark Kent is warmth without expectation, affection without teeth; the kind of man your mother would trust alone with you at night, someone Metropolis would swear by even without the cape if they knew him like you did- hair mussed, sleeves rolled, glasses crooked from dozing on the couch with a book splayed open on his chest.

And he’s yours. In the way roommates are. In the way best friends are.

So, you ignore the way he lingers.

It’s small things at first. They always are. His hand resting at the small of your back when you’re both waiting for the kettle to boil, fingers warm through your shirt, grounding.

I’m a cold man, he chuckles when you ask, and you’re super warm, even though you’ve never known him to be anything other than red hot. The way he instinctively reaches for you when you laugh too hard, like he’s worried you’ll tip over from the force of it.

How he says your name- slow, careful, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth every single time.

You tell yourself this is just how Clark loves, shows his gratitude. Openly. Generously. Affectionate with his whole body, romantic with his very existence.

You tell yourself you’re not special. He’s touchy, but that’s how he always is. He holds an arm out for Lois to take when the stairs are too steep and she’s in heels; nuzzles Jimmy’s hair when his photos get on the front page. He even brushes Cat’s hair out of her face- albeit reluctantly- when she’s rambling and it starts sticking to her red lipstick.

“Thanks, Clark.” they all grin, before going back to whatever it is their doing without a care in the world.

But still, your heart doesn’t listen.

There’s a morning- one of many- where you wake up to the smell of coffee and the soft creak of the apartment settling. There’s a stale taste of toothpaste in your mouth and your hair is tousled beyond belief, so your pad into the kitchen is reluctant; slightly humiliated once you see Clark standing at the counter in an old Smallville T-shirt, holding your mug with a smile.

“Morning,” he says, voice still low with sleep. “Made you a mocha.”

You blink. “You didn’t have to-”

“I know,” he interrupts gently, already handing it over, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. “I even used that oat milk you like. You’re right, it does taste better. I've added it to next week's shopping list.”

Somehow, it doesn’t occur to you that you haven’t bought that oat milk in months. Haven’t even seen it on the supermarket shelves the past few weeks, because the store keeps selling out and the stock is apparently very hard to find.

And yet here it is; mixed in lovingly with your three-shots of espresso, two pumps of chocolate, one pump of vanilla.

He watches you take the first sip like it matters. Like it’s important that you like it, and he simply won’t be able to function or know what to do with himself if you don’t.

When you swallow and your shoulders relax, Clark’s smile is immediate.

You dismiss the devastating way he looks at you entirely.

There’s another moment on the fire escape one evening, summer heat clinging to the air. You’re sitting side by side, knees brushing, sharing takeout from the same container because neither of you felt like washing extra dishes.

“Just let me feed you,” Clark frowns, brows furrowed towards the clumsy way you hold your chopsticks. One drops onto your lap in a fickle attempt to pick up a piece of chicken.

Your eyes narrow at him. “No. You put too much food on the sticks.”

“At least I’m getting food on the sticks.”

You push him slightly and like always, Clark pretends it does something. A faux wince flashes across his face as you bite back a laugh, finding the whole thing to be ridiculous and frankly, quite endearing.

He feeds you anyway. Eventually, you give up, and your forgotten sticks stand neglected in the corner of the container as Clark fights to soften the smug grin on his face.

And at some point, his hand finds your knee.

It doesn’t move, nor does it squeeze. It just stays, heavy and reassuring, as his eyes flit towards the horizon and the sun setting slowly behind it.

It’s beautiful. Clark is beautiful. Purity in human form, the very notion of lawful good personified; sitting cross legged on your fire escape like the entire weight of the world isn’t on his shoulders.

He sits and breathes and moves through life like he’s nothing more than a clumsy reporter with stories to edit and amendments to fix.

You know different, of course. Much different. But you bask in the way he masks his double life regardless.

You don’t say anything, heart beating too fast to come up with a new topic of conversation. Clark doesn’t speak either, and you both go back inside an hour later with numb legs and a chest that feels too tight.

Inevitably, because you're you and Clark is Clark, the topic of dating comes up one night without warning.

Just a general conversation starter, something to talk about; as simple and irrelevant as what you had for lunch on Monday.

You’re funny like that, Clark always says. You hate small talk and any mention of the weather annoys you greatly- but you’ll happily talk someone’s ear off if it’s personal enough for you to pay attention to.

“When did you find out you had powers?”

“Do you ever use your x-ray vision for… weird stuff?”

“What’s your type?”

“What was the first film you ever saw and loved?”

“It's not true, is it...? The harem thing?”

“Are you… a virgin?”

Clark was specifically horrified by that one.

You can still remember the way he choked on his drink when you asked him. Bless him, you thought at the time, offering a napkin and a slight pat on the back as he tried to gather himself. You made a mental note not to spring such queries up on him like that next time- maybe wait until he fully got through the front door.

Nevertheless, much to your misfortune, Clark said no.

And your google search consisted of bleach for the brain and self-induced amnesia straight after.

Now, however, that mental note ceases to exist as you both sit, half-curled on opposite ends of the couch, the city humming through the open windows. A film about a young couple in love flashes vibrant pictures across the screen- something sad, a girl who can only visit her deceased partner when certain songs play around her.

It’s tragic. It’s depressing. You knew you’d probably cry, and still, you picked it, for no reason other than the fact that the main character vaguely resembled the man sitting next to you.

Neither of you are paying much attention. Clark’s arm is along the backrest, close enough that if you leaned back even an inch, you’d touch him. But you don’t.

“You know,” you say suddenly, eyes still on the screen. You feel him brace, the tone of your voice similar to how it’s been in the past when you’ve asked him intrusive questions, “it’s kind of insane you don’t date.”

He hums, quietly watching the characters sort out some swoon-worthy misunderstanding. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you reply, turning to look at him now.

“How so?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way-“

“Oh, no.”

“No, no!” you backtrack, “Well, I mean- I'm just wondering."

"Hmm."

"You could literally have anyone. You’re-“ you wave a hand vaguely in his direction then. “Well. You know. A lot of women probably find you very attractive. The whole sweet, shy geek thing you have going on."

He shifts, smile small and embarrassed, eyes dropping to his hands. For a moment you think he won’t answer at all.

“I’m alright. Got my hands full,” he says instead.

You snort. “With what?"

He shrugs.

"Work? Saving the city? Your plants?”

“Hey. I take very good care of our plants.”

“Never said you didn't.”

“Hm.”

“So what’s filling your hands then, Superman?” you kid, eyebrows wriggling, playful tone fading. “Since it’s not the plants.”

“You.” he says easily, like it’s obvious. Like it’s a joke, and not something that makes your heart skip several beats in your chest. “You’re quite a handful.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts- overcompensating to make up for the flushed way you currently feel.

“Please. I’m low maintenance at best.”

He looks at you, baby blues studying you for just a second too long. You’re already starting to look away, so you don’t manage to catch the flicker of something warm there.

Something fond and quiet, a little too careful that sits behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sure.”

You turn back to the screen, missing the way his arm drops from the couch and settles, gentle and deliberate, around your shoulders.

After that, you start noticing patterns you didn't before.

How Clark always walks on the street side of the sidewalk. How his hand hovers just behind you on staircases, ready to catch you even though you never even come close to tripping. How when you’re tired, really tired, he tugs you gently into his chest without a word, chin resting on your head like it’s muscle memory.

“Close your eyes for a bit,” he whispers every time.

“You can’t hold me up if I fall asleep.” you mutter back, feeling his smile against you.

“Watch me.”

And once- just once- you catch him watching you.

You’re rambling about something unimportant, hands moving as you talk, and his gaze flickers to your mouth.

He reaches out, brushing his thumb across your lower lip. A singular strand of hair moves and you short-circuit, distracted by Clark and all that he is.

“You had-“ he murmurs, embarrassed, pulling his hand back too fast. “Sorry.”

You laugh it off, heart pounding so hard it makes you dizzy- and that night, you fall asleep on the couch; the sounds of yet another film you won’t remember in two days filling the living room.

You wake up half-aware to being lifted, careful arms scooping you up like you’re made of spun glass. You nuzzle closer without thinking, cheek pressed to his chest, and you swear- you feel him freeze.

“I’ve got you.” is all you hear, before yet another kiss is planted on your forehead and your eyes flutter back shut.

The next morning, Clark’s quieter. His soft eyes melt behind his thick black frames, watching you like he’s having  a mental debate with himself.

“You okay?” you ask him, brow raised.

He’s far too quick to reply, “All good.”

You chalk it up to stress. Work. Life. Anything but the truth sitting right in front of you.

Because up until this point, you’ve convinced yourself that you know him like the back of your hand. He’s as predictable as traffic lights on a quiet day, as obvious as the colour of the sky after rainfall.

If Clark Kent wanted you, you’d know.

Right?

It happens on an ordinary night. You’ve learnt that those are always the most dangerous.

You’re in the kitchen again; barefoot, sleeves rolled, leaning against the counter while he dries dishes beside you. A reel plays on your phone screen, shoulder brushing his arm again and again, the friction prominent, yet he doesn’t move away.

Instead, he turns; broad shoulders boxing you in without meaning to, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. He smells like vanilla and smoke and cedarwood, all good things, all Clark things.

You look up, but he’s already looking at you. There’s something different in his eyes today, you can tell- less patience. Less need to be careful.

“You alright?” you ask amusedly, eyes flickering up from the screen.

“Yeah,” Clark answers, a little too fast.

He shifts, reaching past you for the towel. A thick hand lands at your waist- meant to guide you aside, nothing more, like he’s done a hundred times before.

“Sorry-“ he starts, meaning to nudge you gently out of the way.

But this time, you don’t move fast enough.

Or maybe he doesn’t pull back soon enough.

Your chests brush. You turn, just slightly, to make room- and suddenly he’s there. Close enough that you can see the faint freckle at the edge of his jaw. Close enough that you can feel his breath hitch when he realises it too.

Neither of you move.

His hand is still at your waist. His palm is warm, fingers digging in slightly like they belong, like they’ve forgotten their place and convinced themselves this was right.

“Clark,” you mumble, not too sure what you’re bracing yourself for.

He swallows. You hear it, and there’s no doubt that he can hear you.

His mouth opens to speak, but the sight of you stuns him into silence.

Because without a thought to spare, you find yourself already leaning in. And he is, too, and it’s all happening so fast yet so slow at the same time- and at the end of it all, there’s no clear line when it happens.

Just the sudden, overwhelming fact that his mouth is on yours.

It’s not careful. It’s not scared.

It is deep, and unhurried, and long, like neither of you know how to stop once you’ve started. His other hand comes up without thinking, cradling your jaw, anchoring you there.

Every atom in your body melts into his, your fingers clutching at his shirt, the world narrowing to warmth and breath and the quiet sound he makes when you kiss him back.

You sigh. He whimpers.

Clark Kent is kissing you. You are kissing Clark Kent, your fingers in his hair, his lips hungry on yours.

It’s petrifying. It’s the unknown. It’s three years of friendship, ruined; obliterated, broken, an implode of a million little shards that at this current moment in time, you don’t even feel.

Regardless, neither of you stop it.

Your legs wrap around his waist as he hoists you onto the kitchen island. The marble is baltic beneath your legs and you shiver, falling further into him, his strong arms pulling you in even more.

When you finally part, it’s only because you have to breathe.

Clark rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, as you blink at him dizzyingly. You can’t think straight. Your mouth is wet and dry at the same time, unable to form anything coherent, so you stay silent.

“See...” he eventually murmurs.

You tilt your head to the side, dazed at the single word. His black curls flop forward, brushing against your face as he peppers another kiss or five along your jawline.

Your eyes flutter shut at the sound of his lips, the feeling enveloping you in ecstasy.

“See what?” you manage breathily.

There’s a pause. A tiny smile spreads across your neck; something you can feel more than see as Clark whispers softly, warm hands massaging your waist,

 “Already got my hands full.”

thank you for this request anon :') i hope i did it justice! <3 also this may have to be the new format for any requests, just love how clean it looks esp if it's gonna be a short-ish drabble !!

[marwrite]

how he loves

summary: all the ways clark kent loves you, and all the ways you let him.

themes: head over heels clark, just an excuse to write some fluff! slightly guarded reader, he is so soft and gentle and loving. soft dom clark if you squint. just a drabble! enjoy x

wc: 980

For a long time, you thought love was measured by how much it hurt.

People in your life loved loud. Your parents, howling over Sunday dinner together; big bouquets on the table, long kisses by the window. Your friends, pushing and shoving each other whenever a good joke was told- and your exes, who bought you the world yet could never quite stay long enough to be a part of it.

And with all of that love, came an incredible wave of pain.

Divorce papers in crimson red ink. Blocked numbers and recycled yearbooks donning naïve scriptures of Keep in touch! and BFFLS 4ever. Bruises. Wincing when a man yelled too loud. Bracing your body for impact that it unfortunately became used to.

You had never known what it meant to be loved quietly.

Tenderly. Within the smallest gestures, the softest notions. It wasn’t in your instincts, the belief that love could be so soft, so gentle; that it could be chosen without spectacle, kept without demand.

So when Clark Kent came into your life one day, on an ordinary Thursday morning filled with far too much caffeine and nowhere near enough sleep, you didn’t recognise it at first.

Instead, you mistook it for a silly coincidence. It was just kindness, you told yourself cautiously. A breath of fresh air that would always be temporary.

Because Clark loved you in ways that never announced themselves.

No megaphone, no howling laughter. Just the soft, waiting way he watched you with those beautiful blue eyes of his, how he hovered his broad frame over you in a way to both protect you and take you in.

You were a treasure. A darling. And he was more than determined to make you feel exactly as you should.

He studied you like a difficult article he was tasked to amend; drank your very existence in like it was sunlight after battle. He’d rest his hand on the small of your back in a way that didn’t feel possessive, rather safe; a steady reassurance when rooms felt too loud. He listened with a patience that didn’t rush you toward a point, even when your stories wandered, even when you circled the same fears again and again.

“What if you realise one day that I’m not the one?” you’d asked him once.

You were drunk, insecure, couldn’t think straight. All the awful things that came with an alcohol he knew the flavour of yet physically, could never succumb to.

But in all honesty, you weren’t fully joking.

Yet his eyes darkened as they met yours, the disappointment on his face dawning. “That day won’t come.”

“But what if-“

“I love you,” he’d said gently, hands trailing up your arm, your neck, fingers resting steadily on your jawline, “And that isn’t something I’ve ever needed to figure out.”

You waited a beat. Then two. His smile broke through the furrow of his brows, the sadness melting into sincerity.

“It’s something I am honoured to do.”

And Clark was never the type to believe in words over actions. His Pa told him that every spoken promise was empty by default, holding no power other than the trust instilled in the person being spoken to.

It was what you did after that mattered; because that was ultimately what held any semblance of nobility.

Clark folded himself into your routines without reshaping them. He memorised which light you liked left on at night, which ones felt too harsh in the morning.

On evenings when the world had been heavy, he’d wordlessly turn on something familiar- an old documentary, a black-and-white movie you always half-watched- kneeling over your curled-up body on the sofa so your lips touched, his presence an anchor more than a distraction.

“You’ve been running around all week, sweetheart,” he’d kiss the top of your head gently, ready to give you some peace and quiet by retreating into the other room; only to melt at the sweet sound of your voice, timid, subtly begging him to,

“Stay.”

Clark loved you with his hands.

He knew you cherished the obvious touches, of course, but it was the smallest ones- the absentminded, almost unthinking gestures- where his love lived most.

It was subtle, minor; the way he cleared the counter before your eyes ever caught the mess, tightened the bathroom hinge so it wouldn’t startle you again, checked the weather not to caution you- but to make sure you’d be comfortable.

“Take the umbrella, honey.”

“How do you know I’ll need one?” you’d blinked, before cautiously lowering your voice, “can Superman feel the weather now?”

To which Clark just chuckled, enamoured by your oddity, “Just have a feeling. I’ll put it in your bag, okay?”

“Okay.”

When you slept, he learned the rhythm of you. Learned when you needed space and when you curled closer without realising it. On nights when rest wouldn’t come, he’d trace slow, absent patterns along your arm; never asking you to talk, not even asking you to sleep. Just offering quiet company until your breathing evened out again.

“That feels good,” you’d yawn.

“I know, baby,” he’d whisper gently back, “Now close your eyes for me. I’ve got you.”

At the end of it all, Clark Kent simply loved you without demand or display.

Maybe that was the softest part, you thought; how he never made love feel like a debt you owed. He was nothing like your parents. Your old friends. Your exes who could never hold a candle to the man before you.

He never kept score. Never asked for gratitude. He loved you the way the sun warmed a room; slowly, gradually, without demanding you notice– only hoping you felt safe enough to stay.

And in time, your instincts changed.

Because love, with Clark, stopped demanding you hold your breath. Instead, it became the air you could finally breathe.

[love-lilacs]

marks - knight!clark x princess!reader

He stops. Frozen, thumb running tentatively over your skin. You look down, wondering what’s caught his attention, and then you see it. Right where he had been gripping you, where his ring had dug in, is a mark.

warnings: 18+ mildly explicit content, minors DNI. smut. unprotected pnv (this is cate's psa to use protection). cream pie. marks. slight overstimulation bc come on it's clark. marks. forbidden romance royalty au. shhh its a secret relationship!! i know its short don't hate me!!! based on my text post from last night <33

word count: 1.3k

Your and Clark’s relationship had always been defined by clandestine meetings. It wasn’t often that you were afforded a true moment together without the prying eyes of servants or the demands of either of your jobs. While you craved the longer, more relaxed moments between the two of you, there was something deliciously special about quick entanglements in stairwells and empty rooms.

Much like now, when the two of you found yourselves tucked into a small alcove outside the garden, far from the prying eyes of the people in the ballroom. He had one arm around your waist and the other tangled in your hair, holding your body to his chest while you writhed under his touch. His hips pressed into yours, your dress only barely hiding his cock buried deep inside you. With your skirts rucked up around your middle, you were sure you looked like anything but a princess, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care so long as Clark was touching you.

When he hit a particularly sensitive spot, you tossed your head back and whined carelessly, fingers curling into his dark curls and tugging, ripping a groan from deep within his chest.

“Shh, sweetheart. We need to be quiet… can’t let anyone hear us,” Clark murmured into your ear, emphasizing his words with a gentle nip to your earlobe. He didn’t let up on his pace as he did so, coaxing your body closer and closer to a blissful high.

“Clark,” you moaned quietly in response, burying your face in his neck. His scent propelled you closer to your peak, cloaking you in him. Clark’s hand shifted, the cool metal of his signet ring searing into your hipbone. “Clark, ’m so close.”

“I know,” you felt his voice more than you heard it. “Me too. Let go for me, my love.”

White edged your vision as you felt him twitch within your warmth, his own release creeping closer. He wouldn’t come until you did- you knew that- but the thought of him finishing inside you sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body as you clenched around Clark once more. Stars flickered across your vision as you threw your head back, Clark continuing to whisper soft praise into your ear.

You came quickly, the orgasm wracking through your body like a tidal wave, leaving you only enough breath to whisper Clark’s name and cling to him as though he were the only thing keeping you afloat in an ocean. His movements slowed enough to let you ride it out — shallow thrusts, enough to keep him close to his own release, but not so much as to overstimulate you to the point of pain.

“So beautiful,” Clark gasped into your mouth. “May I?”

You nodded, tightening your legs around Clark’s lithe hips as he resumed his movements. Bliss was the only way to describe what he was doing to you, playing your body like a violin as he chased his own release. It would have been too much on its own, but for Clark, you would gladly push yourself beyond your limits over and over. He might deny it, but he loved being able to bring you pleasure beyond what you could ever imagine, leaving your legs wobbly like a fawn’s and your lips swollen.

“I’m gonna-” Clark breathed. “Sweetheart, you’ve gotta let me-”

You shook your head, drawing his dark blue eyes to yours and hooking your ankles behind him to prevent him from pulling away. “Stay.”

His lips parted as his head fell to your chest, mouthing at the swell of your breast revealed where your dress strap had slipped from your shoulder. Clark moaned your name as he came. You felt his release flood into you, warm as his cock twitched through the orgasm. His ring dug into your hips, the bite of the metal marring your skin.

The two of you didn’t move or speak for several minutes, only exchanging deep kisses as you slowly floated back down to earth. Clark’s grip on your hip loosened, his hands smoothing over you as he slipped from your warmth, while you instinctively clenched and whimpered at the loss of him. He pulled his trousers back into place and adjusted his ring so it sat properly on his finger. Clark then drew you into a soft embrace as your skirts fell back to your ankles, gently tugging your dress strap back into place.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded against his chest, the familiar ache of goodbye flooding your heart as you realized you wouldn’t speak to him – wouldn’t see him – for a while after this. You didn’t even know when. It could be as short as hours. It could be as long as days, even weeks. His fingers traced up and down the bare skin of your backless dress, goosebumps following in their wake.

“I don’t want to go back in there,” you whispered, tears clouding your vision.

Clark’s grip tightened around you as though he was protecting you from the silly threat of a crowded ball.  “I know, my love. But you must.”

“I wish I could stay with you.”

“I’m always with you. Right here.” He touched your heart, feeling the steady pulse beneath his palm. Clark smiled reassuringly as he took your hand and pressed it over his own heart. “Just as you’re with me.”

You brushed that stubborn curl away from his forehead, searching his face for reassurance you didn’t need but desperately wanted, trying to convey just how much you loved him without words- as though a single look, kiss, or sentence could ever contain the depth of your feelings.

Clark knows.

Clark knows, dropping to his knees to ensure your skirts sit perfectly in place, lifting one side to tug your lace panties back where they belong and pressing his lips to your ankles, knees, and hipbones as he goes. He noses at your hip, reverently holding your sides as if worshipping at the altar of your love.

He stops. Frozen, thumb running tentatively over your skin.

You look down, wondering what’s caught his attention, and then you see it.

Right where he had been gripping you, where his ring had dug in, is a mark.

c.k.

It isn’t deep; it will likely fade before morning, and it doesn’t even hurt.

Clark stares at it reverently, wishing he could feel sorry, any kind of remorse, but the sight of your perfect skin marked with his initials nearly drives him insane. It leaves him hard again, wanting to throw you over his shoulder and announce to everyone in that stuffy ballroom that you’re his.

Even though he can’t, the tiny mark fills him with pride, as though he just did.

“Oh,” you say, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

“I’m sorry,” Clark says, sounding not at all sorry as he presses a gentle kiss to it before rising to his feet and once again fixing your dress.

You wrap your arms around his neck. “When will I see you again?”

Clark presses his forehead to yours, breathing in your last moments together. “Tonight,” he decides. “Put a candle in your window if you still want me to come.”

“And you’ll be there? Even if I fall asleep?”

“Sure as the sun rises,” Clark promises, kissing you chastely; a sharp contrast to the mess he left dripping out of you. He pulls away, reattaching his sword to his hip.

“I love you,” you breathe desperately, grabbing his hand and squeezing.

The look he gives you could give you the strength to scale a mountain- wide-eyed and adoring. His smile could power the entire palace. “And I love you.”

Later that night, when you’re both back in the too-hot ballroom - you dancing with the son of a duke from a duchy three kingdoms over and him standing post and watching - Clark can’t find it in himself to be jealous.

Not when he knows his initials mark you in a place only he is privileged enough to see.

[luveline]

hiii can we have clark and his shy girlfriend who’s never had a boyfriend before, so she thinks she has to be ‘sexy’ for him and how he reacts? love

cw: mildly suggestive, fem “Can I come in?” 

“I’m peeing!” 

You’re inspecting a little bump on your leg, actually, that could be a zit but doesn’t really look like one. 

“Yeah, honey, I just need to grab my laundry. I won’t look!”

You roll your shoulders. You’ve been getting used to this with Clark very slowly —how easygoing his love actually is. Doesn’t care if you’re peeing, if you’re naked and unready, if you forgot to shave. Doesn’t mind the way your stomach gurgles at night laying under his arm, or the smell of your hair in the mornings; that not-quite-sweat dampness, he loves it, burying his nose in your neck every time without fail.

And now. You could have your panties around your ankles with a soft tummy roll and he doesn’t care. It’s perturbing. 

“Can’t wait two seconds?” you ask lightly, unlocking the door. 

He’s vaguely apologetic. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to rush you off the pot,” he says, moving you aside with a nice hand to your shoulder. 

“Oh, what?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at his weirdest phrase to date. 

“If you need to go–”

“Clark, stop. Stop, please.”

“Well, don’t be shy about it!” He pulls your slouchy sweatpants back up your hip and kisses your temple. Quick, chaste, and soft. “Got any laundry for me? I’m doing lights.” 

Later that night, after you’ve showered and he’s washed up, his neck still the tiniest bit red from shaving, he sits at the headboard in his boxers with his legs crossed. He’s reading a paperback against his thigh, the pages bent back in one hand. 

It makes your stomach warm. Zinging excitement all over your skin at the idea of being where his paperback is, under that same thoughtful stare. 

You check your reflection in the full length mirror. 

It is terrifying to want him like this, but you won’t be a fool. Clark can hardly be expected to match your mood if you crawl into his lap like a worm begging for a nice touch. No, you have to try to persuade him into amorousness. You check that your shift is falling nicely and move for the bed. 

Clark looks up when you kneel, his face quickly taken by a smirk. It looks funny on him, missing any of the smugness you might see when he’s Superman against one of his boggling villains. He seems boyishly pleased before you’ve so much as opened your mouth. 

“Are you busy?” you murmur softly. 

“Oh, never too busy for you,” he says, rolling it around in his mouth as he places his book upside down on the nightstand. 

“No? I don’t have to persuade you to put things down?” you ask. 

He really couldn’t look happier. Like, he’s ecstatic rather than lustful, though this is often how it starts with him. 

“Nothing in there could be as interesting as you are,” Clark says. He pats the bed in front of him. “Come here? There’s more than enough room for you.” 

You cannot crawl sexily, won’t kid yourself into thinking so, instead walking carefully on your knees until you’re in touching distance, settling quietly, carefully. 

“You’re such a treasure,” he says, more to himself than you as his fingers brush your knee. “Have you always worn stuff like this?” 

“The shifts?” you ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers. “No, not really.” 

“No?” 

“No. I bought a couple when we first started dating…” You flush at the idea of telling him something like this and then tell him anyhow, because you might be the shyest thing he’s ever seen, but you’re also undoubtedly in love with him, and craving to have him in confidence is a constant. “It was exciting, when you asked me to be your girl,” —that exact phrase— “I went online that night to look at babydolls and, uh, new panties and things, I never had to before. I liked thinking about it.” 

His fingers work further down your thigh. “Never had to?” 

“No. You’re my first boyfriend. You know that already.” 

Clark soothes away your puzzled tone with a big hand spread out over your thigh. Shaved again. He rubs at you searchingly, his brow slightly crinkled. “I’d have you in a sack, if you wanted that.”

You laugh. 

He smiles. “I would. You could wear full briefs to bed.”

“Yeah, cos that’d be sexy. Me in my jammies, you’d love that.”

Clark smarts, indignant. “I would.”

You laugh again, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist. “Sure.”

“Honey, I would. I’d love to see you in your pajamas. I didn’t realise you had pajamas, I– stupidly, I thought this was what you’d usually wear to bed.” 

“I’m supposed to be sexy.” 

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so abruptly. Clark wasn’t expecting it either, his lips parted enough to catch a slip of his tongue. Just as abruptly, his teeth snap and his mouth closes, both hands finding yours. “You are,” he says, his mouth such a serious line that your heart feels like it’s constricting in your chest for a moment. “Without trying, you are. With effort too, don’t get me wrong, I– I don’t think I’ve ever had so much blood in one place–”

“Clark,” you whine, unbidden. 

“–some nights, your dresses, those lacy skirts and stuff, that’s all beautiful. You’re beautiful. But don’t think you have to dress up every night for my benefit, huh?” Your face goes so hot you can feel it in your ears, ‘cos his voice is like satin, talking to you like you need it gentle. “I’d just as happily have you in one of my old t-shirts. Or your jammies.” 

“Why are you asking me about this?” you deflect. 

He closes his hands around your wrists with a light squeeze. “You won’t let me in the bathroom when you’re in there most the time, but every night you stand in the door in one of these lovely things and I was just… wondering, I guess. I can be really awkward. I wanted to know if I was overstepping with the bathroom thing, but. Anyways. I have my answer.”

“What? What answer?” 

“You have a complex. I’ve given you a complex,” he says decidedly. 

“You did not.”

“I did. Clearly, I haven’t made it obvious how much I want you at all hours, in anything, and you assume you have to dress up to earn my affection.” Clark dips his head forward, a sweet, dark curl kissing his forehead. “Tell me you like the lingerie, at least.” 

“I do.” You realise you can tell him more, and decide to trust him with a little more truthfulness. “I don’t love shaving my legs every night.”

“No?” His eyebrows rise. “Then don’t.”

“Yeah? You won’t care?”

“Of course I won’t.” 

You hold your arms toward him and he does the same, taking your hips into his hands as you begin the melding ascent into his lap. Clark folds you into him nicely. “And you really don't care if I stop wearing the lacy panties?”

“Honestly? I assumed you were spoiling me. I had no idea you thought I’d care about them otherwise. Wear anything. Wear nothing.”

You press your nose to his neck, withholding a sound too close to a moan at his smell and general solidness beneath you. His arms are a vice around you that you’d rather die than lose. Especially now he’s letting you say goodbye to headrush-showers and the two hour delicates wash on cold. “Promise?” you murmur.

“I promise.” 

Clark proves it with a gift just a day later: a five pack of granny panties and pair of pajamas two sizes too big, for your ultimate comfort. He still finds a way to get you out of them, though, citing an intrinsic sexiness about you that you’re more than happy to oblige him with. 

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[marwrite]

chipped ceramic (ii)

summary: after a shocking revelation that the man you've been falling in love with and your best friend are the same person, you attempt to shut the world out. but while clark kent understands, kal-el fixates; and it's not long before you practically have a god on his knees and your heart in his hands, begging for forgiveness.

clark kent x fem ! reader

themes: part two of chipped ceramic, kinda angsty, very sweet, clark is heartbroken, you're ofc so blunt and bold in the best way, yearning. enjoy! x

one | two

You hate running. And you hate Kal-El-ark Kentman even more for making you run.

Your lungs are burning, legs on fire. There's a thrumming sound in your left temple and your foot is soaked in his stupid large black coffee. You don't really have a destination in mind, but you'd decided as soon as the cup dropped that you just needed to get far away. So, you run.

Which is stupid in itself, because if he really wanted to, Kal would track your heartbeat and fly to your exact location. But he doesn't. He could send you a text, leave a missed call, grovel and beg and plead for you to let him explain- but he doesn't do that, either.

And you don't stop.

You run until you can't bear the weight of it anymore; until the exhaustion fills the grooves of your brain and the pain is nothing but an aching throb. Mentally. Your body feels like it's going to collapse.

It's takes a while for you to get home, and the stumble through your front door is fuelled by both relief and hurt.

You want to scream.

You want to kick something, grab something and throw it at something else- but you just flop onto the sofa instead, tear-stained cheeks smushed hard against the cushions. Sobs rack through you- unhurried and pained- trembling arms wrapping themselves around your shaking torso.

How could you be so stupid?

The signs were there. The exclusive interviews, the way Kal would never pick up the phone on the first ring. Every time Clark blushed over a compliment on his article, a mention of his most recent interview with himself- it was all finally making sense.

He lied to you. Looked you dead in the face and said it was just him; Kal-El, all the time, no disguise to tide him over in between missions. You believed him. Everything he said, you believed, because you loved him and cared for him and wanted nothing more than to be someone he could turn to.

Little did you know, Kal already had people he could turn to. A lot of them. Jimmy with the Caramel Macchiato, that pretty woman called Lois that came into the café every now and then. He had this whole other life that you'd never been privy to; had never even had the privilege of being a part of.

It was like some sick, twisted joke that had been unfolding for months- one you didn't realise you were a part of until the very end.

Sleep comes pained. And your eyes flutter open at precisely 11:03am the next day.

Outside your window, Metropolis thrives. The copper tang of exhaustion fills your mouth and you grimace at the taste.

If this was any other day, you'd already be at work; listening to Lorna's ideas for the weekend and watching Claire's distaste for them all. You'd hold a ceramic mug close, half full of an oat flat white, eyes glancing every now and then towards the clock. Just waiting, watching- for none other than Clark Kent to walk through the doors.

Your phone lies abandoned on the floor next to the coffee table. You fumble for it, fingers hitting a contact number you've only ever used for dumb questions and questions on missing stock.

Michael's grumble sounds over the speaker. Immediately, you can tell he's not in a good mood.

Great.

"You're late, kid."

You rub your temples, willing the dull pain to disappear completely. He doesn't sound too happy, but can you blame him? You were supposed to start two hours ago.

"Two hours late." he repeats.

"Sorry, Michael," you croak, surprise filling your features at how broken your voice sounds. "I... won't be able to make it in today."

You murmur an apology, sincere and low-spirited; so unlike you that you can hear him sitting up in his seat. An excuse falls from your lips that you neither rehearsed nor planned, and all you can do is hope that it's enough for him.

Michael pauses. So do you. Slowly, he asks you if you're okay, and even slower, you say, "Y-yeah. I'm fine, I just- worst headache in the world. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"You got advil?" you say yes. "Take a couple and rest up."

"I will," you exhale slowly, "Thanks, Michael. I'm sorry again,"

"If you're sick, you're sick," you can envision him shrugging, petulance still in his tone but softer somehow. "Can't be helping that. Just let me know, alright? I'll move your shifts around."

"Thank you, Michael." you can't control them, but tears prick at your eyes already.

"Feel better soon. And look- if advil ain't cutting it, stay in a dark room. Get that Cal to run and get you some forehead patches. Works a treat for my girls."

You nod, moreso to yourself, the slight mention of Kal-El threatening to spill the tears over. You also make a mental note to text Lorna that miserable, old, inked-up Michael is a girl dad.

For the third time already, you thank him. He mutters a don't mention it back, and the line goes dead.

You stare at your ceiling for what feels like hours afterward.

When you eventually move, it's slow. Your coffee machine drips lazily, and you don't even bother to reach for your favourite mug. You chug the bitter contents straight from a diabolical ceramic you once received in a gift set, willing the caffeine to do it's job sooner rather than later.

Memories threaten to trap you in a spiral. The first time you met Kal, the first time you met Clark- the first time he'd spoken about himself like he was a completely different person, even. Every thought holds your brain hostage, forces you to think back to simpler times.

Did he think it was funny? Did he get home every night in the suit, smirk at the glasses on his bedside table, and convince himself you'd find it funny too when you finally found out? Every night you complained about being single and not having a chance with his reporter counterpart- did he hold back a smug grin, then?

The thought fills you with anger. Currently, you hate them both.

Because having a crush on Clark was one thing. But realising you’d been falling for the one man you’d decided- long before it even began- you could never have, after months of forcing him into the friend zone in your own mind, only to discover it had all been for nothing… well, that felt unforgivable.

The coffee runs out quick. Your usual morning routine takes place slowly; you shower, brush your teeth, and put on something comfy that you can both run away from a collapsing building and lounge in.

You have no plans to leave the apartment, willing the world to spin without you for just one day. The TV flickers on after an absentminded tap of the remote, and your eyes flicker towards it before you can stop them.

"Superman seen charging into intergalactic threat!"

Your eyes begin to roll. But just before you can switch it off, a close-up shot of Kal fills the screen.

And deep within your chest, begging to be acknowledged, your heart clenches at the sight of him.

"He... doesn't seem to be dealing with this very well. If you are located anywhere near the upper west side, we instruct you to calmly evacuate in line with city procedure. The Justice Gang have been notified, and we hope..."

The reporter's voice fizzles into the background. You lean in closer, eyes narrowed, as the remote clatters to the floor.

He's sloppy. Distracted. Throwing punches with force instead of focusing on where they land. His curls are unkempt on his head, looking so like Clark you begin to worry for his surprising alter-ego, and his jaw is perpetually clenched.

You can't stop watching him. The whole world is probably watching him, but you just can't tear your eyes away. It's not a Kaiju, but it's something similar; smaller in size and stealthier. It grabs Kal, throws him harshly against a glass building.

Usually, he'd compose himself. Think of a better way to deal with the situation; plan the safest way out for everybody, creature included. But right now, every barrel towards it is ill-timed, every rescue rushed.

He's not thinking straight. You've never seen him like this before. The worst he'd ever been was when Krypto got taken by some bald headed billionaire months ago- he's broken down doors and screamed offices down- but this was different.

The reporter states some figures, a wince on her otherwise deadpan face. You're glued to the couch, even when the Justice Gang arrive to the scene, and Kal exchanges some words with a man you met and hated once- Guy. You don't even move when he gives them a curt nod; focused, chiselled face pointing upwards to the sky as he takes off fast enough that a sonic boom echoes through the clouds.

You- along with the entirety of Metropolis- expect him to return. Maybe with a bigger, better weapon to beat this thing with.

But he doesn't. The others clean up the mess tastelessly, violently; so different to how Superman would have done it, but now they have no choice.

Time passes as the news coverage on the scene fizzles out. Guy is congratulated, Mr Terrific is praised and Hawkgirl shoves a restless reporter's camera out of her face, scowl at the ready, arms folded at the nuance.

Everything's done. You switch the TV off and silence fills the apartment.

For a second, your eyes threaten to leak again. Betrayal is the word for it, you've come to realise- but the comprehension doesn't make it hurt any less. There's a pain buried deep in the chasm of your chest, a dull ache that no amount of advil or rest will ever be able to get rid of.

You think of Clark.

Your mind is cruel, and it taunts you; you think of the attraction you had for him, the way you could never fully look away when his eyes met yours, no matter how odd you looked and how disinterested he sometimes seemed.

You thought of everything you knew about him; his childhood in Smallville, how he called his parents every day- twice if something particularly exciting had happened in his life since they last spoke. How sweet his existence is, how unassuming and charming Clark can really be in that slightly jarring, fumbled way of his.

Then, you think of Kal.

Of everything you know about him and still don't- how Clark Kent fills that void completely. All those emotions you'd fallen asleep with last night come rushing back and quietly, you let the tears fall. Again.

You tuck your knees up to your chest, forehead resting gently against the caps. It catches every shudder that rakes through your body, provides a makeshift cushion for the wet that drips down your cheeks.

That's when you hear it.

Tap, tap, tap.

It's faint at first, and your staggered breathing drowns it out. But then, it turns unmistakable; three gentle taps, three familiar taps, right on the glass of your fire escape window.

Tap, tap, tap.

No effort is made to move. Not for a while.

You just clench your eyes shut, teeth gritted, as your window eventually slowly slides open. The instinct to grab yourself takes over, and you're soon locked in an imprisoned embrace of your own doing.

You don't look up. You don't even move.

First, it's his boots. Soft and worn, steps slow and moderate. His cape trails in after, the thick material usually catching on your windowsill but now, gliding through with ease.

It's effortless, how Kal lets himself into your apartment. It's an exercise born from months of friendship and several sleepless nights needing company, ultimately calling him away from patrol.

You used to tell him not to knock, to walk in like it was his home, too. "Friendships are built on inconveniencing each other," you'd said as-a-matter-of-factly, after scolding him for refusing to let himself into your apartment. You'd come home from work to find him sat right outside; legs dangling over the fire escape, eyes squinting into the horizon.

He'd been like that for two hours. Just sitting, waiting, for you to come home- all because he didn't have a key and didn't know that when you sang mi casa, su casa all those weeks ago, you actually meant it.

Kal had just tilted his head, confused by your words. "But... you've never inconvenienced me."

You laughed, "I can think of many ways I have in this week alone."

He paused, looking off into the distance. When he came back to you, his face remained blank. "...Nope. Never."

"Sounds like a challenge, Superman."

A smile stretched across his lips. Your heart skipped- right before you grabbed it with an imaginary fist and shook it back to it's original beat. "Sure. Never faced down from a challenge before."

It replays in your mind like a bittersweet reel. When you lift your head, a sharp pain nudges against your temple, travelling all the way down to your neck. But that's not what truly hurts.

Opposite you, standing a far enough distance away, stands Kal-El.

Or, Clark.

And now that you've seen both sides of the man, he looks more Clark than ever.

His shoulders are hunched, icy blue eyes burning metaphorical holes in the floor. You tell yourself not to stare, not to complicate what you currently feel by softening the edges.

His jaw is gritted in that tense way of his, bordering on either an argument or an apology that you'll have to deal with one way or another. Truthfully, you have no idea which one you'd prefer.

Because fifteen minutes ago, he was out; hurtling towards space creatures, attempting to save the world with reckless abandon. But right now, he stands with his head ducked like a scorned child in your living room.

You don't speak. Silently, you wonder if he will.

"I..." almost as if reading your mind, Kal opens his mouth. He licks his lips, nervous.

Your arms tighten around yourself, eyes staring him down in a way foreign to you.

"...I am so, so sor-"

"I can't do this right now, Kal." you say bluntly, voice edging on rude. But the anger inside of you is white-hot and blinding, and when you look at him, you don't just see him. You see months and months of being left in the dark, while Superman ran circles around you in black frames and a blazer two sizes too big.

It was cruel. He was cruel. The entire charade of Clark Kent was cruel.

But even while knowing that, the look on his face threatens to unravel you completely.

His shoulders sag, defeated. "I never meant to hurt you."

"You pretended to be someone else."

He says your name, tone pleading now that it's obvious how you feel.

Maybe he'd been hoping it wouldn't be too bad; maybe, he thought, the stars would align and you'd just freak out momentarily- too focused on your own questions about a life he could now share with you without ever feeling the urge to hide.

"I wasn't someone else," Kal mumbles, fingers fiddling with each other. "I was me."

You meet his eyes despite the hammering of your heart telling you not to.

"I was just trying to protect you."

"By lying to me?"

"I needed you safe," he tells you sincerely, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you... just because you know this," he gestures to the emblem on his chest; the cape trailing along the floor. He winces. "Just because you know me."

"So instead, you showed up at my work like Hannah Montana and prayed I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference," your tone is mocking, so harsh that it stuns even you.

Internally, you scold yourself to dial it down.

"Right. Well, it worked." you mutter then, shame pricking the nape of your neck at both your tone and the fact that you fell for it all.

His face burns red-hot. When he takes a hesitant step forward, he pauses; before slowly nodding to the empty spot on the sofa next to you.

"May I?" he asks.

Your nod is reluctant but you scoot over regardless, maximising the space between you both.

When he takes a seat, you catch a whiff of that cologne you know all too well- the same one that Clark wears and Kal always has a faint hint of. Smoke and ink and rain with a tiny undertone of eucalyptus. It's addictive, it's different, and it's so him that the mental scold in your mind becomes louder and louder.

How could you not have figured it out? You're no reporter for sure, had never been one to have an investigative mind. But even with the glasses and the styled hair and the change in posture- were you really just so blind?

You're lost in thought again as Kal faces you. His body swamps the sofa, broad shoulders taking up 70% of the space you left for him.

"I want you to know," he swallows. Your heart does that thing again. "That I never meant to keep it a secret from you. Not for this long, at least."

"That makes everything better." you deadpan.

He shoots you a pained look, "Can I speak, please?"

"As Clark Kent or as Kal-El? Or is there another identity you haven't told me about?"

This time, you do mean for it to come out sharp. But when you catch a small glimpse of Kal's face, it's obvious that the original intent's been missed entirely.

Because his lips are at a curve, eyes softer now. You focus on his mouth, the amusement that lies there, just waiting for you to let him speak.

A smile.

Small, one that could definitely go undetected if you were still too busy scowling at the floor. You half expect to feel anger again, tenfold as usual- but it never comes.

Even so, you fold your arms, glaring at him.

"Don't smile."

"I'm sorry." he grits his teeth in an attempt to hide the slight mirth in his tone.

Your gaze is vicious, or as vicious as it can be towards someone so adamant on soothing it.

"I'm going to hit you." you caution.

"I probably deserve it," he says gently, and the smile's even more obvious now than before.

"Probably's an understatement."

"Please can I apologise, now?"

"No. Because I don't want it." you say shortly, your legs falling from their initial cramped position. His eyes dart to yours, hurried and slightly panicked at your words.

"Wha-"

"An apology isn't going to do anything, Kal." you say, clipped.

He begins to shake his head again, the security in the playfulness quick to fizzle away. "You don't understand-"

"You kept it from me. You didn't even just keep it from me- that, I could probably take. No, you showed up as him and pretended to like me. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?"

"Pretended?" he echoes, as you snap your head towards him in exasperation.

"Don't." you warn him, "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it was real."

Kal says your name again. Softly. Kindly. You hold a finger up in yet another wordless warning.

"I mean it, Kal. I'm already mad at you. Don't make me sad, too."

"I don't want to make you sad," he says, slowly, standing up from the seat to come towards you. "All I've ever done- all I've ever wanted to do, was make you happy,"

"You pretended to be-"

"I didn't pretend to be anything," he shakes his head again, coming to stand in front of you with a certain desperation to his actions. "Everything I told you, everything you saw- that was me. That was all me. And I'm sorry,"

His inhale is slow, words fighting to come out. The restraint on his face breaks you, just a little, but your stubbornness takes lead.

"I am Clark." Kal says, voice cracking slightly. "I grew up on a farm. I love cereal and I really do only drink black coffee, that's true. I'm a reporter at the planet. I love it. I call Ma and Pa too much... I get the front page if I lose sleep for it, and I always end up knocking something over when I walk past,"

You start to roll your eyes, but his gaze is so focused on you that you refrain.

"But I'm Kal-El, too," he says, assertively. That makes you pause. "I love helping people. I do too much sometimes, like you always say I do. I have to delete that stupid bird app every time I do something I probably shouldn't and cameras get it. My cape gets caught, and I'm not the best at saying things when I should. Sometimes, I leave them too late,"

He's looking at you like he's praying you understand.

But too much is going on in your mind, too many thoughts are racing and fighting against each other. You can barely maintain eye contact.

"But no matter who I am," he swallows, jaw flexing in a way that always looks like he's chewing on his emotions. Something catches in your throat- a breath, an inhale, whatever it is, you can't control it.

"Clark, Kal, Superman, the biggest jerk on this planet..." his eyes ficker from your eyes to your lips, before going back again swiftly. "I'm yours."

There's something to be said about the way that he looks at you.

Speaks to you. Listens to you, like you're the most important thing in the room. How to him, you're never a burden; never an inconvenience. Sometimes, you even feel like you exist simply to help him feel human, even if it's just for a little bit.

And right now, he is both the most human, yet most other-wordly, man you have ever seen.

Your eyes flutter upwards, but he's already looking at you.

"And I'm sorry if I haven't shown it," he whispers. You're torn between bursting out crying and attempting once again to push him away. So, you don't make a single move.

"I'm sorry I let it go on for so long. I'm sorry I upset you," his hand moves up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "And I'm sorry– above everything... that it wasn't Clark Kent who met you first."

There was once a time where you thought you were falling in love with Kal-El.

Not the man in the suit, not the symbol of Hope and the last surviving son of Krypton. No, it happened on a lazy Sunday when the light through the curtains hit him just right; every ridge and curve of his face reflecting the rays like a chrome statue. You were in the middle of a well-needed kitchen deep clean, and he'd been so adamant to do most of the work that 85% of it was spent perched on a kitchen stool while Superman himself scrubbed your dishes and wiped the edges.

He was humming a song you had no idea he knew, the slicked back curls on his head slowly unravelling. A dish towel draped lazily over his shoulder as he came towards you, one arm on either side, large palms pressed against the counter.

He grinned. Asked you if you were okay, and if anything else needed doing. At the time, you just stuttered a reply; resisting the urge to jump into his arms and confess that you were, stupidly, starting to see him as much more than a friend.

Fear took you over. Hesitance became your downfall. And Kal-El pushed himself off, gently; whistling a different tune, casual, none the wiser.

Now, however, you refuse to make the same mistake.

It happens before you have the chance to talk yourself out of it.

Kal is already there- too close, his presence pressing into yours like gravity, like something inevitable. His body tilts toward you, instinctive, as if all he’s waiting for is permission.

Your breath stutters. You don’t step back.

You move closer a fraction at a time, breath caught, the space between you tightening until it feels unbearable.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours drops to his.

And then you’re there- barely at first, your lips brushing his in a question more than a kiss.

But then, you press in- stronger this time, more certain, the kind of weight that carries every moment you once held back. Every word you never said is answered by Kal just as carefully, just as deeply, like he’s been waiting for this exact second all along as his lips slowly start to move against yours.

A soft breath leaves him into your mouth, warm and unguarded, and you feel his lips curve faintly against yours like he can’t quite believe this is real. The kiss grows fuller, deeper, not rushed but brimming with everything he’s been holding back.

Kal's hand slides to your waist, firm and careful and frantic all at once, like he’s grounding himself in you with the looming threat of you disappearing. He's Clark in the way he holds you; Kal in the kisses and grip. Careful and scared and passionate and sure.

He's everything you wanted and were, once, far too afraid to have.

“I love you,” he mumbles into you, the words half-lost to the way your mouths are still moving together. The soft sound of it fills the space between you. You breathe out against him, almost trying to make a joke- a last, weak attempt to drag something ordinary into a moment that’s anything but.

But nothing is normal now. Clark Kent has just told you he loves you.

And even better...

You actually believe him.

So when you stammer back, "I love you... too." you mean it.

He doesn’t pull away when he could. Instead, he stays, lips lingering against yours, as if afraid that even a heartbeat of distance might make this disappear.

For a while, you just stand there like that, wrapped in each other, the world held at arm’s length.

Somewhere outside, sirens begin to wail, faint at first, then louder- urgent, insistent, calling for someone who usually always comes. You feel yourself tense automatically, already starting to pull back, already preparing to let him go do what he always does.

But he doesn’t move.

Kal tightens his hold instead, drawing you closer, your cheek pressing to his chest. His voice is low when he speaks, steady and certain.

"They’ve got it." Out of the corner of your eye, a familiar green fist flashes across the sky, pulsing bright against the dark. "They can do without Superman for a bit," he murmurs. "Right now, you've got me. And I'm not leaving you."

Your breath catches, and a soft smile curves against him as you let your forehead fall to his chest, right over his heart.

Tomorrow, you’ll have a conversation. A real one. A proper one. And it may not go very well, and you'll probably have enough questions for him to want to shut you up with yet another long, earth-shattering kiss. And you may cry again and it may feel like the world's ending and Clark may start to wonder what the hell he's gotten himself into...

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

You, the woman who fell in love with two very different sides of the same man, and the man who never wanted to be anything other than yours.

In the end, it never really mattered which one he was.

i hope you guys enjoyed! so sorry it's not my best work AT ALL i struggled a lil bit with the ending but this isn't the last of kal's bff ! reader!

i have many blurbs and headcanons and whatnot for this pair <33 thank you so much for reading as always, adore you all x x x

[marwrite]

chipped ceramic

summary: ever the lovergirl, you've never been able to resist clark kent, your sweet & dorky coffee shop regular. everyone tells you to either make a move or let go. but when the world fades away, it’s your best friend kal-el you turn to; your confidant, your rock. your heart’s secret is safe with superman… or so you believe.

clark kent x barista ! reader

themes: fluff, you have no idea that superman is clark, funny, you're bold and dramatic in a very cute way, pining, mutual interest but again you have no idea, clark is a sneaky, lovesick man. enjoy! x

Your coffee is too hot, too bitter. One earphone is lagging very slightly behind the other. There's a pounding in your left temple, Kal-El has yet to let you know if he survived this morning's brutal alien attack at the bridge and of course, your favourite regular failed to make an appearance today.

Today is just the gift that keeps on giving.

A sigh leaves perfectly glossed lips- yours, with a hint of slight shimmer, that faint red that always has Clark Kent looking at you a bit longer than he should. You slathered a thick coat of it on this morning; puckering slightly in the mirror, giddy at the thought of his flushed cheeks and stammer.

"You look... uh, really good today." you imagined him saying. You swooned at the thought of his smile, that farmboy curl that never failed to sweep you off your feet. "Beautiful. You look beautiful." big hand wrapped around his order, broad like the rest of him.

And you imagined yourself giggling back; one manicured hand poised strategically in front of the gloss like it was a privilege for him to see. Even when you smelled like Arabica and five different milk alternatives. Even when your hair was knotted into a careless bun, and you hadn't a single clue what day it even was.

Somehow, Clark had a way of making you feel nothing short of gorgeous.

"Then why haven't you asked me out yet?" you dreamt about asking him that too, watching his eyes go all wide and sparkly, stunned by your boldness.

You thought about the different ways you could bring it up, maybe take the leap yourself;

"The usual? Black, extra hot, one ice cube? I'll throw in my phone number too, for good luck."

"Morning, Kansas! Got your order right here. Doing anything after work today?"

"Hi, Clark. What can I get for you today? Large black coffee? I know you usually don't take sugar, but I'm free tonight and I've been told I'm quite sweet after a couple drinks..."

Stupid. So, so silly and so, so stupid. You hit the steam wand with an exasperated sigh.

Your friends call you obsessive. Kal refrains from using such harsh words, but you know he's thinking the same; his eyes never lose that amused sparkle, no matter how harshly you smack him on the arm.

A few of your coworkers find it cute. Once, Lorna dug a sharp elbow into your arm the second Clark walked into the building, silently swapping out her role at the tillpoint to let you have your brief, passionate, five-minute interaction.

"Go get him, beauty." she coaxed.

But you refrained from thanking her, not wanting to accept it for what it was; that you were totally, helplessly, irritatingly, crushing on a coffee shop regular.

"It's a right of passage." Claire said ominously.

"It's not that bad," someone else quipped.

"It's pathetic." Michael patted you on the shoulder once, pursed lips clamped in place to stop himself from spewing out any more hurt. "You've got it bad, kid."

"It's sweet!" Lorna cried, "I think it's adorable. Oh, you guys. Let her have her fun."

You thanked them all with a grimace and a swift exit to the back, clammy hands wiped down the sides of your milk-stained apron.

Clark comes in every day.

Typically. His routine is simple; easy-going for a man so chronically late and so unapologetic about it.

He bustles into the café at precisely 8:55am every morning, despite work starting at 9. Sometimes, he gets a large black coffee; other times, a caramel macchiato that he tells you solemnly is for his friend Jimmy.

You're always there to greet him, all smiles and nonchalance and small-talk that you have to fight to keep under wraps.

"Front page, again," you'd grinned once, revelling in the way his cheeks reddened as you swilled oat milk around a jug. "Very well deserved, Mr Kent."

"You read 'em?" he asked you shyly.

"How could I not?"

"I don't know. You seem like a busy girl,"

"Never too busy for an article on Superman." you joked. You made a mental note to never replay the full conversation to Kal, ever; his ego simply didn't need that boost.

He cracked a small smile, slipping his faded leather wallet back into his slacks pocket with ease. You couldn’t help but take note of the little planet emblem on the front, the scuffed gold detailing on the corners.

Because for some reason, when it came to Clark, you noticed everything.

"Means a lot. Thank you," he sipped his drink, eyes relaxing at the taste, "This is great. Really great. I- you... you've got talent,"

"If you can count squeezing water through some beans as talent, then sure," you giggled. He laughed with you. "But thanks. Have a good day, Clark."

"And you, sweetheart."

He raised his coffee cup to bid you farewell, and you almost collapsed backwards into Claire.

"Easy, girl." she'd said warily. You apologised though you didn't mean it, and she told you to take five to compose yourself.

So, compose yourself you did.

You went out to the back, fingers already itching to make the call. You hit your most frequently used number and waited impatiently; teeth gnawing on your bottom lip in a way concerning to the twenty-dollar lip balm slathered across it.

Eventually, he picked up.

"Hel-"

"Kal. You need to come get me and fly me to Missouri."

No warning, no greeting. Neither was needed. Metropolis' sweetheart knew you well enough for neither to be necessary.

On the other line, Superman paused.

And then, he burst out laughing.

"Kal!" you stomped your foot, though he couldn't see you and was probably very busy, because you could hear the hustle and bustle of a large crowd in the background. Was he walking? "I'm being serious. I don't even know where Missouri is, but you need to take me there and leave me there,"

"Now, hang on just a moment," he chuckled. You burned holes into the pastry oven in front of you. "What's happened now?"

"Why do you assume something happened?"

"You sound like you're going to pass out,"

"No. I sound like I need to take a super long vacation to some city I've never been to,"

"Missouri is a state."

"Oh, my god. I'm calling Kara." you warned, taking the phone away from your ear and tapping it around to prove a point. You could hear him apologise in between laughs, urging you to bring the phone back.

When you finally did, the bustle behind him had quietened. You snapped, jokingly, "What do you want?"

"You called me, little lady."

"Because I am going through a crisis," you cried dramatically, before pausing and lowering your tone, "He came in again, Kal."

"Oh," you could envision his grin now; amused, as well as slightly bewildered. "Ah. The reporter.”

"He called me sweetheart. And I think I said something about squeezing a wet bean? God, I don't even know,"

"You said that?"

"I said that. So, are we going to Missouri or not?"

Ever so level-headed, Kal-El ignored your somewhat childish plea, instead focusing on the bigger picture with another heroic chuckle. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"What? To tell Clark Kent that I squeeze my bean to the thought of him?"

"Woah. Think we missed a couple chapters there."

"Well, I might as well have," you folded your arms, leaning against the fridge and staring absentmindedly at the notes that scattered it. "You should have heard me. I think my voice went up four notches and my mouth still hurts from smiling."

Not missing a beat, Kal said, "He probably thought it was cute."

"You think?"

"Sure."

You groaned. Superman laughed again. Then, Claire popped her head through the doorway and very patiently beckoned you back outside.

"I'll call you later, Kal."

"Look forward to it."

And that was that. You slid your phone into your back pocket mindlessly, ready to tackle the fifteen backed-up orders that appeared out of nowhere during your not-so-short break.

The day flew by in a blur of spilled coffee beans and burnt milk. You tried very hatd to busy yourself with other things; orders, deliveries, stock-take. Anything to keep your mind off of the man in the too-big blazer that had yet to show you the least bit of interest.

You ended up being very grateful for the one person in your life that could tolerate your miniature spirals about the opposite sex. The one man on planet Earth that was far too kind to be disgusted, too noble to be embarrassed for you.

Your sinful thoughts of Clark shifted; forming into something much sweeter, as you thought of Kal-El and the bewilderment that came from just knowing him.

Your friendship with the last son of Krypton began... oddly.

Unusual, to say the least.

He saved you from a burning building one time. Okay, maybe not from the burning building itself- he saved you from your apartment block that stood directly across the one that was actually burning, at risk for being crashed into; absolutely perplexed when he found you sat cross legged in a your bedroom, eyes closed, the baffling epitome of ill-timed meditation.

You'd shrugged when he asked you why you didn't evacuate when the sirens went off; squirmed out of his grasp when he attempted to hoist you upwards. Sirens deafened you both, loud and shrill and persistent.

"Ma'am-"

"It's my time, Superman." you'd said solemnly, turning your face to the ceiling in a way that threw him, "I've lived a good life."

"It's... the building next door, miss." he deadpanned.

You ignored him.

"…Leave me be."

Kal just paused. Raised an eyebrow. Then eventually, he sighed, and with no word of warning- scooped you up and flew you to safety in less than six seconds.

You slapped him in the arm when he finally put you down, glared even harder when he stuttered apologies about how he had to, he couldn't just leave you there.

Eventually, you let up with a distracted pause; tilting your head to the side before gallantly stating, "You're a lot prettier than in the tweets."

That was the first time you ever made Superman laugh, and he's been coming back to laugh ever since.

At first, he came to visit under the guise of simply checking in on you. But it snowballed after that, random check-ins turning into unprompted nightly traditions.

He'd land on your fire escape at precisely 11:07pm every evening, suit scuffed, mind battered from a day of patrolling and doing lawful good. You'd offer him a tea or coffee, and it would always be in that chipped red and blue mug you were gifted years ago and somehow just never got rid of.

Naturally, the mug became his; never to be touched by any of your other friends or guests. It seemed like the more it was used, the closer you became.

"How was your day today?" his fingers would wrap around it gratefully, the colours of his suit camouflaging against the drink.

"It was good. Got my nails done and bought a new lip balm. Wanna see?"

"Sure."

It was different, how it began. Even weirder the way it continued.

Because for an invincible superhero that the whole world relied on, Kal-El wasn't some stuck-up, government clone that lived to serve and nothing else. He was a person. Human in the ways that mattered, even if his biology didn't agree.

He had a dog- a foster situation, he called it. He liked flying through the air and making shapes with the clouds. He hated when you swore, saying that the word fuck was both overused and crass. He loved breakfast, falling in love with it even more when you'd shown him that it could also be a contender for dinner, too.

"This is amazing." he'd said once, mouth full of bacon and eggs and hashbrowns. His entire figure swamped your cosy little kitchen stool, cape brushing languidly against the ground.

You just laughed, wiping a smidge of ketchup from his face as he blushed profusely and fought to look away.

"You're getting it all over you."

"Sorry." he mumbled, words slurred through a mouth of grease and goodness.

But, of course, there were certain things you didn't know about him. Couldn't know. He'd explained it to you over and over and over again, your persistence making him smile but ultimately, was also causing his heart to break.

"It wouldn't be safe for you to know." he always said, softly, gently, as though he didn’t believe you could take it.

And you- though stubborn to the core and relentless to no degree- somehow understood the severity of that alone.

It still didn't stop you from trying to get it out of him, though.

"Do you have a day job?"

Kal-El squirmed uncomfortably, "No."

"Do you have an alter ego?"

"...No."

"Do you think me and your alter ego would be friends?"

His eyes softened then. Your eyebrows quipped. "...Yes. If I had one."

You learned very quickly that Kal-El didn't have many friends.

It didn't surprise you. Every photo of him standing next to the Justice Gang looked edited; every headline of his solo. He told you stories of the people he'd saved, how he remembered their faces and how their heartbeats raced, but could never quite stick around long enough to find out more.

It was bitterly unfair, you noted, how someone so good could be so alone.

After a couple of months, you found out that he lived somewhere in the Antarctic. A freezing cold spire coded to his DNA was what he called home, had always called home, one filled with working robots and the occasional super-dog.

"I'll take you there sometime." he'd promised.

But here, in Metropolis, Kal housed a spacious penthouse with floor to ceiling windows. You'd been there more than a handful of times now; always through the window and never through the lobby. You didn’t even know what his building looked like, wouldn’t be able to pick it out of a line up.

But it was really one of the only few places you could go where the threat of being taped and posted all over the internet didn't loom; as long as you promised not to tell anybody.

That, he was quite stern about. He claimed it was more for your protection than it was to keep himself hidden- I can move anywhere, anytime. You can't.

It had you asking him where his deep trust in you came from, though you couldn’t deny the way it filled your chest with warmth. Even you had to admit- you weren't exactly the quietest, calmest, most reserved person to ever grace his life.

But Kal just chuckled. His shoulders nudged yours, smile boyish and shy, "I'm a pretty good judge of character." and that was that.

Your friends and co-workers knew him simply as your friend Cal. C instead of a K, so no-one had the chance to piece it together. They never saw him, just heard about him through stories you dulled down for the sake of secrecy.

If Superman flew you over the stratosphere the other day before taking you back to his apartment, your favourite hot chocolate already on the counter, then Cal drove you around on Monday to test out his new car, and you had drinks at his place before he took you back home.

It was all very calculated. But you supposed it had to be; being Superman's best friend was never going to be easy. Not even when he did everything he could to keep you safe, including (but not limited to) answering even the stupidest of phone calls, where all you did was gush and cry and freak out about the infamous Clark Kent.

You remembered the day you saw him for the first time.

It was the Monday after a painful weekend. Most of Sunday was spent face-down in your pillow, mumbling about how life wasn't fair and you were probably going to be a single old hag until the day came that you finally died.

On your phone, Kal-el was rolling his eyes; giving you a sweet, lopsided grin as he told you to stop being so dramatic.

"You're not going to die old and alone," he'd rolled his eyes amusedly, throwing a ball for Krypto to fetch and destroy somewhere in the Antarctic. "Your person will come. Just… gotta be patient."

And then, like the world had heard your silent pleas and Kal's contained agitation, Clark Kent stumbled into your life (and cafe) the very next day.

All sweet and shy and knocking into coats that hung off of the backs of chairs, apologising profusely like they had brains and hearts that beat. His curls, unruly as always, flopped comically over his forehead; the crook of his glasses taking your breath away with every slight, nervous scrunch of his nose.

He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen- familiar in a way you couldn't place, yet so unlike anyone else you'd ever met before.

You couldn't look away, no matter how hard you tried. Whether it was love at first sight or just pure, unfiltered obsession- you weren't too sure.

"Hey... hi. Please may I get a coffee?" he'd asked.

"Hi, hey. Which coffee can I get you?"

The tips of his ears reddened. Your stomach fluttered in agony. "Just a black coffee, please." then, he paused, eyes flickering from the menu to the far too large top hanging off your frame, "I like your shirt."

You thanked him, quietly finding it hilarious that the top you'd worn to work that day actually belonged to your dear friend Superman. Yet another thing you weren't willing to tell him, in fear of his already too big ego inflating even more.

You made Clark's black coffee. His fingers brushed against yours as he took it, gaze lingering a beat too long. Then, you called Kal and got sent to voicemail immediately after; leaving him a very passionate message about the man you were pretty sure was the love of your life.

Clark came in every day since.

Apart from today.

"Don't be so sad, sweets," Lorna nudges a bag of opened candy your way, brows quirking up with the movement. "He probably just got held up somewhere."

It's laughable. Pathetic. You shouldn't be this sad, this ridiculous, over someone you don’t even know, but you can’t help it.

You feel everything tenfold, and the droop in your expression is unmistakable- even when Michael taps you gingerly on the shoulder; knowing brow quirked, something square and leather clutched in his free hand.

A wallet.

With little gold detailing pinching the corners, and a tiny little planet stamped on the front.

Your world stops spinning, and you fall within the split-second of static as Michael hands it to you like it’s a personal gift from the Gods.

“No wonder your boy couldn’t make it today,” he grumbles. Your entire body goes cold with anticipation, “Probably spent all day looking for that thing- Claire found it wedged between the seats. Do with that what you must.”

And that's how, a full five days later, you find yourself buzzing into a swanky looking apartment building; Clark’s wallet clutched tight in one hand, a boiling hot black coffee in the other.

You feel weird. You feel intrusive. On the way here, you decided that if you were ever to be asked what fictional character you relate to the most, it would be the delusional, disgusting Joe Goldberg.

But you don’t turn around. You refuse to- it’s been days since he left his wallet at the café, and you just couldn't take it anymore. It's been sat untouched in Michael’s office, already collecting dust, calling out your name alongside a plea of return me, return me!

“Just do it, dear God,” Michael had groaned, flinging it towards you with two tattooed fingertips pressed against his temples, “I can’t take this anymore. Take it back and stop moping.”

You thought about swinging by the Planet and dropping it off there. But questions would be asked, eyebrows would be raised, and you didn’t really want to step into Clark’s place of work smelling like milk and tea and coffee granules- so, you opted for the next best thing instead.

You took his driving license out. Jotted down his address. Then, before anyone could convince you not to, you made your way straight there.

The woman at the shiny desk tells you that Clark’s apartment is on the very top floor.

In all honesty, that surprises you. You weren’t too sure how much journalists made, but the sum must be great for him to be able to live in such a fancy building. Most of the walls are made of glass, and the doorman even tilted his hat towards you when you stepped inside.

The elevator ride to the top is quick. You can’t remember the last time you were ever up this high- not unless you can count the nights spent zipping through the empty Metropolis air with Superman holding you close.

The thought of Kal-El makes you smile, but a pang of guilt also hits your chest at the lie you told him today. He’d asked you if you were free to come over, and you simply couldn’t find it in you to tell him the truth- that you were blowing him off to find Clark.

“I’ve got my mug and yours, and I even bought those little marshmallows you like,” Kal had said, very triumphantly, over the phone. You’d been busy stacking the dishwasher at the time to feel the full weight of guilt, but you were definitely feeling it now. “Thought we could watch that film you were talking about the other day. What was it called, again…?”

“I am so sorry, Kal,” you mumbled, wiping your soapy hands on your apron as you struggled to close the washer, “I’ve, uh… got plans. Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh.” Although he tried to hide it, you could sense the disappointment in his voice from a mile away. “Oh, well- that’s alright. Will you be safe tonight? Wherever you’re going?”

You cracked a small smile, nodding to nobody but yourself. “Of course,”

“And you’ll call me if you need anything?” his voice lowered then, one filled with a silent plea for you to promise.

You nodded again, “Always.”

“Alright, then. See you soon?”

Your smile widened. There was something about how much Kal treasured you that hit something deep within your chest; blossoming a far-too familiar feeling that you had to force straight back down.

“See you soon, Superman.”

A steady ding sounds your arrival, ripping you out of the early memory with ease.

The top floor of Clark’s apartment building looks eerily familiar.

You pause the second you step out of the elevator; brows falling into a furrow, lips pursed. The once slightly-warm coffee in your hand is now threatening to burn a hole through your palm, and you just can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been here before.

But that’s stupid. Because you haven’t. And nobody in their right mind- not even you, in all of your whimsy and caffeine-fuelled delirium- would ever dare be deluded by that fact.

The hallway is quiet. Plush carpet, low lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows lining one side like a gallery of stars.

That’s what stops you. Completely.

Metropolis stretches out beneath the glass in a way that steals the breath straight from your lungs- all glittering veins of light and distant sirens, the river a dark ribbon cutting through the city. You drift closer before you can stop yourself, forehead nearly brushing the cool pane.

You’ve seen this view.

Not like this- not standing, no- but you’ve seen it. From higher, from warmer air, from the safe circle of an arm at your waist as the city unfolded below you like something made just for the two of you.

Your chest tightens, but you can’t place it. So you shake your head as if that alone might dislodge the feeling.

This is ridiculous. Clark Kent does not share a penthouse view with Superman. And if he did, then Kal would be cruel- truly cruel- not to tell you that the man you were probably falling in love with lived just next door.

Still, your fingers curl a little tighter around the coffee cup.

You force yourself away from the window and down the hall, counting your steps until you reach the door at the very end. It’s unassuming and plain, a dark wood coated in a glossy finish, handle a deep metal blue. Clark’s name is neatly printed on a label beneath the peephole, and your eyes rake over it hesitantly.

You lift your hand to knock, ready to either take the leap or embarrass yourself completely- but the door swings wide open before your knuckles ever have the chance to make contact.

"Oh-"

An apology tangles itself up in your throat as the man in front of you fills the doorway. Your restless eyes fight, wearily, to tear themselves away from the attractive ridges of his body.

Smart dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Those delicious slacks that cling to him just right. A press badge swings, still clipped at his waist, crooked like he’d forgotten it was there entirely.

His tie hangs loose, collar open- stance just a little too assertive to be Clark, a little too relaxed to be anyone else.

“Hi,” you breathe, relief washing through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Your eyes don't meet his. Your fingers fumble for his wallet in your pocket, your body ablaze underneath his stunned stare as you look anywhere but him, "Clark. Sorry, I-"

It takes a second longer than it should.

You look up, meeting his gaze halfway- and the double take is so quick, your neck clicks with the movement.

Time freezes. You almost choke on an inhale.

Because something is missing.

Something isn't right.

No glasses.

And the person looking right back at you isn’t the same person you thought you’d see tonight.

His eyes meet yours, blue and open and devastatingly familiar. The tilt of his head, the softness in his expression as recognition dawns- not confusion, not surprise, but something bordering on the painful edge of realisation.

A breath catches in your throat.

He says your name- softly, gently, as if not to startle you. But you're not paying attention, because your focus is on something else.

In his right hand, he clutches a mug.

Familiar, bright- formally yours.

Red and blue ceramic.

Drank from through laughter, sipped through conversation, put through endlesss nights spent at his and evenings spent at yours. It’s either unmistakable, or it’s uncanny.

Whatever it is, it’s slightly chipped on the rim.

Steam curls from it gently, the scent of hot chocolate filling the air between you. On top of the drink- floating in a neat little cluster of sugar and gelatin- are those little white marshmallows that you like best.

The world seems to tilt on its axis. Your fingers go numb.

And suddenly, a weight vanishes from your hand, the full coffee cup clattering at your feet; a warm overspill that stains your shoes a dark brown hue.

And Kal-El- Clark- moves without thinking.

His eyes are wide as he reaches for you, desperately, one step forward causing you to take three steps back.

His free hand reaches out.

But you’re already gone; turning sharply and bolting down the hall, heart racing, thoughts fracturing with every step, his broken voice swallowed by the echo of your footsteps.

thank you guys for reading !! love you always xx

[marwrite]

chipped ceramic

summary: ever the lovergirl, you've never been able to resist clark kent, your sweet & dorky coffee shop regular. everyone tells you to either make a move or let go. but when the world fades away, it’s your best friend kal-el you turn to; your confidant, your rock. your heart’s secret is safe with superman… or so you believe.

clark kent x barista ! reader

themes: fluff, you have no idea that superman is clark, funny, you're bold and dramatic in a very cute way, pining, mutual interest but again you have no idea, clark is a sneaky, lovesick man. enjoy! x

Your coffee is too hot, too bitter. One earphone is lagging very slightly behind the other. There's a pounding in your left temple, Kal-El has yet to let you know if he survived this morning's brutal alien attack at the bridge and of course, your favourite regular failed to make an appearance today.

Today is just the gift that keeps on giving.

A sigh leaves perfectly glossed lips- yours, with a hint of slight shimmer, that faint red that always has Clark Kent looking at you a bit longer than he should. You slathered a thick coat of it on this morning; puckering slightly in the mirror, giddy at the thought of his flushed cheeks and stammer.

"You look... uh, really good today." you imagined him saying. You swooned at the thought of his smile, that farmboy curl that never failed to sweep you off your feet. "Beautiful. You look beautiful." big hand wrapped around his order, broad like the rest of him.

And you imagined yourself giggling back; one manicured hand poised strategically in front of the gloss like it was a privilege for him to see. Even when you smelled like Arabica and five different milk alternatives. Even when your hair was knotted into a careless bun, and you hadn't a single clue what day it even was.

Somehow, Clark had a way of making you feel nothing short of gorgeous.

"Then why haven't you asked me out yet?" you dreamt about asking him that too, watching his eyes go all wide and sparkly, stunned by your boldness.

You thought about the different ways you could bring it up, maybe take the leap yourself;

"The usual? Black, extra hot, one ice cube? I'll throw in my phone number too, for good luck."

"Morning, Kansas! Got your order right here. Doing anything after work today?"

"Hi, Clark. What can I get for you today? Large black coffee? I know you usually don't take sugar, but I'm free tonight and I've been told I'm quite sweet after a couple drinks..."

Stupid. So, so silly and so, so stupid. You hit the steam wand with an exasperated sigh.

Your friends call you obsessive. Kal refrains from using such harsh words, but you know he's thinking the same; his eyes never lose that amused sparkle, no matter how harshly you smack him on the arm.

A few of your coworkers find it cute. Once, Lorna dug a sharp elbow into your arm the second Clark walked into the building, silently swapping out her role at the tillpoint to let you have your brief, passionate, five-minute interaction.

"Go get him, beauty." she coaxed.

But you refrained from thanking her, not wanting to accept it for what it was; that you were totally, helplessly, irritatingly, crushing on a coffee shop regular.

"It's a right of passage." Claire said ominously.

"It's not that bad," someone else quipped.

"It's pathetic." Michael patted you on the shoulder once, pursed lips clamped in place to stop himself from spewing out any more hurt. "You've got it bad, kid."

"It's sweet!" Lorna cried, "I think it's adorable. Oh, you guys. Let her have her fun."

You thanked them all with a grimace and a swift exit to the back, clammy hands wiped down the sides of your milk-stained apron.

Clark comes in every day.

Typically. His routine is simple; easy-going for a man so chronically late and so unapologetic about it.

He bustles into the café at precisely 8:55am every morning, despite work starting at 9. Sometimes, he gets a large black coffee; other times, a caramel macchiato that he tells you solemnly is for his friend Jimmy.

You're always there to greet him, all smiles and nonchalance and small-talk that you have to fight to keep under wraps.

"Front page, again," you'd grinned once, revelling in the way his cheeks reddened as you swilled oat milk around a jug. "Very well deserved, Mr Kent."

"You read 'em?" he asked you shyly.

"How could I not?"

"I don't know. You seem like a busy girl,"

"Never too busy for an article on Superman." you joked. You made a mental note to never replay the full conversation to Kal, ever; his ego simply didn't need that boost.

He cracked a small smile, slipping his faded leather wallet back into his slacks pocket with ease. You couldn’t help but take note of the little planet emblem on the front, the scuffed gold detailing on the corners.

Because for some reason, when it came to Clark, you noticed everything.

"Means a lot. Thank you," he sipped his drink, eyes relaxing at the taste, "This is great. Really great. I- you... you've got talent,"

"If you can count squeezing water through some beans as talent, then sure," you giggled. He laughed with you. "But thanks. Have a good day, Clark."

"And you, sweetheart."

He raised his coffee cup to bid you farewell, and you almost collapsed backwards into Claire.

"Easy, girl." she'd said warily. You apologised though you didn't mean it, and she told you to take five to compose yourself.

So, compose yourself you did.

You went out to the back, fingers already itching to make the call. You hit your most frequently used number and waited impatiently; teeth gnawing on your bottom lip in a way concerning to the twenty-dollar lip balm slathered across it.

Eventually, he picked up.

"Hel-"

"Kal. You need to come get me and fly me to Missouri."

No warning, no greeting. Neither was needed. Metropolis' sweetheart knew you well enough for neither to be necessary.

On the other line, Superman paused.

And then, he burst out laughing.

"Kal!" you stomped your foot, though he couldn't see you and was probably very busy, because you could hear the hustle and bustle of a large crowd in the background. Was he walking? "I'm being serious. I don't even know where Missouri is, but you need to take me there and leave me there,"

"Now, hang on just a moment," he chuckled. You burned holes into the pastry oven in front of you. "What's happened now?"

"Why do you assume something happened?"

"You sound like you're going to pass out,"

"No. I sound like I need to take a super long vacation to some city I've never been to,"

"Missouri is a state."

"Oh, my god. I'm calling Kara." you warned, taking the phone away from your ear and tapping it around to prove a point. You could hear him apologise in between laughs, urging you to bring the phone back.

When you finally did, the bustle behind him had quietened. You snapped, jokingly, "What do you want?"

"You called me, little lady."

"Because I am going through a crisis," you cried dramatically, before pausing and lowering your tone, "He came in again, Kal."

"Oh," you could envision his grin now; amused, as well as slightly bewildered. "Ah. The reporter.”

"He called me sweetheart. And I think I said something about squeezing a wet bean? God, I don't even know,"

"You said that?"

"I said that. So, are we going to Missouri or not?"

Ever so level-headed, Kal-El ignored your somewhat childish plea, instead focusing on the bigger picture with another heroic chuckle. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"What? To tell Clark Kent that I squeeze my bean to the thought of him?"

"Woah. Think we missed a couple chapters there."

"Well, I might as well have," you folded your arms, leaning against the fridge and staring absentmindedly at the notes that scattered it. "You should have heard me. I think my voice went up four notches and my mouth still hurts from smiling."

Not missing a beat, Kal said, "He probably thought it was cute."

"You think?"

"Sure."

You groaned. Superman laughed again. Then, Claire popped her head through the doorway and very patiently beckoned you back outside.

"I'll call you later, Kal."

"Look forward to it."

And that was that. You slid your phone into your back pocket mindlessly, ready to tackle the fifteen backed-up orders that appeared out of nowhere during your not-so-short break.

The day flew by in a blur of spilled coffee beans and burnt milk. You tried very hatd to busy yourself with other things; orders, deliveries, stock-take. Anything to keep your mind off of the man in the too-big blazer that had yet to show you the least bit of interest.

You ended up being very grateful for the one person in your life that could tolerate your miniature spirals about the opposite sex. The one man on planet Earth that was far too kind to be disgusted, too noble to be embarrassed for you.

Your sinful thoughts of Clark shifted; forming into something much sweeter, as you thought of Kal-El and the bewilderment that came from just knowing him.

Your friendship with the last son of Krypton began... oddly.

Unusual, to say the least.

He saved you from a burning building one time. Okay, maybe not from the burning building itself- he saved you from your apartment block that stood directly across the one that was actually burning, at risk for being crashed into; absolutely perplexed when he found you sat cross legged in a your bedroom, eyes closed, the baffling epitome of ill-timed meditation.

You'd shrugged when he asked you why you didn't evacuate when the sirens went off; squirmed out of his grasp when he attempted to hoist you upwards. Sirens deafened you both, loud and shrill and persistent.

"Ma'am-"

"It's my time, Superman." you'd said solemnly, turning your face to the ceiling in a way that threw him, "I've lived a good life."

"It's... the building next door, miss." he deadpanned.

You ignored him.

"…Leave me be."

Kal just paused. Raised an eyebrow. Then eventually, he sighed, and with no word of warning- scooped you up and flew you to safety in less than six seconds.

You slapped him in the arm when he finally put you down, glared even harder when he stuttered apologies about how he had to, he couldn't just leave you there.

Eventually, you let up with a distracted pause; tilting your head to the side before gallantly stating, "You're a lot prettier than in the tweets."

That was the first time you ever made Superman laugh, and he's been coming back to laugh ever since.

At first, he came to visit under the guise of simply checking in on you. But it snowballed after that, random check-ins turning into unprompted nightly traditions.

He'd land on your fire escape at precisely 11:07pm every evening, suit scuffed, mind battered from a day of patrolling and doing lawful good. You'd offer him a tea or coffee, and it would always be in that chipped red and blue mug you were gifted years ago and somehow just never got rid of.

Naturally, the mug became his; never to be touched by any of your other friends or guests. It seemed like the more it was used, the closer you became.

"How was your day today?" his fingers would wrap around it gratefully, the colours of his suit camouflaging against the drink.

"It was good. Got my nails done and bought a new lip balm. Wanna see?"

"Sure."

It was different, how it began. Even weirder the way it continued.

Because for an invincible superhero that the whole world relied on, Kal-El wasn't some stuck-up, government clone that lived to serve and nothing else. He was a person. Human in the ways that mattered, even if his biology didn't agree.

He had a dog- a foster situation, he called it. He liked flying through the air and making shapes with the clouds. He hated when you swore, saying that the word fuck was both overused and crass. He loved breakfast, falling in love with it even more when you'd shown him that it could also be a contender for dinner, too.

"This is amazing." he'd said once, mouth full of bacon and eggs and hashbrowns. His entire figure swamped your cosy little kitchen stool, cape brushing languidly against the ground.

You just laughed, wiping a smidge of ketchup from his face as he blushed profusely and fought to look away.

"You're getting it all over you."

"Sorry." he mumbled, words slurred through a mouth of grease and goodness.

But, of course, there were certain things you didn't know about him. Couldn't know. He'd explained it to you over and over and over again, your persistence making him smile but ultimately, was also causing his heart to break.

"It wouldn't be safe for you to know." he always said, softly, gently, as though he didn’t believe you could take it.

And you- though stubborn to the core and relentless to no degree- somehow understood the severity of that alone.

It still didn't stop you from trying to get it out of him, though.

"Do you have a day job?"

Kal-El squirmed uncomfortably, "No."

"Do you have an alter ego?"

"...No."

"Do you think me and your alter ego would be friends?"

His eyes softened then. Your eyebrows quipped. "...Yes. If I had one."

You learned very quickly that Kal-El didn't have many friends.

It didn't surprise you. Every photo of him standing next to the Justice Gang looked edited; every headline of his solo. He told you stories of the people he'd saved, how he remembered their faces and how their heartbeats raced, but could never quite stick around long enough to find out more.

It was bitterly unfair, you noted, how someone so good could be so alone.

After a couple of months, you found out that he lived somewhere in the Antarctic. A freezing cold spire coded to his DNA was what he called home, had always called home, one filled with working robots and the occasional super-dog.

"I'll take you there sometime." he'd promised.

But here, in Metropolis, Kal housed a spacious penthouse with floor to ceiling windows. You'd been there more than a handful of times now; always through the window and never through the lobby. You didn’t even know what his building looked like, wouldn’t be able to pick it out of a line up.

But it was really one of the only few places you could go where the threat of being taped and posted all over the internet didn't loom; as long as you promised not to tell anybody.

That, he was quite stern about. He claimed it was more for your protection than it was to keep himself hidden- I can move anywhere, anytime. You can't.

It had you asking him where his deep trust in you came from, though you couldn’t deny the way it filled your chest with warmth. Even you had to admit- you weren't exactly the quietest, calmest, most reserved person to ever grace his life.

But Kal just chuckled. His shoulders nudged yours, smile boyish and shy, "I'm a pretty good judge of character." and that was that.

Your friends and co-workers knew him simply as your friend Cal. C instead of a K, so no-one had the chance to piece it together. They never saw him, just heard about him through stories you dulled down for the sake of secrecy.

If Superman flew you over the stratosphere the other day before taking you back to his apartment, your favourite hot chocolate already on the counter, then Cal drove you around on Monday to test out his new car, and you had drinks at his place before he took you back home.

It was all very calculated. But you supposed it had to be; being Superman's best friend was never going to be easy. Not even when he did everything he could to keep you safe, including (but not limited to) answering even the stupidest of phone calls, where all you did was gush and cry and freak out about the infamous Clark Kent.

You remembered the day you saw him for the first time.

It was the Monday after a painful weekend. Most of Sunday was spent face-down in your pillow, mumbling about how life wasn't fair and you were probably going to be a single old hag until the day came that you finally died.

On your phone, Kal-el was rolling his eyes; giving you a sweet, lopsided grin as he told you to stop being so dramatic.

"You're not going to die old and alone," he'd rolled his eyes amusedly, throwing a ball for Krypto to fetch and destroy somewhere in the Antarctic. "Your person will come. Just… gotta be patient."

And then, like the world had heard your silent pleas and Kal's contained agitation, Clark Kent stumbled into your life (and cafe) the very next day.

All sweet and shy and knocking into coats that hung off of the backs of chairs, apologising profusely like they had brains and hearts that beat. His curls, unruly as always, flopped comically over his forehead; the crook of his glasses taking your breath away with every slight, nervous scrunch of his nose.

He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen- familiar in a way you couldn't place, yet so unlike anyone else you'd ever met before.

You couldn't look away, no matter how hard you tried. Whether it was love at first sight or just pure, unfiltered obsession- you weren't too sure.

"Hey... hi. Please may I get a coffee?" he'd asked.

"Hi, hey. Which coffee can I get you?"

The tips of his ears reddened. Your stomach fluttered in agony. "Just a black coffee, please." then, he paused, eyes flickering from the menu to the far too large top hanging off your frame, "I like your shirt."

You thanked him, quietly finding it hilarious that the top you'd worn to work that day actually belonged to your dear friend Superman. Yet another thing you weren't willing to tell him, in fear of his already too big ego inflating even more.

You made Clark's black coffee. His fingers brushed against yours as he took it, gaze lingering a beat too long. Then, you called Kal and got sent to voicemail immediately after; leaving him a very passionate message about the man you were pretty sure was the love of your life.

Clark came in every day since.

Apart from today.

"Don't be so sad, sweets," Lorna nudges a bag of opened candy your way, brows quirking up with the movement. "He probably just got held up somewhere."

It's laughable. Pathetic. You shouldn't be this sad, this ridiculous, over someone you don’t even know, but you can’t help it.

You feel everything tenfold, and the droop in your expression is unmistakable- even when Michael taps you gingerly on the shoulder; knowing brow quirked, something square and leather clutched in his free hand.

A wallet.

With little gold detailing pinching the corners, and a tiny little planet stamped on the front.

Your world stops spinning, and you fall within the split-second of static as Michael hands it to you like it’s a personal gift from the Gods.

“No wonder your boy couldn’t make it today,” he grumbles. Your entire body goes cold with anticipation, “Probably spent all day looking for that thing- Claire found it wedged between the seats. Do with that what you must.”

And that's how, a full five days later, you find yourself buzzing into a swanky looking apartment building; Clark’s wallet clutched tight in one hand, a boiling hot black coffee in the other.

You feel weird. You feel intrusive. On the way here, you decided that if you were ever to be asked what fictional character you relate to the most, it would be the delusional, disgusting Joe Goldberg.

But you don’t turn around. You refuse to- it’s been days since he left his wallet at the café, and you just couldn't take it anymore. It's been sat untouched in Michael’s office, already collecting dust, calling out your name alongside a plea of return me, return me!

“Just do it, dear God,” Michael had groaned, flinging it towards you with two tattooed fingertips pressed against his temples, “I can’t take this anymore. Take it back and stop moping.”

You thought about swinging by the Planet and dropping it off there. But questions would be asked, eyebrows would be raised, and you didn’t really want to step into Clark’s place of work smelling like milk and tea and coffee granules- so, you opted for the next best thing instead.

You took his driving license out. Jotted down his address. Then, before anyone could convince you not to, you made your way straight there.

The woman at the shiny desk tells you that Clark’s apartment is on the very top floor.

In all honesty, that surprises you. You weren’t too sure how much journalists made, but the sum must be great for him to be able to live in such a fancy building. Most of the walls are made of glass, and the doorman even tilted his hat towards you when you stepped inside.

The elevator ride to the top is quick. You can’t remember the last time you were ever up this high- not unless you can count the nights spent zipping through the empty Metropolis air with Superman holding you close.

The thought of Kal-El makes you smile, but a pang of guilt also hits your chest at the lie you told him today. He’d asked you if you were free to come over, and you simply couldn’t find it in you to tell him the truth- that you were blowing him off to find Clark.

“I’ve got my mug and yours, and I even bought those little marshmallows you like,” Kal had said, very triumphantly, over the phone. You’d been busy stacking the dishwasher at the time to feel the full weight of guilt, but you were definitely feeling it now. “Thought we could watch that film you were talking about the other day. What was it called, again…?”

“I am so sorry, Kal,” you mumbled, wiping your soapy hands on your apron as you struggled to close the washer, “I’ve, uh… got plans. Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh.” Although he tried to hide it, you could sense the disappointment in his voice from a mile away. “Oh, well- that’s alright. Will you be safe tonight? Wherever you’re going?”

You cracked a small smile, nodding to nobody but yourself. “Of course,”

“And you’ll call me if you need anything?” his voice lowered then, one filled with a silent plea for you to promise.

You nodded again, “Always.”

“Alright, then. See you soon?”

Your smile widened. There was something about how much Kal treasured you that hit something deep within your chest; blossoming a far-too familiar feeling that you had to force straight back down.

“See you soon, Superman.”

A steady ding sounds your arrival, ripping you out of the early memory with ease.

The top floor of Clark’s apartment building looks eerily familiar.

You pause the second you step out of the elevator; brows falling into a furrow, lips pursed. The once slightly-warm coffee in your hand is now threatening to burn a hole through your palm, and you just can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been here before.

But that’s stupid. Because you haven’t. And nobody in their right mind- not even you, in all of your whimsy and caffeine-fuelled delirium- would ever dare be deluded by that fact.

The hallway is quiet. Plush carpet, low lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows lining one side like a gallery of stars.

That’s what stops you. Completely.

Metropolis stretches out beneath the glass in a way that steals the breath straight from your lungs- all glittering veins of light and distant sirens, the river a dark ribbon cutting through the city. You drift closer before you can stop yourself, forehead nearly brushing the cool pane.

You’ve seen this view.

Not like this- not standing, no- but you’ve seen it. From higher, from warmer air, from the safe circle of an arm at your waist as the city unfolded below you like something made just for the two of you.

Your chest tightens, but you can’t place it. So you shake your head as if that alone might dislodge the feeling.

This is ridiculous. Clark Kent does not share a penthouse view with Superman. And if he did, then Kal would be cruel- truly cruel- not to tell you that the man you were probably falling in love with lived just next door.

Still, your fingers curl a little tighter around the coffee cup.

You force yourself away from the window and down the hall, counting your steps until you reach the door at the very end. It’s unassuming and plain, a dark wood coated in a glossy finish, handle a deep metal blue. Clark’s name is neatly printed on a label beneath the peephole, and your eyes rake over it hesitantly.

You lift your hand to knock, ready to either take the leap or embarrass yourself completely- but the door swings wide open before your knuckles ever have the chance to make contact.

"Oh-"

An apology tangles itself up in your throat as the man in front of you fills the doorway. Your restless eyes fight, wearily, to tear themselves away from the attractive ridges of his body.

Smart dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Those delicious slacks that cling to him just right. A press badge swings, still clipped at his waist, crooked like he’d forgotten it was there entirely.

His tie hangs loose, collar open- stance just a little too assertive to be Clark, a little too relaxed to be anyone else.

“Hi,” you breathe, relief washing through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Your eyes don't meet his. Your fingers fumble for his wallet in your pocket, your body ablaze underneath his stunned stare as you look anywhere but him, "Clark. Sorry, I-"

It takes a second longer than it should.

You look up, meeting his gaze halfway- and the double take is so quick, your neck clicks with the movement.

Time freezes. You almost choke on an inhale.

Because something is missing.

Something isn't right.

No glasses.

And the person looking right back at you isn’t the same person you thought you’d see tonight.

His eyes meet yours, blue and open and devastatingly familiar. The tilt of his head, the softness in his expression as recognition dawns- not confusion, not surprise, but something bordering on the painful edge of realisation.

A breath catches in your throat.

He says your name- softly, gently, as if not to startle you. But you're not paying attention, because your focus is on something else.

In his right hand, he clutches a mug.

Familiar, bright- formally yours.

Red and blue ceramic.

Drank from through laughter, sipped through conversation, put through endlesss nights spent at his and evenings spent at yours. It’s either unmistakable, or it’s uncanny.

Whatever it is, it’s slightly chipped on the rim.

Steam curls from it gently, the scent of hot chocolate filling the air between you. On top of the drink- floating in a neat little cluster of sugar and gelatin- are those little white marshmallows that you like best.

The world seems to tilt on its axis. Your fingers go numb.

And suddenly, a weight vanishes from your hand, the full coffee cup clattering at your feet; a warm overspill that stains your shoes a dark brown hue.

And Kal-El- Clark- moves without thinking.

His eyes are wide as he reaches for you, desperately, one step forward causing you to take three steps back.

His free hand reaches out.

But you’re already gone; turning sharply and bolting down the hall, heart racing, thoughts fracturing with every step, his broken voice swallowed by the echo of your footsteps.

thank you guys for reading !! love you always xx

[marwrite]

new year's resolution

summary: you promised yourself; new year, new you. no more friends-with-benefits junk, no more splitting pastries and staying the night and pretending it’s nothing. this was the year you’d finally cut clark kent off for good- until you pull away a little too well and clark realises you were never temporary to him, even if he was to you.

clark kent x fem ! reader

themes: happy new year my darlings!! verrrry slight smut, lots of yearning from you in this one, slight angst, clark being a pining domestic work husband, friends with benefits trope, what better way to kick off 2026 than with clark being super romantic?! enjoy!!

New year, new you.

That's what you kept repeating to yourself, over and over and over again, as Clark pulled you in for a mind-numbing kiss on New Year's Eve; precisely three seconds into the dreaded 2026.

2026 would be the year of change. Of course, you'd also told yourself that last year- only back then, it had been in the form of self-help and wellness (you had yet to step back into that fancy gym you were still paying a hefty membership for). This year, it was a little more personal than that... less vague.

Because this year, you were finally going to end whatever the hell was going on between you and Clark Kent.

It sounded so simple when you framed it like that- clean, decisive, adult. Your mother would be proud, though she'd shake her head and mutter obscenities about how on earth you allowed yourself to be in this position in the first place.

You convinced yourself it would be easy; a resolution you could fold neatly into the mental list you kept somewhere between drink more water and stop doom-scrolling before bed.

End it. Let go. Move on. Let the tides roll in and the earth spin and the universal threats disappear, one by one- you could do this.

You even let yourself feel proud for a moment, standing there in the glow of cheap string lights you'd both taped to the ceiling, Clark’s hands warm at your waist, his mouth familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

Seven months.

That was how long it took for his apartment felt like a second home; already housing a drawer for you, a toothbrush and a couple late-night reads.

It was long enough that you knew which mug he reached for first in the morning, and how he liked his eggs when he cooked breakfast- which was often, because Clark was the kind of man who cooked breakfast for you without being asked, who moved around the kitchen with quiet certainty.

The type of guy who always remembered to buy oat milk because you once mentioned it made your lattes taste more like a Sunday morning than regular milk ever did, so now it was a staple on his shopping list, as essential as eggs and bread.

It was also long enough to have found out- only three months in- that he was the same man who often tore red and blue through the vast Metropolis sky.

It was a one time thing.

Initially.

"It was lovely, Clark. I, just..." you grimaced as you twirled a loose strand of hair around your finger, bottom lip bitten in reluctance as he blinked back at you through black rims.

It had been the morning after a hazy, slightly tipsy night- one where you’d practically begged to jump on top of him, and a bewildered Clark had insisted on double-, triple-, quadruple-checking that you were of sound mind before even thinking about giving in.

When you eventually proved yourself sober, the moments that followed quickly became the best three and a half hours of your entire life.

Tangled sheets. Drooling, face-down, into his navy pillows with nothing but your body giving into everything he needed and was allowed to take.

In your entire lifetime, no man had ever come close to how Clark made you feel.

And that was exactly why you couldn't have it happening again.

"...I'm just not looking for a relationship." you'd finished guiltily.

You half expected Clark to pout. He had that doting charm about him, the vibe that he lived off of being loved and wanted, simply unable to function otherwise.

So when all he did was give you a slight nod and a small smile back, you had to admit- even you felt a little bit crushed.

"That's okay, I understand. I still had fun last night." he'd said softly.

"Yeah," you smiled, "Me too."

Eagerly, you left it at that, wrapping up the conversation with a query that was strictly work related and nothing more.

The workday carried on. Printers still jammed, deadlines were still handed out like candy, and you managed- impressively- to keep your thoughts about your delicious coworker out of the office and safely confined to your bedroom.

But then, of course, came the Planet's annual Summer Party on the rooftop.

And even you knew it probably wasn't going to end well.

Champagne. No Perry. All floors of the Daily Planet congregating to celebrate the paper's quarterly wins; bylines and headlines and front pages toasted to by drunken patrons and loose reporters. Who said journalists didn't know how to have fun every now and then?

Lois insisted that you come; claiming that you didn't even have to drink if you didn't want to.

"Just come for the social," she'd said, and you'd been so bogged down with work that, in that moment, you very distractedly agreed.

But predictably, a few glasses of Merlot had you raking the crowd for that familiar pair of broad shoulders again; his mop of dark curls, the frames, the sparkling blue eyes that soon bore into yours fifty minutes later as Clark pressed you up against the wall of a supply closet.

"Easy, sweetheart," he rasped in your ear, roaming hands hungrier than his tone, "Gonna have to keep quiet for me. You can do that, right?"

You'd nodded, teeth clenched tight as Clark planted a trail of kisses from your jaw, down the skin of your stomach (exposed by the open shirt he'd skillfully managed to unbutton with one hand) all the way down to the plush of your thighs.

"Good girl."

And when his mouth finally found the heat collecting between your legs- tongue soothing the ache that had been growing for him since the very first time- you swore you could see stars.

The next day, you both agreed to being friends with benefits.

No strings attached, the biggest cliché to grace both of your lives that day.

At least, that was the label you’d both agreed on back in June, when the weather was warmer and everything felt lighter. Back then, it felt possible to keep things casual because neither of you were really looking too closely at what casual meant.

You had agreed because truthfully, you didn't know what you wanted. It wasn't like you were emotionally inept. You liked Clark, everything he was and everything he stood for- but relationships were often complicated, and there were far too many things going on in your life to justify adding another.

"Who's got time for a boyfriend nowadays, anyway?" Cat once scoffed, flicking her hand up dismissively as you clung onto her every word, "It's all a big game everyone's playing. Best not to take part- it can get pretty messy."

So you kept it easy. You googled what it meant to be 'friends with benefits', and you stuck to the steps like gospel. You left immediately after breakfast. You didn't stick around for a cuddle. You never called him babe and baby and tried not to combust when he hit you with the sweetheart and darling.

You followed his queues instead of inciting your own. You even looked away when a new reporter joined and she was punchy like Lois and kind of looked like you, and on her very first day, she gravitated toward Clark while he remained none the wiser.

Sure, your entire body had gone rigid and you had to read a couple hard-hitting articles on micro-anti-feminism and how to avoid it, all while turning emerald green with envy- but hey, at least you tried.

When Clark finally noticed, a familiar curve took to his dimpled smile as he asked you- lightly, one arm secure around your waist- if you were jealous, you just rolled your eyes and told him to stop being stupid.

Even so, you never saw him linger with her after that. And in time, she left him alone.

Nevertheless, you told yourself you could do this.

But seven months later, standing in his arms as fireworks went off somewhere outside the apartment, you knew you couldn’t.

Clark kissed you like he always did.

Slow, unhurried, like it was Christmas day and you were a gift he'd been promised all year. Like there was nowhere else he needed to be but right here, right now, with you.

His thumb brushed your jaw absentmindedly, a touch so familiar it almost hurt, and you closed your eyes because if you looked at him for too long you might do something reckless. Like ask him what you were to him. Like tell him you were falling in love with him.

You didn’t say anything when he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Stayed silent when he smiled that soft, private smile that always felt like it was meant just for you.

And you didn’t say anything when he murmured, "Happy New Year," like it mattered, accompanied by a gentle kiss on the forehead. Not even when he turned you around, swift and slow, plush lips planted against the nape of your neck as he pressed you up against the glass wall of his apartment; sliding himself in, making you his, though you knew it was far from the truth.

You told yourself it was the last time you’d let it feel like this.

The thing about falling in love with Clark Kent was that it didn’t happen all at once. The world wasn’t that kind. You fell quietly, dangerously, without an ounce of warning.

It happened in the way he always brought you a pastry when he got himself a coffee, even if you hadn’t asked. How he never forgot that you hated nuts but almond croissants were the only exception, matching your order after claiming casually that he wasn’t much of a sweets person himself. He'd eat with you, eagerly, as if he didn’t want you to be alone at the table.

You could feel it in the mornings, mostly; how your heart would thump when he’d pad around his apartment barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, handing you a mug before you even asked as a towel hung languidly off his waist. And then he’d listen- really listen- when you talked about your day, your frustrations, your half-formed dreams. Never looking away when you spoke, never even alluding to the idea that he had better places to be.

It didn’t mean anything, you told yourself. He was just kind. Clark Kent was kind to everyone. That was his way of being in the world.

But kindness like that felt personal. And that was the problem.

By the second week of January, you were exhausted from pretending you didn’t want more. The constant mental gymnastics ruined you; the never-ending reminders of the rules you’d set together, of the agreement you’d made. Casual. No expectations. No pressure. No future-talk.

So, you started pulling away.

At first, it was subtle. You took longer to respond to his texts. You declined invitations with vague excuses- busy, tired, rain check?

You stopped staying the night, even when he asked you to, even when he looked a little disappointed but nodded like he understood.

The drawer in his apartment stayed untouched. Your toothbrush sat neatly next to his in the holder, a reminder of the sudden change of heart.

It was a necessary evil. A way for you to get the space needed to get your feelings under control, to remind your heart who was in charge; even as every step away from him felt like pressing on a bruise.

Clark noticed. Of course he did. Years and years of looking out for danger meant that he had quite a knack for spotting abnormalities in behaviour.

When it came to you, it was no different.

He noticed when you stopped showing up at his place unannounced because you 'were in the neighbourhood.' His sweaters, previous victims of your own forgetful nature of never packing a complete overnight bag, suddenly ceased to be stolen. The conversations between you both were lighter now, safer; your smile easy but not as relaxed as it could be.

He didn’t say anything at first. He never pushed. That, too, was part of why this hurt so much.

It was a grey afternoon towards the end of January when he finally asked.

You were sitting across from him at your usual café, the one with the scratched wooden tables and the barista who knew your orders by heart. The scent of coffee beans filled the air like the world's most burnt car freshener; delicious and dizzying, the perfect way to describe how your brain had been feeling all week.

Snow clung to the edges of the windows, and the world outside felt muffled, distant. You liked it here. Oddly enough, it felt like a bit of an escape from the outside world.

Clark slid a plate toward you- an almond croissant, still warm. He watched as you stared at it for a moment, your throat tight.

"Everything okay?" he asked you.

You nodded, but beneath the table, your fingers found a way to combat the discomfort. They tugged and pulled and twiddled with the other, nervously, without rest.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." you said, clipped. You felt rude, but at that point, anything was better than the feeling of helplessness.

"It's just..." his eyes narrowed slightly. One hand steadied your plate, and the other used a wooden knife to cut your pastry in half.

You waited for him to continue, the sweet aroma of candied almonds filling the air between you.

"You’ve been kind of… distant," Clark said gently. No accusation. Just concern. Gently, he placed the knife back on the table. “Did I do something?”

The question landed heavier than you expected. You shook your head quickly.

"No. No, of course not."

He watched you for a moment, those steady eyes searching your face like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"Then what is it?"

You took a breath. Then another. You hadn’t planned to do this today.

You’d imagined this conversation a hundred times in your head- maybe in the quiet of his apartment, or yours, where your confessions could be swallowed, rejected, or reshaped in private, without anyone else seeing.

You’d pictured having control. More confidence, rehearsed words sliding off your tongue exactly as you wanted. But Clark had a way of disarming all of that, disarming you.

One look, one small tilt of his head, and all your careful preparation was ready to unravel, threatening to leave your heart out in the open.

“Really,” you said, forcing a small smile, “it’s no big deal.”

He didn’t look convinced. But again, if there was anything he wanted to say, he kept it to himself.

For the next two weeks, it carried on like that. And it broke your heart every single time.

You left him on read more often than you even opened his messages. You showed up to work hours earlier than Clark did so you could slip out before he arrived, minimising the time spent in the same room.

You buried yourself in assignments; drowning in research, spreadsheets, articles that demanded every ounce of your attention- but never quite enough to quiet the ache when you saw him out of the corner of your eye.

"Everything okay between you and Smallville?" Lois quipped once, raised eyebrow packed with a mirage of other questions you didn't have the answers for.

You'd nodded; lips taut, head down, like you had been for weeks and weeks.

"We're fine."

Clark kept noticing, and you could feel it. But he didn’t press.

He adapted quietly, finding little ways to bridge the distance you’d built. If you came in early, he lingered a few blocks away, returning with coffee and a pastry for both of you to enjoy on your lunch break instead; carefully placing yours on the edge of the table so you could pretend it wasn’t about him, that it was just a routine, a convenience.

He hoped for a chance- however brief- that you might eat with him like you used to. But when you murmured the familiar, apologetic, "I’m so swamped with this article, Clark… I’m really sorry." he only nodded, letting you retreat back to your work without protest.

Polite, understanding, sweet Clark Kent. Who broke you in two when he placed his own pastry bag on your desk when you weren't looking, alongside a little post-it note he'd written carefully for you to find.

Doesn't taste the same without you. CK

Sometimes, you caught his eye across the newsroom. You forced that broken little smile, the one meant to hide the storm inside, and felt your chest tighten as it met his. Isn’t this what you wanted? you wondered, even as your own heart ached. But every traipse of guilt pulled you back, building walls you weren’t sure he’d ever try to climb.

Part of you hated yourself for it. But you couldn't stop. It had become an obsession of sorts, to see just how far you could push him away and protect your own.

But somehow, someway- Clark stayed.

Even when your avoidance grew more obvious; translating into the way your shoulders stiffened as you typed furiously, head down, coffee cup shivering in your hand.

He stayed incessant, determined. He'd reach across the divide without demanding anything in return; encouraging notes on your laptop, texts he didn't expect answers to, even a few private conversations with Perry on being re-assigned some of your deadlines- like that was the problem. Gestures so small they could be ignored, yet impossible to overlook.

Each one pressed quietly against your heart, a reminder that he was there; steady and patient, refusing to let go, even when meeting him halfway felt impossible.

You took that year's Valentines Day as PTO.

You simply refused to deal with the thousands of bouquets you'd have to walk past on your commute to work- never mind the constant reminders that you were single by everyone else happily taken in the office. Even Lois had started dating someone new, and though it had taken him a good few months, Jimmy was finally starting to warm up to Eve.

You hadn't expected anyone to reach out. Long holidays had never been your vibe, so your fellow colleagues got used to you using your paid time off for the odd Monday or Friday throughout the year. Truthfully, this wasn't too out of character for you.

Except, just as you were finally settling in for the night- the intro to How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days playing quietly on the TV- you heard it; three gentle taps against the window of your fire escape.

No introduction needed. You didn’t have to ask who it was.

Half of you stayed still, almost hoping he’d go away on his own, respecting the invisible boundary you’d built. But when the window began sliding open with that familiar, deliberate creak, any hope of solitude evaporated.

The heavy, careful thuds of his boots followed as he stepped into the apartment. Even from here, you could hear the subtle drag of his cape against the floor.

A little laugh escaped you, more habit than humour as you tried to keep it light, "Superman. Didn’t know I was on your patrol list tonight."

Clark didn’t respond. No joking retort, no teasing smile, not even a soft apology for entering unannounced.

The silence pressed against you, heavy and unfamiliar and so unlike him, you had to double check it wasn't somebody else in a long cape and matching suit.

You turned slowly to face him, heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with movie soundtracks or casual quips. For a moment, you drank him in; the symbol of Hope, Metropolis' hero, reduced to a pained expression in the middle of your apartment.

Then, Clark spoke. His voice came out quiet and careful, like the mere premise of saying the words out loud was frowned upon.

"I’ve… upset you, haven’t I?"

Your stomach dropped. It wasn’t accusatory, but every word felt like it landed straight in the hollow space your own avoidance had carved.

With a slight shake of your head, you opened your mouth to speak- but the words got caught on their way out.

You had rehearsed so many excuses, so many ways to explain your distance- but right now, none of them seemed enough.

He took a step closer, boots soft on the floor, cape brushing lightly behind him. "I’ve done something wrong," he said again, softer this time, almost a whisper. "I need you to tell me what."

It was patient. Gentle. Lashes of Superman's assertion peeked through Clark's tone. But beneath the calm, you heard the subtle ache he’d been carrying for weeks- the same hurt you’d been trying to avoid taking accountability for.

You forced a small, tired smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes.

"You haven't done anything, Clark."

"I have. I know I have," his jaw flexed at his words, "Otherwise, we wouldn't be like this. You wouldn't be so far away from me,"

"It's not you." you said again.

"Then what is it?" he pressed, eyes shining with a quiet plead. "Please... I... I've thought about it. I've retraced my steps and thought about everything we've ever done and I can't- gosh, I can't work it out. It's my fault, I know that, but I don't know how,"

You stared at him, chest tight, words caught somewhere between your mind and your mouth.

"Please tell me how."

Everything you’d been running from, every careful plan to keep him at a distance, all of it was collapsing in a single moment.

You’d kept him at arm's length for months; convinced that space would keep your feelings contained. But right now, just looking at Clark made it impossible to pretend any longer.

It wasn’t about something he’d done. Not at all.

It was you, and only you, struggling against the truth you could no longer deny. The fear of ruining what you had kept you quiet. But staying silent in this moment felt cruel, and the thought of walking away from this- from him- without ever speaking your heart, was unbearable.

So the words tumbled out before you could stop them, fragile and raw;

"It’s my fault, Clark. It's not yours,"

His eyes snapped up from the floor to meet yours. You continued, sadly.

"I stopped wanting casual."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Clark didn’t speak. He didn’t rush to fill the space. He just stood there, thinking, like he always did before saying something important.

You braced yourself.

You’d rehearsed this part- the gentle letdown, the apology, the reassurance that you were amazing but he just wasn’t in the right place.

You could handle that. You had to. You'd already done the brunt of it, the hard work of pulling away and allowing him time to do the same. He hadn't taken the opportunity then, but he could now; all Clark had to do was leave.

Nod, turn around, fly back home or towards whatever threat he'd ignored just to be here, with you, right now.

But he didn't.

Instead, after the long stretch of confusing silence where the cogs seemed to turn restlessly in his head, he finally spoke.

"You know..." he started slowly, swallowing thick, "I eat breakfast at home."

You blinked, thrown. “What?”

“I eat breakfast at home,” Clark repeated, a faint, almost nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “Every morning. I'm not really hungry when I get to work.”

You frowned, confusion knitting your brows.

“Okay…”

“And I don’t actually like almond croissants that much,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re fine. Just… not my favorite.”

Your heart started pounding, like it sensed something before your brain did.

“But you love them,” he went on, voice steady yet soft. “And I know you don’t like eating alone. Especially in the morning. So I suck it up, and I have one with you every morning for breakfast. Just because you like them." he paused then, as if contemplating on what to say next.

"I did that way before we even started this whole thing. Didn't know who I was trying to fool, even back then. Does that seem casual to you?"

The city noise seemed to fade into the background. You stared at him, chest tight, emotions colliding all at once- shock and fear and something dangerously close to relief.

Clark's words begged to be answered. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to even nod a reply, far too stunned with disbelief.

"I didn’t realise you thought I didn’t want more," he said truthfully, brows knitted at your expression. "I thought I was giving you space. I didn’t want to push you into something if you weren’t ready."

You laughed weakly, a sound caught somewhere between a crack and a breath. "I was the one who didn't want anything,"

Clark’s expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. "And now?"

"I'm scared." you said, honestly. He simply shook his head.

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"There is," you said back, "Because at the start, I didn't want anything. I couldn't. And now, I want everything."

"What's so bad about that?"

The words hung between you, fragile and terrifying. You weren't too sure of your surroundings anymore- the candle that you'd lit prior to his arrival merged into everything else in your cosy little apartment. All you could focus on was Clark.

And all he could see was you.

In a sweatshirt far too big, hair far too unruly to have expected company tonight. Yet he looked at you like you like you were something to be praised; sacred, not an emotional wreck in a faded Metropolis Meteors sweater who couldn't even look him in the eye.

It was his turn to take you in, for his gaze to graze over the way you simply existed. His shoulders relaxed, eyes following suit as his lips parted.

"I love you." Clark said softly.

The ringing in your ears halted, long enough for his words to begin to register. He'd just theown you completely off balance, yet he carried on like it was nothing.

"And I think I have... for a long time. Way before any of this," he cleared his throat. "But then we started doing that benefits thing, and I panicked because, well, I- it's not me. And I wanted to do this right."

Outside, trickles of rain start to fall, quiet and steady, like the world was holding its breath. Inside, Clark crossed the threshold of your living room and took your hand, warm and solid and real.

"Then why did you agree to it?" you asked, though your mind was still fighting to catch up with his words.

He loved you.

Clark Joseph Kent was in love- with you.

Every memory you ever shared clouded over, replays of all the times you spent tangled in each other's arms. All the lingering looks, the pauses and pecks you assumed were Clark's personal quirks when it came to 'casual sex'- now coming together to prove you so, very wrong.

Especially when he chuckled lightly, not all humour, most of it apologetic and said, "Figured I'd rather have a part of you than nothing at all."

It was the most gut-wrenching thing he could have said.

Because while you were adamant on not giving in, on staying far away in fear of getting hurt, Clark dove straight in; suffering the repercussions of every single day you were at war with your own mind, yet choosing stick by you anyway.

"Maybe," he then said, carefully, as though not to scare you. His hands found yours, taking it with a gentle squeeze. "we can stop pretending this is casual."

Your fingers tightened around his. The ache in your chest didn’t disappear- not completely- but it shifted, softened into something that felt like possibility.

"I'm not good at this sort of stuff, Clark," you warned him, swallowing thickly.

You saw his dimple before anything else. He began to smile, soft and slow, pleased with your (albeit reluctant) way of letting your heart win for once; for letting it drive everything you'd kept under lock and key.

"You don't need to be. Not with me," Clark said, cupping your jaw as a broad thumb trailed over your lips, "We can work it out. Together."

And for the first time that dreaded countdown, you let yourself imagine a resolution you hadn’t written down.

Something less neat, and more terrifying. Something real; with Clark at the forefront.

"Alright?" he asked you then, a question behind the glimmer in his eye as his nose brushed against yours.

You tilted your head upwards, braving the weight of his gaze. You nodded slowly, hammering heart worsening as Clark's grin widened.

The warm brush of his breath ghosted across your lips, causing your body to relax further into him as you spoke back,

"Alright."

And Clark didn’t rush it.

You’d kissed plenty of times before. They were all careless, fleeting, stolen in the middle of moans and gasps, or in the quiet aftermath of everything that had happened beneath the sheets- but this was different. Entirely.

This kiss was steady, sure; weaving itself into the promise of a conversation you would definitely have later- but for now, it could wait.

He lingered, giving you time to breathe, to notice the small tremble in your fingers as they tightened into a fist against his chest. And then, he leant his head down, and kissed you properly.

His lips were warm, his movements unhurried.

The act felt familiar- Clark felt familiar. The faint bitterness of coffee lingered on each breath, softened by something sweet as he pressed a flat hand on your lower back and pulled you closer; almond, sugar, comfort, home.

oh my lord have i missed you all ! (i say that, i was definitely around - just haven't been able to write with all the festivities going on!) but i hope you all had a wonderful christmas and an even happier new year <3

as always, thank you for reading and supporting :') so much love for you all x

[54prowl]

they're called happy trail, love handles, beauty marks for a reason. everyone shut the fuck up!!

[rainysday]

shapeshifting on a saturday night // (clark kent)

summary: you think superman is hot, and he saves the day (or night). though, you can't help but notice his resemblance to your favourite office crush.

pairing: clark kent (2025) x velvet!reader

wc: 2.6k

tags/warnings: coworkers, alcohol use (probably a concerning amount), lovesick!clark and (mildly)toxic!reader. other than that, fluff!

requests/inbox

nav / clark kent masterlist

a/n: filling out my masterlists one fic at a time :') happy new year everyone!! (also the charlotte gloss in the header is my fav of all time highly recommend)

"He kinda looks like Clark, doesn't he?"

"Who?" Lois responds to your very silly question, glancing up and around the large open room that made up the headquarters of the Daily Planet.

"Him." You say simply, popping your gum and nodding up to the TV on the wall, playing some reruns from yesterday of a battle that had happened near the harbour. No fatalities, very minor injuries, but probably millions of dollars of damage done to yachts bobbing around the water when the creature crawled out of the sea and when Superman sent him right back.

The sudden distraction from their conversation draws Cat's attention too, and they simultaneously squint and tilt their heads as they look up at the TV.

"Clark Kent?"

"Yeah."

"I don't see it." Lois says, lips pressing together while she raises her coffee mug to take a sip. You'd seen her pour the sugar in earlier— it's a wonder she can close her eyes at night and sleep.

Cat giggles, nudging her chair and jostling the cup unintentionally. "It's the tall man-blue eyes-brown hair combo." She says, more to you.

You hum, shrugging a bit and looking back at your phone again. "Either way, he's hot."

It's too late to be out— realistically you knew that, but somehow every time you'd managed to fish your phone out of your bra in the loud and sticky club, even as the time got later and later you still didn't magically find yourself at home. Funny how that works.

Fearing the moment the lights would come on and blind you, throwing you out into the Metropolis night with fuzzy vision after being flashbanged as a signal to get out, your friends dragged you out shouting something about an Uber over the music.

You nearly fall out the doors and into the bouncer, muttering an apology that's met with an eye roll that just makes you giggle. "Has aanyone told you how tall you are? You're like… like… tall."

You're mostly ignored, just pointed in the direction of your friends across the wide sidewalk as they climbed in the back seat of a car, one of them leaning in the passengers side window to talk to the driver.

You aren't aware of your own clumsy steps before you're leaning heavily on her back, poking your head in as well.

"We can buddy up, she'll sit on my lap. Come onnnnn…" She whines, and you automatically nod in agreement.

"Yeah, we can cuddle up." You add unhelpfully as you grin and rest your chin on her shoulder, blinking slowly.

He just shakes his head. "No, not in my car. Just order another for your friend."

Considering your other three friends were piled in the back seat and this girl you were hugging from behind like a corny prom photo was the one who ordered this one, you could deduce they were probably talking about you.

"No, come on. She'll be so good. We're really chill." She promises, and is met with a scolding look from this stranger.

You make an effort to stand up straight, pushing your hair out of your face and taking a breath that is meant to be sobering and reassuring. "Don't even worry about it. I got it. I'll get my own car, I'll meet you guys at your place in like half an hour."

"No, no way. We're not going to leave you here." She insists, holding your arm to keep you both upright as you fish out your phone again. She turns back to the driver again. "Can we at least wait until her car gets here? You can't expect me to leave my friend— a gorgeous young woman, mind you— on the side of the street by herself at one in the morning!"

Before he can argue, because you knew your friend would definitely fight on your behalf nd he was more than capable of kicking everyone else out of his back seat when one of them was already asleep, you grab onto her again. "Hey, don't worry about me. I'll be right behind you, and I'm not by myself, I've got my close personal friend the door guy to make sure I don't get killed." You point back at the doors, to the bouncer that is still pointedly ignoring your group.

She relents.

"Okay, okay. Fine. Text me when you get in the car, and when you get to the building and I'll let you in."

You nod, taking the time to hug her, much to her drivers dismay, before stepping back so they could get in and be on their way.

You open your phone as the car disappears down the street, mindlessly opening some social media app you can't even see clearly before remembering you're supposed to be getting a ride. You laugh a little to yourself at your forgetfulness, leaning back against the brick of the building as you try and find the app you actually were looking for when… your phone freezes, and then black screens. Dead.

You smack it, as if that would somehow CPR your phone back enough to summon a ride, but it obviously doesn't work. You huff, turning in the direction of the club doors again. "Hey, sorry, mister tall guy, can I borrow your—"

He's gone.

You look around, squeezing your eyes shut before opening them again to try and get a better grasp of your surroundings. Apparently you'd been walking during your scrolling excursion, and suddenly you had no idea where you were. You couldn't be far from the club, it had only been a few minutes, but alas, it was too late for your drunk brain to redeem itself on this one.

"Shit…" You mumble to yourself, making a conscious effort to blink again and take a deep breath. It was cold out tonight, surely that would help in the absence of a slap in the face.

Find street sign. Find street sign, figure out where you are.

The club wasn't far from your own small apartment, but it was much farther from where your friends were all going where they had room for all of you to have a sleepover after the night out. You just had to find your way home, charge your phone, and then call a ride to their place. That couldn't be too hard!

(It was, apparently, too hard.)

You feel like you've walked up and down the same streets a million times, not recognizing anything and praying you don't look as drunk as you feel right now.

(You do.)

Clark could see it from the roof of whatever company building he was sitting on, just swinging his legs and looking at the stars. When he heard the muttered and slurred curses of a confused and highly intoxicated woman nearly falling into the street, he pushes himself up almost immediately and steps off the ledge. The least he could do was check if she was okay and not actually alone this late.

It wasn't until he tracked the humming down that he noticed it was you, though.

He would laugh if he weren't so worried. Or disappointed. Or a healthy combination of both. He shouldn't be, though, and he knows that. He'd been in your orbit at work for quite some time now, and he knows how you're the type to show up clean and professional but still regale everyone with tales of your outrageous weekends both presently and in your college years.

Just last week you'd told everyone about your 21st birthday, when you went out to a bar that held hostage your shoe until you paid (that, thankfully, also had seating that didn't require your feet to be on the ground. You remembered to pay, but you didn't remember to get your shoe back until the next day. Also the time you and your best friend in college had two days off so you drove all the way to Gotham City the same day without a plan on where to stay, went to some kind of show, made friends there and stayed with them before leaving the next afternoon.

You were messy and fun, and adventure glimmered in your eyes even when you looked at him like he was the most important person in the world. You had more in common than you knew, the near ability to shapeshift outside of work the way he did into the city's greatest hero. It was no wonder he was falling in love with you, really.

"Hey, miss?" He lands just behind you, jogging a little to catch up.

"Pay my rent and then we can talk." You mutter an automatic response you always give to men on dark streets this late into the night, not even bothering to look his way as you looked up for any hint at where you were.

Clark does laugh, this time. "Fair." He agrees, stepping in beside you and following your swaying steps so he could step in if you were about to fall.

"Sorry, what I meant to say was piss—" You cut yourself off hard when you finally catch a glimpse at the man next to you. Superman, to be terribly precise, complete with the costume. Uniform? Super…Suit? No matter. "Holy shit."

He raises an eyebrow, dimples popping when he can't fight the smile. Laughter rumbles deep in his chest, even as you stop walking and grab his arm.

"Oh my God! I know you!"

"Yeah?" He chuckles, holding out his free arm next to you in case you need further steadying.

"Yeah!" You nod, giggling as you look up at him. "You were… I saw you on TV… yesterday. Yeah, yesterday. Or today? I don't know, but I definitely saw you. Recently."

More recently than you know.

"Oh, yeah. Do you trust me to help you get home, then? You look a little lost." He says gently, careful not to be patronizing.

You huff, holding up your phone. "I'm not lost, Mr. Man. My phone just died and I couldn't call a ride. Now I'm walking home."

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Just… let me have my piece of mind and walk you the rest of the way home, then?"

Your expression shifts then, from exasperated to a smile as you tuck some of your hair back behind your ears. "Okay." You agree with a shrug, unable to help but be a little giggly at the concept of Superman walking you home.

Clark chuckles, nodding a bit and starting to walk in the direction of your building. "C'mon, then." He urges you, knowing you were too drunk to notice him leading the way. "Have a good night?"

"Yeah, good, but my friend's driver wouldn't let me in the car." You shrug, following along beside him. "You know, I was saying yesterday to some of my friends at work that I think you kind of look like our other friend." You add in a mumble.

"Oh?" He asks, trying to sound more casual than he definitely felt about you somehow almost clocking him past his glasses.

"Yeah. You've actually done interviews with him. Clark Kent? We work at the Daily Planet."

Ohhhh no.

"Oh! Yeah, I think I might remember him." He replies, clearing his throat and looking at the sidewalk ahead. Change the subject. "Do you like working there?"

"Yeah, I love it." You slur, almost tumbling over a dip in the sidewalk but you catch yourself. Clark almost gets to breathe a sigh of relief that you let him change the subject before you keep talking. "He's great. I think he's taller than you, though— is he taller?"

Clearly, you weren't letting this go. However, you were clearly still under the impression that he and Superman were distinctly two separate people, so he obviously hadn't blown anything too badly.

"I… yeah, I think he was a little taller." He agrees, unsure what else to do or say.

You look up at him, almost assessing as you walk. (Stumble.) You were making one of the most unwise— possibly funniest— decisions you've ever made in your life.

"He's real sweet, isn't he?" You ask, smiling.

"Yeah, he's really… he's nice."

"Cute, too. And God, he looks good in a white shirt. Oh, I, like, die when he takes his jacket off." You giggle, pretending to fan yourself.

Clark's heart nearly stops, stuttering in his chest before coming back to life. "Uh, I think we turn here." He mumbles, guiding you carefully around a corner onto your street. His cheeks are burning hot, tinged pink in the poor lighting.

"Don't tell him I said that, obviously." You add, words tangling together in your mouth and coming out kind of slurred again. "But yeah, he's like, so cute. Got that sexy, nerdy sort of thing going on. But he has social skills, you know?"

You were flirting with him, terribly, laying it on thick— though this time you didn't fully understand how your system was simultaneously backfiring and doing exactly what you wanted. Pitting men against each other without them knowing, or making them at least think they had competition, often made them step up their game. Did you actually think Clark was hot? Obviously, even if you would never tell anyone at work that in so much detail. But did you also think Superman was hot and present and very hopefully walking you right to your door? Also yes, and also obviously, you wanted him to come inside with you when you got there— friends entirely forgotten, but surely they wouldn't mind when you got to tell them tomorrow morning that yes you ghosted them, but "guys, I slept with Superman" is an undeniably appealing story to tell for far more reasons than one.

"Nope, definitely won't tell him." Clark, no— Superman— promises quickly with a shake of his head.

"You do look a bit like him, though." You add, feeling as though you've successfully seeded the roots of insecurity the same way you often did to men at bars, circling back to stroking his ego just enough. Terribly toxic, you knew, but absolutely worth the shot when you were handed one. "I'm not sure what it is, though…"

"Yeah," He laughs awkwardly, scratching at his jaw and distinctly avoiding eye contact. "Don't know what it could be."

Superman had very kindly declined your suggestion that he come inside when you made it to your apartment, even if he did have to fly you up to a window because you left your keys at your friend's house during pres before you went out. You were content; that was story enough for you.

You strided straight into the Daily Planet office on Monday morning, heels clicking against the flooring and echoing with the chatter of the space while you made a beeline for Cat's desk, the only person who would care, other than your friends, of course.

She was over the moon for you, of course, gushing over every scarce detail you managed to remember through the fog of your own creation, manifested by the consumption of about twelve drinks.

When Clark arrived, twenty minutes late for the day but only ten minutes later than you, you almost completely zone out of the barrage of questions Cat was still asking you. Because he's carrying his grey jacket, not wearing it. This must be the best week of your life.

Whatever higher power exists in this universe has shone their blessings upon you today, and you know it because you got to touch Superman's biceps and see Clark Kent's shoulders stretch out the fabric of his white button-up first thing in the morning two days later, and he even gives you an awkward smile and a half-wave in greeting.

Your drunken attempts at flirting hadn't worked on Superman, but— even if you didn't know it yet—they had certainly worked on Clark Kent.

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[kryptidfiles]

born to ride Clark Kent, forced to read and write fanfiction of him 🥀