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summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions⊠and then some.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: soo much fluff. clark is hopelessly devoted to you, but you have no idea. you're a cutie who loves fashion. he is adorable, friends to lovers, funny, domestic clark always! barely proofread, but enjoy xx
Youâre running late. Again.
For the fourth time this week, and itâs only a Wednesday.
Itâs not your fault. Really, itâs not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit youâd initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you arenât too pleased with how you look today.
The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies. There isnât an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.
âPerryâs gonna kill you.â Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.
Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.
âThen we better hurry up, Kent.â you say back, earning a chuckle from him.
You walk through the rain, and you donât notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you donât veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.
You donât even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clarkâs curls are almost soaked and youâre bone-dry.
The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.
âHow was your evening?â
âI ate ice cream for dinner,â you tell him absentmindedly, âAnd I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.â
His eyebrow quirks up, âMust have missed my invite.â
âOh, Iâm sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?â
âHowâd you know that?â
âI watch the news.â
Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. âI still would have come.â
You donât say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, youâre the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.
Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that youâre late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.
Beside her, Jimmy grins. âWhat time do you call this?â he jokes.
âGot held up,â Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldnât decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.
Youâd told Clark to go on; Iâll be like, thirty more minutes. Iâll just see you there! Youâd said, but of course he refused to listen.
Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clarkâs. You donât even have to turn around to know who it is.
âSorry, Perry.â You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.
Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.
âClose call.â he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.
Itâs a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you canât even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but youâre focused.
Youâre a great journalist, and youâve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.
Itâs Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has itâs perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planetâs infamous grump. Over time, youâve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and youâre good to go.
After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.
âHow you holding up?â Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You canât see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.
âSurviving. You?â you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.
âCounting down the seconds until lunch.â
âAre we going out today?â you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesnât skip a beat before doing the same.
The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.
You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.
âYou want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from the place âround the corner?â
âI can come with you,â you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.
âNo need. Iâve got you.â
You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.
Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.
Itâs not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, youâve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.
No, youâre a little more pessimistic than that. And youâre a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the worldâs most perfect boyfriend.
Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?
Heâs kind. Heâs patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesnât even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like youâve already done him the biggest favour by simply existing.
He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though itâs sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leonâs on Tuesdays but every other day, itâs Libertyâs or nothing.
Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.
He is also in love with someone else.
âJust waiting for her to realise, I guess.â heâd told you once, when you asked him why he hadnât dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.
And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.
Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clarkâs future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.
âWhat if she never does?â you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.
It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.
Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.
âShe'll figure it out. She always does,â heâd said confidently, âOne day.â
âWhat if she takes forever?â
Clark remained unfazed, âThen Iâll wait.â you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.
That, was six months ago.
And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you donât even know what she looks like.
You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.
You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and itâs only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.
Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because itâs what everyone else does.
You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.
âThe usual?â he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.
âPlease. Take my card-â youâre already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.
âNo need. Iâll be back in ten.â He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.
And gives you a peck on the lips.
Itâs quick. Itâs over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.
âText me if you think of anything else you want.â he says coolly, as if he didnât just short-circuit your entire being.
And heâs gone.
Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.
You donât move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.
Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.
âWhat was-â
âI donât know.â
âWhy did he-â
âI donât know,â you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesnât speak, silently begging you to.
But you canât. You physically canât. Because it may have been an accident- itâs not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if heâs feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?
Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, heâs on his way to Libertyâs trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didnât before.
He knows, and heâs disgusted, and you wouldnât be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldnât move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.
You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and itâs all because you couldnât control yourself.
But you know youâre being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you wonât get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesnât. If you were to turn your head, heâd know, and heâd stop.
So why didnât he stop?
Youâre still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and heâs flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.
He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.
Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as theyâre on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.
He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmyâs jaw on the floor.
âThanks,â Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.
He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.
âSo,â he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. âWhat ice cream did you have last night?â
You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasnât just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesnât catch on.
He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. Heâs an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesnât bring up the kiss.
So, neither do you.
Clark keeps kissing you.
And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending youâre not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.
At first you assume itâs a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.
But then he does it again the next day.
Itâs the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now thereâs a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like youâre made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. Itâs gotten deeper since the first, you realise.
And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.
Jimmy has stopped pretending he isnât watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.
Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. Youâre about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.
âBe right back,â he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.
This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.
By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.
But of course, you donât. You donât ask your best friend anything.
Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.
He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.
Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.
Nothingâs changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.
He just⊠kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like itâs the most normal thing in the world.
And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.
Or better. Or whatever this is.
Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.
He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.
Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.
He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.
And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.
Tiny, sweet, blink-and-youâll-miss-it pecks. Like heâs testing you. Like heâs waiting; for what, you donât know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.
By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;
do best friends kiss on lips??
signs of short term memory loss
am I hallucinating long-term?
long term hallucination symptoms
group long term hallucination
do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss
You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. Youâre desperate; completely at your witsâ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.
But then, comes the moment everything changes.
Itâs late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.
Itâs just you and Clark, finishing up an article heâs been helping you with.
Youâre buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasnât really optional tonight.
Youâre tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like youâre not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.
And then- like itâs the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.
Not a peck this time. Not a blink.
A kiss.
A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. Itâs wonderful. Itâs passionate. And above all, it is scary.
You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.
So, you do.
Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly youâre kissing him back.
Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.
And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.
Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.
One day.
You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.
You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you canât even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.
Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment youâre both suspended in.
Clark doesnât move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.
But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.
It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.
âI told youâŠâ Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, âthat youâd figure it out.â
i have a problem with overexplaining things and i really tried not to w this fic - tried something different!! hope you liked <33
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patrick zweig who drools on you while he sleeps. cuddled up on the couch watching a movie? he will be asleep by the end, and their will be a puddle of drool on your stomach by where his head rested.
art donaldson is similar in the sense that he bites in his sleep, and you almost always wake up to him chewing on our hair, mouth subconsciously biting and sucking at the strands.
when you sleep with the both of them? oh boy, you wake up a mess.
Clark had been hovering all day. Not in the literal sense, though you wouldnât put it past him, but in that gentle, quiet way of his. He lingered in doorways, offered you tea three different times, and kept asking, âAre you mad at me?â in that low, tentative voice that made your heart ache.
By the fourth time, you turned from the kitchen sink, eyebrow raised. âClark. Why on earth would I be mad at you?â
He shifted, large hands fidgeting with the hem of his flannel, eyes dropping to your bare left hand. âYouâre⊠not wearing your ring. I just- I thought maybeâŠâ His voice trailed off, the unspoken fears tumbling around in his mind as plainly as if heâd said them.
Your expression softened instantly. âOh, sweetheart.â You dried your hands, crossing the room to take his. âItâs at the jewelerâs, remember? I wanted to get it cleaned before our anniversary.â
His head lifted, eyes wide behind his glasses, as if youâd just told him the world wasnât ending after all. âThatâs it?â
âThatâs it.â You smiled and pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heartbeat. âIâm still married to you, ring or no ring.â
Clarkâs relief came out in a shaky laugh, and he ducked his head to kiss your forehead. âI thought I was losing my mind. Iâve been trying to make you happy all day, just in case.â
âWell, youâre succeeding,â you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist. âBut if you really want to make me happyâŠâ
His grin was immediate, boyish and bright, dimples flashing. âDinner out?â
âDinner in,â you said, resting your cheek against him. âAs long as itâs with you.â And that was all Clark needed to hear.
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