caramelized

@in which, you message a wrong number while trying to argue with your ex. ݁ ˖ Ი𐑼

warnings ₊🩰 ⊹ gn!reader ╱ cheating mentioned

You message Clark Kent under the impression he’s your plug. He definitely isn’t, but he entertains you.

smau ╱ arrogant!extroverted!reader ╱ gender neutral reader ╱ obviously weed ╱ ass eating slander (nobody actually partakes) ╱ reader has brother? does that matter? ╱ am i doing this right is this excessive ╱ reader talks A LOT ╱ pretty used to describe reader :p

You’re interested in Clark Kent. A little. A lot. Like a whole lot.

gender neutral reader ╱ annoying ass reader but i love them anyway ╱ DESPERATE!reader ╱ clark is not oblivious ╱ reader has long hair? long enough to brush back sorry if ur bald ╱ this is my first time writing in 2nd person lmk lmk

Your coffee has grown cold, rippling as you tap your spoon against the side of the bright blue mug. As usual, The Talon is brimming with customers whispering over warm pastries.

Sitting across from you are three of your closest friends, notebooks sprawled, a textbook cracked open. One computer sits at the edge of your table, yours, open to a Quizlet.

You skim the paragraph you’ve been assigned to summarize and explain to your friends. You’ve read the first sentence at least three times, but your eyes have other ideas.

Clark Kent is tucked into a booth in the corner of the cafe, Chloe and Pete sitting opposite to him. Lana hovers beside them with a pot of coffee, but they’re too immersed in conversation to ask for any.

You grab at your chest, slapping your palm above where your heart is trying to tear its way through. “Sorry. Lack of oxygen. He just looks so fucking good, I’m—“

In complete harmony, each of your friends groan as loudly as they can to drown out your speech. They don’t even need to follow your gaze to determine who you’re talking about. They don’t need a name, either.

“Is there any other way you can express yourself?” Genevieve peers down at her book, scrawling the last of her summary.

“Or over someone else?” Ximena recommends, shutting the computer, a smile cracking her bored expression.

Your fingers are gripping the edge of the table. “Nobody compares. Have we not been over this? I want him.”

“Our next order of business is to suggest you find some dignity.” Genevieve comments, leaning further into her seat.

None of them can stop you when the rambles have started. Everyone adores Clark Kent, but you despise him. Loathe him, even, because you want him so badly.

How many times have you spaced out in class because you’re sure he’s gotten a haircut, but you can’t prove it, and you’d rather die than start a debate, because why should you even care?

You extend a hand in Clark’s direction, muttering along to the words playing on the stereo. “I know everybody here wants you. I know everybody here thinks they need you.”

“Please don’t associate some guy with Jeff Buckley. You’re ruining him for all of us.” Jason comments, trying to bury his nose closer to the book.

“He’s not some guy, he’s him, and he’s perfect.” You argue, and all of them scoff.

“He’s him? Do you hear yourself?” Ximena starts to giggle.

Usually, she supports you, but it gets to a point. With finals fast approaching, you need to do as much as you can, but you aren’t of much help.

Now, you’ve never been like this. It’s shameful. Putting so much of your attention towards some guy you’ve spoken to maybe once or twice. A book on de-centering men might do you some good, but you’ve never struggled with such a stupid thing.

“One guys face shouldn’t be able to reduce you to this. You haven’t written anything down.” Genevieve prods your chest with the textbook. “We’re studying.”

“Oh, I’m studying something.” You say, sparing him another glance.

Clark lifts his head as if he’s heard you, and his eyes flick from Chloe to you. Immediately, you drop your hand, trying to play it off by brushing your hair back.

Ximena snorts, covering her face as you smack her arm. “You’re disgusting.” Jason flicks your forehead with his index finger.

“Yeah, disgustingly—“ You begin, but choose to save your pride. Not like you have much left to preserve, but still. “I just wanna—“

You bury your head in your hands, letting out an undignified noise. “I’m going to break down. I think this might be the peak of my life. I’m in love with Clark Kent, and no man will ever compare.”

Ximena continues to laugh, but it slows down. Genevieve shakes your shoulder, urging you to stop. Jason suddenly wants to hear what you have to say.

“The cutoff is here. No man can outdo Clark Kent. They should all just die.” You murmur, crossing your arms beneath you.

“Thank you.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

It’s the best and worst thing ever. You want the Earth to swallow you whole. Surely, your spoon can be penetrated through the ground far enough to build yourself a whole to crawl into. Prison movies can’t be that far off.

The Talon is looking more and more like the best burial spot in Smallville, and you want to reserve your spot right now.

You have no dignity. No pride, no ego left to salvage. The laidback reputation you’ve spent all year curating just crumbled in front of you.

With that in mind, you let out a mortifying gasp and think of the only thing you can do. You scramble out of your chair and dart between customers like you’re trying to outrun some sort of wild animal.

The single bathroom is nestled in the back of the building, and you shut yourself inside. This might be embarrassing, but there’s a window right there. You’ve done worse, surely, you can’t sink lower than this.

Oh, but you can.

“Are you in there?” Clark’s voice comes from the other side of the door, knuckles dragging against the wood.

He’s nice. Too nice. He’s not laughing at you, at least not in your face, but you’re sure he wants to. You’d do it if in his position.

“No.” You answer, unlocking the panel and pushing it to the top so you can get through.

His eyes crinkle, his smile only growing. “Are you trying to crawl out the window?”

“I’m not crawling. I’m jumping. How do you know that, freak?” You reply, hoping to turn the attention off yourself.

As if he’d let you.

“I’m the freak?” He seems to be enjoying this more and more. “Will you come out here, please?”

“No. You’re going to laugh in my face.” You answer, managing to get one leg up onto the window.

“This door isn’t locked. I’m gonna come inside, okay?” He tilts the knob, but doesn’t make any other moves.

“Do not.” You push yourself onto the edge, using your hands for support as you no longer have access to the sink.

He pushes the door open anyway, and you straighten out your jeans, arms hoisting yourself steady. “I like the view.” You state, gesturing out the window, like that’s convincing anybody.

“Do you need help down?” He offers you a hand, but you refuse to take it.

Instead, you jump from your spot on the window, and his eyes widen, the amusement gone from his gaze. Suddenly, he’s grabbing you, arms lifting you like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

“Didn’t you ever read Humpty Dumpty?” Clark questions, adjusting his grip on you.

“You didn’t just compare me to an egg.” You manage, trying not to focus too much on the fact he’s touching you.

“No, no, it’s a cautionary tale.” He stops himself from rambling before it can begin. “I wouldn’t expect you of all people to be this irrational.”

“I’m not irrational. Just humiliated.”

“You have no reason to be, I promise. It’s not like I haven’t heard you say worse.”

Your eyebrows immediately narrow, and you smack his arm lightly. He sets you on your feet, and though you can tell he’s trying his hardest to bite back a smile, his eyes are basically doing it for him.

“No, no, c’mon.” He grabs your wrist before you can walk away. “In case you haven’t noticed, I spend an awful lot of time looking at you, too.”

You’re internally panicking, but curious. You’ve spent hours recounting the times you’ve been in his vicinity as evidence of a future together, but you were joking. Mostly.

“I’d expect you to catch on, but you’re so busy saying such nice things about me, it flew over your head.” He grins.

“We are not talking about this in the bathroom.” You say, but he can tell you want to smile, too.

“But we are talking about it? I have a lot of things to say to you.” He’s right on your tail as you exit, only a step behind, like he’s trying to get as close as possible without latching on.

Is this not at all how you were expecting your day to go? No. Did you have an entire dance routine set up with unwilling participants for the day you did decide to confess to him set up? Possibly.

Not a completely trash idea. It can’t go to waste, can it?

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Denji already got himself a free costume that's built into him.