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about me | 25 | fashion | marketing | personal blog
started this blog as part of a christmas present for my clark obsessed best friend, who always said she'd like me to write more. two birds one stone!
for my sister.
i couldn’t quite wrap the universe,
so i wrote you a world to wander instead.
the works
📖sweet mr kent • clark found every excuse to be near you; fixing, helping, pretending it was harmless. but every smile, every soft thank you dragged him toward a line your youth made unforgivable. you were temptation itself, and even the good men fall.
💋figure it out • 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.
💟best friend's cousin • you’ve known kara since she crashed through your sorority house five years ago, spilling the truth about her superhuman dna; a secret you've guarded with ease. but then you meet clark kent- her sweet, shy, older cousin who knows your favourite cake from memory & folds your laundry- and suddenly, everything you believed about kryptonians shatters.
🏋️♂️bulking season • 18+ mdni. jimmy has only one resolution this year; get swole. when he sets his sights on your genetically blessed boyfriend, he knows exactly who to turn to... or, the one where clark accidentally becomes jimmy's personal trainer, and you get to reap the rewards.
☕️chipped ceramic • 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.
🔥angel on fire • falling for your gorgeous, 6'4, fire chief slash superhero roommate is bad enough- falling for the guy everyone else wants is its own kind of torture. you try to move on, but it's useless; clark kent has fought enough fires to know when one's about to ignite.
💍i loved her first • your father did everything for you. because of it, the men in your life had called you spoilt, unreasonable, a girl with unrealistic expectations. after years of heartbreak and disappointment, you start to believe them- until clark kent proves that love can be gentle, steadfast, and safe enough to let yourself fully trust it.
🚜thirteen more days • when clark brings you home to smallville as his fake girlfriend, it’s supposed to be harmless- just two weeks of pretending for his parents’ sake. but between home-cooked dinners, lingering looks, and things he’s been telling them all year, you start to wonder if the only one pretending… is you.
💄lucky number seven • the daily planet's most eligible bachelors column was a drunken experiment between two of your now fired interns; with clark kent boasting number seven. you thought he had no idea. now he’s here, on your floor of the planet; smiling that soft kansas smile, wondering how official it really was.
🎆new year's resolution • 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.
🌾welcome home • after years lost to saving the world, clark returns to smallville expecting familiar calm- not you. the girl he once babysat is now breathtaking, grown, stopping him cold. he aches for the years he missed, the versions of you he never met, and the new feelings he doesn't dare name.
🧁sugar talk • clark kent is shy, bashful, and impossibly sweet; and despite barely being friends, he splurges on extravagant gifts for you daily. so naturally, you repay him by getting his initials on the set of acrylics he paid for, sending his entire world into freefall.
🧣the ghost of you • clark called it mercy. wiping your memory of what you went through, wiping your memory of him- because letting you go was easier than being the reason you fell apart.
🌤️the wise words of ma & pa • clark’s always lived by ma and pa kent’s words; don’t rush love, just tend to it where it grows. when the girl next door starts smiling his way, that advice becomes his saving grace.
🍋the promise of us • clark was yours in every way that time wouldn’t allow; and you, his. a love that was simple, certain, and impossibly timed- patient and aching, waiting for the world to make room.
👓the one thing clark can't do • it’s no secret; superman can do anything. save worlds, stop disasters, even play the role of a clumsy reporter. but after the day he saved you, there’s one thing he can’t do: forget you.
🌪️clark kent's mean body double • it's movie night and for some reason, you've picked a film that has clark's fists clenched and his blood boiling. the film? twisters. the reason for his agony? his polar opposite doppelganger, scott miller.
🪡the devil wears... a cape? • it’s simple: you fix his suit, he stays alive. but somewhere between late-night chats and your constant teasing, clark realises he’s falling for the one person he’s certain he can’t have. kaiju? narcissistic billionaires? he can handle those. keeping up with you? absolutely impossible.
🧬that should be me • superman smiled at you this morning, and whose problem was that going to be? your sweet, polite, pg-13 rated best friend clark kent's, who is so in love with you he might throw up if you so much as mention how hot his alter ego is again.
🦾the echo, the weapon • you look at him and see a broken copy of the man you love; he looks at you and sees salvation. he is the echo, the weapon, the mistake- yet ultraman can't help but love you with a heart that was never his to begin with.
💌the way i loved you • it's wasn't exactly a secret that clark kent was in love with his best friend. and he probably would have told you months ago- if it wasn't for one small, ridiculously cruel complication; your boyfriend, scott miller.
❤️🩹is it casual now? • after a weird day at the office, the rules you set- good sex, zero feelings, no complications- feel impossible to follow. you never wanted anything serious, but clark’s intensity, the weight in his gaze and refusal to comply are slowly crumbling the walls you fought to build.
🍹take me home • you know you shouldn't feel this way. and yet clark kent- steady, older, infuriatingly attuned to every inch of you- turns every "kid" and "good girl" into fire against your skin; leaving you dizzy, flustered, and desperately wanting more.
🐍jealousy, jealousy • superman doesn’t get jealous- but clark kent does. he lets it linger, lets it fester, lets it shape months of almosts and maybes- until a harmless lie turns into shared routines, soft touches, and feelings neither of you were meant to fall into.
🌪️liquor lips, bubblegum bitch • scott miller has had his fill of fleeting nights; now, he buries himself in work, head down, not to be disturbed. that's when you come in; blowing sugar-sweet globes, relentless questions spilling from tinted lips. he knows he shouldn't, can't- but you draw him into your bubble, too bright to resist, fragile enough to pop.
🍬babydoll • scott miller is all sharp edges and short tempers, a man built from long days and clenched teeth. and yet he ends up with you- warm, bright, goodness personified- and suddenly he’s saying things like babydoll, his disciplined hands forgotten, greedy for every inch of the only softness he ever lets himself have.
requests
🥀hands full • "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…."
blurbs
how he loves • all the ways clark kent loves you, and all the ways you let him.
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Missed you on here your absence was definitely felt ! And the new fic you posted was suchhh an incredible one I love that you made Clark jealous of Scott Miller 🙈
oh my babies i have missed you all so much!!💋 it has been an insane couple of months, lots of work getting in the way. but thank you so much for sticking with me and for still reading sweet, gentle, yours🥺 it means so much to me you have no idea !!🥰
summary: clark has always prided himself in being one of the good guys. and he is, for the most part- until you come along. suddenly, his hands are in places they shouldn't be while his mind plagues him with visions of you being oh-so-sweet beneath him.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: 18+ so mdni, yearning and a whole lot of it, jealousy, clark just can't help himself. kinda feral!perv!clark trying to be as respectful as possible but lowkey failing. filthy in the best way. enjoy! x
Clark is a good guy.
Always has been, and Ma would certainly like to think that he always will be. At school, he never got so much as a stern look and pointed gaze- after all, he was a sweet little kid that smiled a bit too much and tried to take up the least amount of room possible. His teachers loved him, the envy of all his peers.
During High School, Clark kept his head down. Did his work in a flurry of soft smiles and polite nods, offering help when needed, kindly rejecting any flirtatious advances under the bleachers that would result in him getting into trouble.
"You're somethin' else, Kent." Lana rolled her eyes at him once, flicking the spectacles on his face just a little of their axis.
College followed suit. While his friends joined fraternities and disrespected sorority sisters, Clark diverted all his attention to perfecting his degree. Sure, he had a couple pecks here and there, a few misunderstandings with a handful of very drunk and slightly deprived college girls- but hey, at least he didn't take it any further.
All in all, Clark Kent grew up with the belief that he wasn't like that. He was kind. Respectful. Ma would tell him so, and Pa would go to the ends of the earth to enforce it; listen 'ere, Clark, a lady should be left alone unless prompted otherwise. You hear?
He'd nod. Pa's shoulders would relax, and Ma would place a dear old hand on her heart at the relief of her son turning out just the way she'd hoped.
But then one day, during an intense intern briefing amidst the bustling bullpen of the Daily Planet, Clark Kent met you.
And he soon realised that he might not be such a 'good guy' after all.
Because it wasn't enough that your skirt was always far too short, or that the lip gloss you wore blinded him no matter the lightning in the room. It wasn’t even the way you laughed, bright and careless, like you had no idea what it did to the people around you- what it did to him and every fibre of his superhuman being.
It was everything else.
Your perfume would linger in the newsroom ten minutes after you’d left, sweet enough that Clark could still catch it when he bent over his desk. Every time he did, his chest tightened with something ugly; vanilla sugar and lemon, wrapped in a pretty gold ribbon of guilt and shame.
He hated it, but he also couldn't get enough of it.
Your voice would carry on over everyone else’s, no matter how crowded the bullpen got. It was like his hearing had singled you out on purpose. Your heartbeat, your exhales, the slight pucker of your lips when an article brought on confusion.
Every other sound in Metropolis dulled itself accordingly, just so he could hear you ask Jimmy if he wanted coffee, or laugh at something Lois said, or mention your boyfriend in that absentminded little way that made Clark’s jaw lock so hard it ached.
And god, your boyfriend.
Your dumb fucking boyfriend.
Clark never usually swore (it didn't come to him as naturally as the likes of golly and gosh). But fuck, Superman on Red Kryptonite himself wouldn't have the mirage of different profanities that Clark did for the man you called yours.
Funnily enough, he had never even met the guy.
Didn’t need to. He hated him anyway.
He hated the way your phone lit up and brightened your face when you glanced at it. Despised the little smile that curled at your mouth when you typed back. Loathed the thought that someone else got to touch what Clark could barely stand to look at for too long.
However hard Clark made you laugh, however red your face flared after every shh little compliment thrown your way- it was never enough.
Someone else got to walk you home, kiss that gloss right off your lips, hear you laugh when no one else was around. Someone else got to climb over you at night, cover your gorgeous frame with theirs, fuck you gently into the bed until the early hours of the morning.
The thought would come to Clark late at night, when the city was finally at rest and he had only his thoughts to keep him awake. He'd envision you writhing beneath him, soft voice dripping like honey in his ears, moaning his name like a prayer and begging, pleading, for his touch.
His release would come quick. But on the nights the guilt settled in too deep, it wouldn’t come at all- and he’d spend the next few hours lying awake in silence, trying to atone for every impure thought he’d ever had about you.
It made something mean curl low in his stomach, something he’d spent his whole life pretending wasn’t there.
Because Clark was supposed to be good. He was supposed to smile and hold doors open and politely excuse himself when you leaned over his desk to point something out, cleavage threatening to spill, exposed neck so inviting he felt like a rabid animal; your mere existence flooding his senses so completely that for one humiliating second, he forgot his own name.
Lately, being around you felt less like admiration, and a hell of a lot more like drowning.
You’d walk into a room and he’d know it before he looked up. His whole body knew. The tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his shoulders went rigid, the awful, immediate awareness of where you were- crossing your legs at your desk, tugging your coat off your shoulders, leaning your cheek into your palm while you read over some notes.
Clark noticed all of it. Against his will. Against every decent thing Ma and Pa had ever taught him.
Eventually, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He booked some time off.
He told Perry he needed a break from the city, his eyes never quite leaving the floor. "Ma and Pa..." he scratched the back of his neck nervously, the lie coming out in one smooth sweep, "They've been asking for me. Some fence panels fell, Pa's heart... just wanna be there in any way I can."
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The Kent farm always had something that needed looking after, even if it wasn't an immediate fence post. There were always animals to feed, fields to tend. Plenty to keep a man occupied.
"Take the time off, Kent. You deserve it."
After that, the situation became a civil war in his mind; one that had him at a loss no matter the outcome.
He convinced himself day after day that the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his back and the ache in his muscles would drown out the ache you’d left somewhere far deeper. He busied his hands, giving them something to do other than grip the base of his cock at night, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was your skin beneath his legs and your mouth wrapped around his tip.
He needed Kansas air in his lungs instead of your perfume in his office, your laugh in the elevator, your voice drifting over cubicle walls and undoing him with every syllable.
He thought distance would help. What with Ma’s cooking and Pa’s quiet talks on the porch, there was simply no way the trip home wouldn't knock some sense back into him; remind him who he was, who he was supposed to be.
Even in Smallville however, you followed him.
And by the time Clark came back to Metropolis, he was exhausted in a way no amount of sleep could fix.
But you weren’t there.
Your desk sat empty.
Chair tucked in. Computer dark and oddly enough, collecting a light blanket of dust.
At first, Clark thought you were just running late. You were always stuck in traffic, and coffee lines always seemed to double in size whenever you walked into a café. He tried not to look at your desk every five minutes as he ran out of excuses to make on your behalf.
By noon, he was making mistakes. The backspace was hit more than a coherent sentence was formed; typos littered his edge of the column. Missed calls had Lois smacking him on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. For someone so in tune with the written word, Clark even found himself reading the same paragraph three times over without taking in a single word.
Finally, he looked up from his monitor and asked Jimmy as casually as he could manage. Though the other man barely glanced up from his camera, Clark got the only answer he needed.
“Oh, she took some time off. Started a few days after you left, I think.”
He swallowed, nodding slowly, and that should’ve been the end of it.
But Jimmy kept talking.
“Guess her and her boyfriend broke up. Saw her crying in the break room last week. Lois said she’s staying with family for a bit.”
Clark didn’t hear the rest.
The words lodged themselves somewhere deep and awful, echoing through his skull all day. He hated how quickly his pulse kicked up.
Broke up.
You and your god-awful fucking boyfriend that made Clark swear (albeit in his own mind) had broken up.
And you were single.
A hot, selfish feeling unfurled in his chest before he could stop it.
You had been hurting. You had been crying. Yet the first thought that crossed his mind- before concern, before decency, before anything good that he was taught all his life- was that there was no boyfriend anymore. No one standing between you and him, the line between reality and fantasy dissolving into a thin blur in the week he spent throwing hay bales and flying circles around the equator.
That night, Clark lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his apartment, the city humming beyond his windows. For the first time in weeks, he found his restraint collapsing completely.
He let his mind wander, hands itching to free the stiffness in his boxers. He stroked long and deliberately, steady, the way he'd always imagined your first time with him would be.
He wasn't like that ex-boyfriend of yours. Wasn't selfish or needy or desperate. No, Clark would kiss the ground you walked on. He'd fuck you nice and slow, praise you like you were the God, make you come so hard the other guy would feel like fiction. He's not just Clark Kent after all- he's Superman, and even Superman has a few fun tricks up his supersuit sleeve.
You were a rocket. He'd overheard your conversations with Cat in the break room in the past, each one lewd and inappropriate but addictive all the same. Your ex could only last so long, only cared for a few unimpressive positions- but Clark, Clark could last forever and a day if you wanted. You burned hot and filthy and Clark knew he could match you without breaking a single sweat.
You'll come back to work soon- tired, maybe, eyes a little puffy from crying, soft from the heartache. You'll lean against his desk again, this time with no mention of another man. No absent little smiles at your phone. No reason for Clark to pretend he doesn't need you like oxygen.
He'll be there for you. Whether it's a shoulder to cry on, someone to vent to or an outlet in general, there's no other place he'd rather be.
And if, somewhere between the late nights at the office and grateful smiles meant only for him, you start needing him a little too much… you can't expect him to refrain from giving you what you want, surely?
Clark Kent is a good man. A nice man.
But if leaning into the bad is exactly what it takes to finally have you under him instead of just in his head...
just a quick lil post about my personal blog, because i've gotten tons of msgs on here regarding non-fic related things, and the last thing i want to do is fill ppl's feed with things they didn't initially follow me to see🥰💋 which actually proves to be quite a difficult decision sometimes, because i just love speaking to you all so much
if you'd like to chat about anything or just wanna see what i'm up to when i'm not writing - shoot me a message over there ! i will most likely reply and i apologise for being unable to do so here most of the time- it's been a few months now and my inbox/reqs on here are still glitching like hell🤦♀️ out of the 80 asks i have, i can only see 5-10 before the whole app crashes!
summary: clark has always prided himself in being one of the good guys. and he is, for the most part- until you come along. suddenly, his hands are in places they shouldn't be while his mind plagues him with visions of you being oh-so-sweet beneath him.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: 18+ so mdni, yearning and a whole lot of it, jealousy, clark just can't help himself. kinda feral!perv!clark trying to be as respectful as possible but lowkey failing. filthy in the best way. enjoy! x
Clark is a good guy.
Always has been, and Ma would certainly like to think that he always will be. At school, he never got so much as a stern look and pointed gaze- after all, he was a sweet little kid that smiled a bit too much and tried to take up the least amount of room possible. His teachers loved him, the envy of all his peers.
During High School, Clark kept his head down. Did his work in a flurry of soft smiles and polite nods, offering help when needed, kindly rejecting any flirtatious advances under the bleachers that would result in him getting into trouble.
"You're somethin' else, Kent." Lana rolled her eyes at him once, flicking the spectacles on his face just a little of their axis.
College followed suit. While his friends joined fraternities and disrespected sorority sisters, Clark diverted all his attention to perfecting his degree. Sure, he had a couple pecks here and there, a few misunderstandings with a handful of very drunk and slightly deprived college girls- but hey, at least he didn't take it any further.
All in all, Clark Kent grew up with the belief that he wasn't like that. He was kind. Respectful. Ma would tell him so, and Pa would go to the ends of the earth to enforce it; listen 'ere, Clark, a lady should be left alone unless prompted otherwise. You hear?
He'd nod. Pa's shoulders would relax, and Ma would place a dear old hand on her heart at the relief of her son turning out just the way she'd hoped.
But then one day, during an intense intern briefing amidst the bustling bullpen of the Daily Planet, Clark Kent met you.
And he soon realised that he might not be such a 'good guy' after all.
Because it wasn't enough that your skirt was always far too short, or that the lip gloss you wore blinded him no matter the lightning in the room. It wasn’t even the way you laughed, bright and careless, like you had no idea what it did to the people around you- what it did to him and every fibre of his superhuman being.
It was everything else.
Your perfume would linger in the newsroom ten minutes after you’d left, sweet enough that Clark could still catch it when he bent over his desk. Every time he did, his chest tightened with something ugly; vanilla sugar and lemon, wrapped in a pretty gold ribbon of guilt and shame.
He hated it, but he also couldn't get enough of it.
Your voice would carry on over everyone else’s, no matter how crowded the bullpen got. It was like his hearing had singled you out on purpose. Your heartbeat, your exhales, the slight pucker of your lips when an article brought on confusion.
Every other sound in Metropolis dulled itself accordingly, just so he could hear you ask Jimmy if he wanted coffee, or laugh at something Lois said, or mention your boyfriend in that absentminded little way that made Clark’s jaw lock so hard it ached.
And god, your boyfriend.
Your dumb fucking boyfriend.
Clark never usually swore (it didn't come to him as naturally as the likes of golly and gosh). But fuck, Superman on Red Kryptonite himself wouldn't have the mirage of different profanities that Clark did for the man you called yours.
Funnily enough, he had never even met the guy.
Didn’t need to. He hated him anyway.
He hated the way your phone lit up and brightened your face when you glanced at it. Despised the little smile that curled at your mouth when you typed back. Loathed the thought that someone else got to touch what Clark could barely stand to look at for too long.
However hard Clark made you laugh, however red your face flared after every shh little compliment thrown your way- it was never enough.
Someone else got to walk you home, kiss that gloss right off your lips, hear you laugh when no one else was around. Someone else got to climb over you at night, cover your gorgeous frame with theirs, fuck you gently into the bed until the early hours of the morning.
The thought would come to Clark late at night, when the city was finally at rest and he had only his thoughts to keep him awake. He'd envision you writhing beneath him, soft voice dripping like honey in his ears, moaning his name like a prayer and begging, pleading, for his touch.
His release would come quick. But on the nights the guilt settled in too deep, it wouldn’t come at all- and he’d spend the next few hours lying awake in silence, trying to atone for every impure thought he’d ever had about you.
It made something mean curl low in his stomach, something he’d spent his whole life pretending wasn’t there.
Because Clark was supposed to be good. He was supposed to smile and hold doors open and politely excuse himself when you leaned over his desk to point something out, cleavage threatening to spill, exposed neck so inviting he felt like a rabid animal; your mere existence flooding his senses so completely that for one humiliating second, he forgot his own name.
Lately, being around you felt less like admiration, and a hell of a lot more like drowning.
You’d walk into a room and he’d know it before he looked up. His whole body knew. The tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his shoulders went rigid, the awful, immediate awareness of where you were- crossing your legs at your desk, tugging your coat off your shoulders, leaning your cheek into your palm while you read over some notes.
Clark noticed all of it. Against his will. Against every decent thing Ma and Pa had ever taught him.
Eventually, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He booked some time off.
He told Perry he needed a break from the city, his eyes never quite leaving the floor. "Ma and Pa..." he scratched the back of his neck nervously, the lie coming out in one smooth sweep, "They've been asking for me. Some fence panels fell, Pa's heart... just wanna be there in any way I can."
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The Kent farm always had something that needed looking after, even if it wasn't an immediate fence post. There were always animals to feed, fields to tend. Plenty to keep a man occupied.
"Take the time off, Kent. You deserve it."
After that, the situation became a civil war in his mind; one that had him at a loss no matter the outcome.
He convinced himself day after day that the dirt under his nails, the sweat on his back and the ache in his muscles would drown out the ache you’d left somewhere far deeper. He busied his hands, giving them something to do other than grip the base of his cock at night, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was your skin beneath his legs and your mouth wrapped around his tip.
He needed Kansas air in his lungs instead of your perfume in his office, your laugh in the elevator, your voice drifting over cubicle walls and undoing him with every syllable.
He thought distance would help. What with Ma’s cooking and Pa’s quiet talks on the porch, there was simply no way the trip home wouldn't knock some sense back into him; remind him who he was, who he was supposed to be.
Even in Smallville however, you followed him.
And by the time Clark came back to Metropolis, he was exhausted in a way no amount of sleep could fix.
But you weren’t there.
Your desk sat empty.
Chair tucked in. Computer dark and oddly enough, collecting a light blanket of dust.
At first, Clark thought you were just running late. You were always stuck in traffic, and coffee lines always seemed to double in size whenever you walked into a café. He tried not to look at your desk every five minutes as he ran out of excuses to make on your behalf.
By noon, he was making mistakes. The backspace was hit more than a coherent sentence was formed; typos littered his edge of the column. Missed calls had Lois smacking him on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. For someone so in tune with the written word, Clark even found himself reading the same paragraph three times over without taking in a single word.
Finally, he looked up from his monitor and asked Jimmy as casually as he could manage. Though the other man barely glanced up from his camera, Clark got the only answer he needed.
“Oh, she took some time off. Started a few days after you left, I think.”
He swallowed, nodding slowly, and that should’ve been the end of it.
But Jimmy kept talking.
“Guess her and her boyfriend broke up. Saw her crying in the break room last week. Lois said she’s staying with family for a bit.”
Clark didn’t hear the rest.
The words lodged themselves somewhere deep and awful, echoing through his skull all day. He hated how quickly his pulse kicked up.
Broke up.
You and your god-awful fucking boyfriend that made Clark swear (albeit in his own mind) had broken up.
And you were single.
A hot, selfish feeling unfurled in his chest before he could stop it.
You had been hurting. You had been crying. Yet the first thought that crossed his mind- before concern, before decency, before anything good that he was taught all his life- was that there was no boyfriend anymore. No one standing between you and him, the line between reality and fantasy dissolving into a thin blur in the week he spent throwing hay bales and flying circles around the equator.
That night, Clark lay in bed staring at the ceiling of his apartment, the city humming beyond his windows. For the first time in weeks, he found his restraint collapsing completely.
He let his mind wander, hands itching to free the stiffness in his boxers. He stroked long and deliberately, steady, the way he'd always imagined your first time with him would be.
He wasn't like that ex-boyfriend of yours. Wasn't selfish or needy or desperate. No, Clark would kiss the ground you walked on. He'd fuck you nice and slow, praise you like you were the God, make you come so hard the other guy would feel like fiction. He's not just Clark Kent after all- he's Superman, and even Superman has a few fun tricks up his supersuit sleeve.
You were a rocket. He'd overheard your conversations with Cat in the break room in the past, each one lewd and inappropriate but addictive all the same. Your ex could only last so long, only cared for a few unimpressive positions- but Clark, Clark could last forever and a day if you wanted. You burned hot and filthy and Clark knew he could match you without breaking a single sweat.
You'll come back to work soon- tired, maybe, eyes a little puffy from crying, soft from the heartache. You'll lean against his desk again, this time with no mention of another man. No absent little smiles at your phone. No reason for Clark to pretend he doesn't need you like oxygen.
He'll be there for you. Whether it's a shoulder to cry on, someone to vent to or an outlet in general, there's no other place he'd rather be.
And if, somewhere between the late nights at the office and grateful smiles meant only for him, you start needing him a little too much… you can't expect him to refrain from giving you what you want, surely?
Clark Kent is a good man. A nice man.
But if leaning into the bad is exactly what it takes to finally have you under him instead of just in his head...
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: clark kent doesn’t do well with jealousy- never has, probably never will. mentioning the gross regular at the upscale bar where you work seemed harmless. but when clark shows up with a sheepish smile and tense jaw, you realise it probably meant more to him than you thought.
clark kent x girlfriend ! reader
themes: jealousy, jealousy, jealousy! domestic fluff, established relationship, very subtle nods to smut, with some scott miller thrown in!
You shouldn’t have told him.
Well, okay- that’s slightly dramatic. Of course you should have. You did the right thing; if it was the other way around, and a girl at the Daily Planet made it her personal vendetta to be on your sweet, bumbling boyfriend’s radar for three weeks in a row, you’d want him to tell you.
It was the right thing to do.
The only thing to do.
Right?
“Right.” Clark echoes mindlessly, his eyes drifting far away from you in a way that makes your heart ache and your eyes narrow.
He’s always too sweet, your Clark. Always too polite, too hesitant to tell you how he really feels.
On this occasion, you let him off. Figure it’s better to let him sit in it, cool off, before continuing the inevitable conversation of So, what are we going to do about it? a lot later.
There’s nothing you can do, unfortunately. It makes you feel helpless and stuck and very, very angry at the world- but at the end of the day, Scott is a customer. A paying customer. One that smacks his gum a little too loud and looks you up and down every chance he gets, but a customer all the same.
You wonder what business he has plaguing your hotel bar three (nearing four) weeks in a row now. You’ve never seen him before. Nobody comes to the Regis for a casual drink unless they’re there on business; a key to one of the overtly expensive rooms tucked in the back pocket of a slack trouser.
Scott isn’t a guest. Nor is he a bar regular. He is just a very annoying man, with a very smug grin, and a very disgusting entitlement to your sweet, uncomfortable attention.
Your shift tonight starts at 8pm.
Usually, Clark gets home just after six, and he brings you a bagel and a smoothie and doesn’t let you have them until you reach up on your tiptoes and press glossed lips against his. He doesn’t usually let you plate it up yourself, either; he perches you carefully on a bar stool and does it for you. Everything bagel (extra cream cheese, light on the salmon) on your favourite plate, the paper straw in your drink swiftly replaced by a glass one with a heart.
“You’re one bagel away from turning into one.” is a teasing joke he likes to say often, eliciting a sweet little eye roll from you and a light laugh.
You’re treasure, Clark says. He makes it known to you too, through kisses and cuddles and pecks on the cheek that you have to fight against to eat your bagel. And when you’ve finally finished your food and slurped up the drink, that’s when he can have your full attention, every bit of it, before you have to get ready and he happily drives you to work.
You don’t typically work this late. It’s a one-off, some big business event on the top floor that’s lasted a week longer than expected, meaning a whole week more of missed dinners and missed plans and overall, missing your boyfriend.
So when Clark texts you at 5:30pm, a sweet rambling of apologies that end in a very flustered So sorry, baby. I’ll make it up to you when I pick you up at 1. Love you. You can’t find it in your heart to be upset with him. You just hail a cab and slot inside, fingers drumming mindlessly on your exposed lap.
The uniform could be a lot worse, especially for a bartender. The Regis is a five-star utopia of crystal chandeliers, polished silverware and bellboys that are addressed only by their surnames- you’re almost glad to have only the responsibility of popping open a four-hundred dollar bottle of wine every now and then.
Even so, you keep a firm grip on the bottom of your pencil skirt, sleek black pumps clacking against the linoleum floor.
It’s busy. Much busier than a usual Thursday evening, but you convince yourself you don’t mind. More room to be busy. More things to do in the time you have to kill. Bartending isn’t your dream job by any means, but at the moment it pays for all the good things in life- you could have it a lot worse.
You think of Clark. Sweet, handsome, beautiful Clark, who is probably working so hard at his desk right now that it makes your chest ache. Brows furrowed, pen gnawed at and forgotten between his beautiful plush lips. You imagine the way he types; thick fingers soft and precise, the backspace bare because he always seems to know exactly what to say. He doesn’t make mistakes- you’ve seen him write in person. He just makes whatever’s lacking… better.
Naturally, your stomach flutters at the thought.
Sam greets you with bright eyes and an even more radiant smile, blonde hair falling in waves past her sharp shoulders as you walk towards her and reach for a glass to polish.
She’s beautiful, Samara; with her big blue eyes and pointed chin and great knack for conversation. She’s also the only one you can call a true friend here, so you like to keep her very close.
“You’re late,” she jokes, sharp elbow digging softly into your own. “How big was that bagel?”
Faux offense floods your features, “I’m right on time!”
“Late for you,” she nudges you playfully, head nodding towards a part of the bar you can’t quite see from where you are. “Your man beat you here.”
“Ha-ha,” you deadpan immediately, eyes beginning a roll, “Very funny. You’re on Scott duty tonight.”
“Wha- no!” the realisation is quick to dawn, “No. Absolutely not. I was on Scott duty last night.”
“Mhm. That’s the price you pay for making that joke,” you’re dramatic about it, a heavy sigh you don’t mean falling from your lips.
“What joke?”
“The he’s my man joke,” you fold your arms, half-polished pint glass forgotten on the counter. “It’s dumb and not funny.”
A smirk falls on her lips then, eyes falling away from, “Wasn’t a joke, dummy. Your man is here. Your real one.”
You’re about to bombard her with even more confusion- lest you actually check yourself and come eye-to-eye with the irritatingly vainglorious Scott Miller- but she’s called away by the ding of a kitchen bell quicker than you can stop her.
With an amused shake of your head, your eyes scan the otherwise empty tables; the polishing cloth almost falling from your grasp when your eyes finally settle on the delicious sight a mere ten steps away from you.
Clark.
He isn’t back at the Planet at all, surrounded by his too-small desk and countless pictures of you in neat little gold frames, sipping sludgy coffee from a chipped work mug.
Clark is here; right in the middle of your workplace, his blazer slung carefully over the back of his chair, the rich wood ever so slightly creaking under his ginormous frame. He practically dwarfs his laptop; all 6’4, 240 pounds of superhuman beef.
His briefcase sits gingerly on the floor next to his feet, polished leather a lovely chocolate brown that matches his sensible loafers. Your body relaxes at the mere vision of him; this Kryptonian God that practically kisses the ground you walk on and would tilt the world on it’s axis just to fit your needs- here, on a work night, undoubtedly for you.
It’s almost an innate reaction, the two steps forward you take. And it’s also very Clark to sense you on a whole other plane, because his head tilts up like a puppy ready to play, blue eyes roaming the bar.
They find you almost immediately as a breath catches in your throat. Together three years, one month before your fourth and still, the way he looks at you makes every moment feel like the first.
He lifts his arm up to wave, no doubt refraining from being a full distraction. He knows his mere presence is enough to knock you off balance completely.
You’re about to do the same, the warmth in your chest threatening to burst, when-
“Usual, sweetheart. Make it neat, no ice, yeah?”
The invisible capsule encompassing you both collapses. There’s a voice; a deep, daunting, degrading voice that has the power to contort your expressions into one of pure disgust in milliseconds.
You smell him before you see him, all seventy-four spritzes of his overpriced Hugo Boss cologne. The scent of that minty clump of rubber he seems to always chew on follows soon after, as he winks at you and adjusts the cap on his head.
StormPAR, it reads. You shudder. It’s scarily fitting for a man capable of turning the sunniest of days into a cyclone.
You freeze, goosebumps rising along your shoulders. Clark is out of sight, but you can picture him perfectly in your mind.
Alert. Tense. Maybe even frowning slightly. Your heartbeat falters- not from fear, but irritation at the man in front of you. Clark doesn’t know that. He’s probably listening anyway, waiting for that moment when your pulse skips a beat just a little too long, so he can rush to your side with a concerned smile and a cold shoulder pointed towards Scott.
Still sweet. Still gentle. Still very much Clark.
Except what happens next is something you never could have predicted.
You give a small nod, lips pursed in a tight line because exactly three weeks ago, you shot him a kind smile that he immediately took as an invitation to try and get more out of you.
It’s dirty. It’s disgusting. It’s StormPAR’s poster boy for disaster- and yet, here he is, your only customer at the bar. Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.
You reach for the whiskey, trying to keep it together for the ten seconds spent pouring and mixing. It’s not the usual Johnnie Walker or Jack Daniels favoured by suited businessmen; this is something expensive, Japanese, its name foreign and sharp. The glass is special, polished long in advance, kept apart from the rest of the dishwasher-bound crockery.
You slide it over to Scott without your eyes ever meeting his. He grins and it’s toothy and wide, and in another lifetime you might visually find him not vile- but in this life, he may as well be a fire-breathing dragon with a venomous bite and even worse gaze.
The knocks the whiskey back in one. The glass staggers alongside the table towards you, so quick that you just about manage to block it with a startled elbow.
“Another, princess.” he winks.
Clark tenses. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably standing stiff, brows furrowed, pupils pointed over his glasses.
“Make it two, actually. Got nowhere to be now that you’re here.”
A grimace fills the lower half of your face. You’re about to turn away to pour the next glass, but the sound of a different voice altogether stops you.
“You always talk to people that way?”
It’s warm. Familiar. It’s a megaphoned version of the one that whispers in your ear late at night, gentle and patient and slow and always accompanied by a baby or a hon; a voice notorious for both talking you through it and providing you gentle comfort right after. In this instance, it’s still a blanket of comfort, but in a very different way; something soft and safe thrown over a very icy situation.
Clark slides onto the stool beside Scott like he has every right to be there. Your mouth practically falls open.
His shoulders are relaxed, hands loose against the bar. Whatever article had his full attention not even five minutes ago is completely forgotten now, lost in the shut laptop behind him. Ink lines the grooves of his palm, fresh from attempting to amend print far too soon.
There’s no tension in him at first glance. He doesn’t look angry, though you know better than that.
Scott’s eyebrow raises as he turns toward him.
“What’s it to you?”
Clark can take him. Easily. Beneath that bashful gaze and blinking blue eyes is a man who is so used to protecting you that it comes second nature to him. If it comes to that, you know he wouldn’t hesitate.
Clark hums softly, like he’s considering Scott’s words. Then he glances at you, a silent check-in without uttering a single word, and something in his expression changes. It’s not soft nor does it harden- it doesn’t even twist inside out.
You realise then and there that the outcome of this situation is entirely dependent on you. It relies on what you want him to do, what exactly you want to happen- unfortunately, you’re too tense right now to give him any sort of clear signal.
“It’s not complicated,” he says, turning back, voice still mild. “Just need to watch your tone.”
There’s no bite in his words, but it’s louder than his initial statement. The times you and Clark have argued are very few and far between, but not once has he raised his voice at you or spoken with his tongue dipped in venom.
Hearing it for the very first time is slightly exhilarating.
Scott leans back, sizing him up, “Didn’t realise she had a guard dog.”
Clark smiles at that, lips curving upwards in the kind of smile that should belong on a farm under open skies and humming cicadas, not here under dim bar lights and repetitive jazz music.
“She doesn’t,” he says easily. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then-“
“She’s a lady. You don’t speak to a lady like that.”
It throws Scott, just for a second. Enough for the bravado to falter, for the narrowed eyes under the cap to soften around the edges. You find yourself watching them both, this intense silence growing and filling the air with a thick tension.
Clark doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t even square up; someone built like your boyfriend doesn’t need to.
He just sits there, as calm as the saxophones acting as background noise between you, one hand resting against the bar like he could stay all night if he had to.
“Look, man-“
“You’re gonna stop,” Clark interjects gently, somehow still polite- only now there’s something unshakeable threaded through it. “You’ll ask her right, or you won’t ask at all.”
The air tightens. And Scott scoffs- but it’s weaker this time, eyes flicking between the two of you before he grabs the edge of the bar and pushes himself up. “Whatever, man.”
He doesn’t ask for another drink.
He doesn’t even look back at you as he stalks off- head slightly hung, eyes darting this way and that in quiet anticipation of witnesses.
You both watch him go for a moment. It’s only until Scott turns the corner, gives one last fleeting glance your way and ducks his head out of the double doors that finally, a soft exhale leaves the man beside you.
When Clark turns back to you, it’s like the tension was never there. It’s just him again.
Gentle Clark. Sweet Clark. Yours.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice so low and careful it reaches deep in the pit of your stomach and twists in the best way. A big, warm hand reaches over the counter and rests on top of your own.
You can’t help it; you smile.
“Thank you.”
His eyebrow raises. “You never need to thank me for taking care of you.”
Maybe tomorrow, you'll kiss him a little longer before taking a bite of your bagel.
i owe you all a massive apology - i have had the most insane couple of months, and i cannot wait to share it all with you very soon :')
for now, thank you so much for still being here and for reading💋🖤
whenever i see a new superman post / snippet of the superman cast on socials I RUN STRAIGHT HERE (despite life fully taking over and not having opened the app in weeks)
and i am never disappointed. anyway, happy superman day ! 💋✨
summary: jimmy has only one resolution this year; get swole. when he sets his sights on your genetically blessed boyfriend, he knows exactly who to turn to... or, the one where clark accidentally becomes jimmy's personal trainer, and you get to reap the rewards.
clark kent x girlfriend ! reader
themes: 18+ mdni, smutty, lotta fluff, mentions of clark going to the gym, working out and post gym sex, funny, unprotected p in v, established relationship. reader is so relatable honestly. enjoy!
Your boyfriend, Clark Kent, was currently going through a health kick.
And that was fine, of course. Personally, you weren't too bothered about the whole healthy eating, my-body-is-a-temple thing; but you loved that Clark- Superman Clark, who gained most of his muscles through the occasional heavy lifting of skyscrapers- took it upon himself to join Jimmy on his New Year's Resolution.
It started on the first Monday of the new year.
"It's bulking season, baby!" you and Lois had been deep in conversation when Jimmy sauntered in, a comical headband slapped tight against his freckled forehead. You stared. Lois choked on her coffee. A grin filled his face, gym bag bursting at the seams as he let it fall to the floor next to your desk with a soft thud.
"Jimmy," you blinked, one hand over your mouth, eyes scanning him in bewilderment. "Good morni-"
"Oh, don't act casual," Lois nudged you. She flicked a dismissive hand towards him then, eyebrow raised. "Spill. Why do you look like that?"
"Like what?!" he grinned wider.
"Like an instructor straight out of a workout tape from the 80s," Cat quipped, high-heels clicking to a halt next to you. You fought hard to keep the amusement off of your face, failing drastically as he struck a ridiculous pose.
Jimmy remained unphased, "Oh, I am glad you asked. It's the first week of January, you guys- I'm sticking to my resolution this year."
"To become a workout instructor from the 80s?" you joked.
"To become swole." Jimmy corrected you, tone earnest.
"And how long's that going to last?" Lois snorted.
"As long as I want it to," he puffed his chest out in mock confidence, "I am going to be the epitome of health by the time 2027 comes around."
"I think you're the epitome of health already, bud," you felt Clark before you caught sight of him; his large arm snaking gently around your waist as he pulled you in for a soft kiss in greeting. "But I think it's great, this thing you're doing. Mornin', honey."
"Morning," you smiled back.
You'd both aimed to leave the house at the same time, but Clark was gone before you even had the chance to open your eyes. Superman duties and whatnot; a fallen building on the other side of the city needed straightening and the fire department needed a hand, something like that.
But he'd lovingly left you breakfast on the counter and your coffee in a flask next to your bed to make up for it, so you didn't mind too much.
"So, what's the goal, freckles?" Lois asked him, piping hot cup of 50% sugar and 50% sludge clutched tight between her hands. "You want to get jacked, or what?"
"Maybe not jacked," Jimmy frowned, "I've been reading up on it and my muscle composition- well, my body doesn't work like that,"
"Makes sense," Cat nodded.
"But apparently, with the right training and stuff, I can get a bit..." he gestured with his hands then, the space between them elongating ever so slightly as his entire body turned. Everyone turned with him, pursed lips now quirked in genuine curiosity.
Eventually, he landed on Clark; palms spaced out just enough to perfectly mirror the other man's shoulders.
"Broader."
And Clark, whose arms had been folded in focus, simply raised an eyebrow. "Uh, what now?"
"You want to look like Clark?" you quizzed.
"Are you doubting me? Clark, she's doubting me." Jimmy frowned then, his tone accusatory as he reported unhappily to the man next to you.
"Sorry to tell you, Jim, but you don't really bare much resemblance." with a distracted tapping on her keyboard, Lois had already grown bored of the conversation.
Jimmy ignored the quip; focusing directly on your boyfriend instead. "Hey, Kent. You go to the gym, right?"
"Uh..." Clark gave a slight shrug- doing nothing to quell his best friend's curiosity over his build. You could see the bashfulness begin to take him over already; the crooked smile, the slight nose scrunch. For a man so genetically blessed, you wondered how on earth he remained so humble. "Sure. Yeah."
"Oh, come on. You're built like a Dorito and you're trying to tell me you don't have a work out routine?"
"No, I do," Clark lied, trying to remain inconspicuous. To blame it on being raised on a farm would have made the most sense- if it wasn't for the fact that he wasn't in Smallville nearly enough, and muscles weren't just gained over the holiday period and kept all year around.
You tried not to laugh, instead spinning around in your chair to finally log on for the first time that day. You had a busy morning ahead of you, taken hostage by Jimmy's talks of beefing up and becoming 'swole'.
"Can I ask you a favour, Clark?"
"Sure, Jimmy. Go ahead." you could hear the slight exasperation in his tone, wanting nothing more than to be done with the conversation but not quite knowing how to end it.
"Can I come along to one of your sessions? Just to see what you do?" there was so much hope in his tone, you wondered how on earth Clark was going to find it in him to say no. "Maybe I can learn from you a little bit."
A beat passed. You tuned out of the conversation fully when the first thing to pop up on your screen was an email from Perry; finally putting a start to the very hectic day ahead.
But unsurprisingly, Clark didn't say no.
Couldn't say no.
"He was so hopeful, baby," he'd sighed, handing you your coffee in the kitchenette not too long after, "I couldn't let him down. It'd be like kickin' a puppy."
You simply nodded in understanding, patting him on the back in both comfort and pity.
And that's how you found yourself draped across the couch on a Friday evening, the laughter in your chest bubbly and contagious as your six-foot-four Kryptonian boyfriend sat bent over his laptop screen; brows furrowed, lips pursed, hundreds of male workout tabs open on his screen in the name of research.
Workouts for narrow shouldered men, human
How to build muscle in 10 days easy guide
Dorito body meaning
Food for small men to get big
"I'm glad you're finding this funny, sweetheart," he huffed, though the slight smile that pulled on his lips gave him away instantly. "I hope you know, more time at the gym with Jimmy means less time at home with you."
"Oh, however will I cope," you sighed dramatically, before swiftly slotting yourself between him and the desk.
Clark welcomed you with eager hands, leaning back into the chair as he pulled you right onto his lap.
"Honestly, though. I think it's sweet that you're doing all of this," you gestured towards his open computer, "for him."
"Hm. We'll see in a month. If he looks the same and suddenly catches onto the fact that I don't work out, we're going to have a problem on our hands. We might have to move." he said solemnly.
You giggled, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. "We'll be fine, Superman. Just learn how to build some basic human muscle, and you'll be good to go."
"Hmm."
The conversation ended with that, and Clark continued with his research.
For the first couple of sessions, things seemed to be going quite well. The first day, they both came into the bullpen with flushed faces and sudden talks of a consistent work-out schedule; matching gym bags at the ready, Clark's blue sweatband that Jimmy had so lovingly gotten him wrapped twice around his wrist as opposed to his head.
"You shoulda seen him!" Jimmy told you in excitement, his actions exaggerated as always, "His personal best was like, crazy! I've never known someone to lift that much. I'm tellin' you, Clark, you need to ditch the blazer. You're hiding some grand physique under there, my man."
Clark kissed you on the temple in greeting, sending a slight wink your way as Jimmy told anyone and everyone that would listen about what he'd seen. You kept quiet on purpose, feeling slightly prideful over the fact that you were the only one in the bullpen privy to what Clark could actually do.
You'd seen him lift cars and stack them carefully like Tetris; take planes right out of the sky in the same way he lifted the couch with one hand, you on top of it, to vacuum the carpet underneath. The thought of him pretending to struggle over some flimsy bars made you smile, knowing full well he could probably lift the entire gym building if he wanted to.
It carried on like that for a couple of weeks.
And truth be told, Jimmy was already starting to gain some starter definition- an achievement both him and Clark felt pretty damn good about.
"You know, if the whole superhero thing doesn't work out," you whispered over his shoulder, breath warm against the nape of his neck, "I think you'd do pretty damn well as a personal trainer."
Clark blushed. You laughed, poking him in the dimple before making your way to the kitchenette- knowing that even after three full years of dating and one whole year of living together, he still liked to watch the sway of your hips as you left; fully mesmerised until you disappeared around the corner.
You thought that was the last of it. It had become somewhat of a routine- the constant stories from Jimmy to look forward to every morning, each one a testament to Clark's physical restraint.
"Didn't even break a sweat- that gym bro could hardly believe it!"
"We're doing legs tomorrow, aren't we, Clark?"
"Even Steve's asked if he could come with us."
It was fun. Wholesome, even.
But then came the day that Jimmy insisted they go after work.
And naively, you didn't think anything of it.
How were you supposed to know that the showers had broken that day at the gym, and instead of getting changed there, your gorgeous hunk of a man had to come straight home- dressed only in a tight black compression shirt and grey joggers?
You didn't. You weren't warned. Nobody wrote a playbook on how to survive something like that, and you ended up suffering the consequences.
Slut, you thought viciously, eyes narrowing and thighs clenching the very second Clark walked through the front door.
And when he bent down to peck you on the lips- curls falling forward, filling your vision with nothing but fully-pumped shoulder and bicep- it turned into an inevitable, monotonous chant in your head.
Slut, slut, slut.
"You okay?" Clark asked you carefully, an entertained tug pulling at the corners of his lips.
You nodded, dazed, though your heart was pounding and you were pretty sure he could hear it. Your thoughts ran amok, each one filfthier than the last.
"Oh, come on, sweetheart," he'd chuckled then, pulling away from you to make a bee-line for the bathroom. "I'm disgusting right now. Seriously?"
"What?" you feigned innocence.
He gestured towards your chest, eyes glancing downwards for a split second towards your thighs- probably referring to the beat between them, too. "I can hear you. It's loud. And you don't look very... contained right now,"
"I have no idea what you're talking about,"
"No?" he paused next to the bathroom door then, leaning a thick shoulder against it and crossing his arms.
Visibly, you gulped. He was all flexed muscle and defined deltoids before you and yet, he expected you not to react.
Forget slut, you grumbled inwardly, this man is a total, evil, nasty, mass manipulator.
With very delicious biceps.
"No." you stayed firm. Assertive. Which would have probably worked, had it been the average man- but Clark Kent was no average man.
For a second, he just watched you, brows raised in a way that had you anticipating a move any minute now. You envisioned it clearly; him dragging you into the shower, ignoring any half-hearted protests that you didn't mean, and pressing you up against the counter with a hand wrapped around your neck and his fingers twisting inside.
You waited. And ached. And waited some more.
But the glint in Clark's eye merely sparkled, gaze flickering away from you as he chuckled and headed straight into the bathroom.
Alone.
"God, I love you."
You muttered it back. Miserably.
The next few weeks were torture.
Jimmy decided he preferred going to the gym after work as opposed to 6am every morning. And Clark- ever the good friend he was- happily went along with it.
"Means I get a couple more minutes in bed with you." he'd mumbled into your temple the morning he told you, arms wrapped lovingly around you in a way that was far too PG-13 for what you actually wanted him to do.
And sure, it could have been that. But maybe, he also liked how flustered you got when he came home, too; slightly sweaty for some reason (it wasn't like those petty little human machines did anything to him), flushed, clad in those irresitable grey sweats and smelling so like Clark that it had you barking into a pillow while he showered innocently in the other room.
It wasn't like you were both being celibate. You still had sex a far too frequent amount- it was very rare for Clark to be able to keep his hands off you- but it was starting to frustrate you that his post-workout glow was reserved for the shower and the shower only.
Not only that, but as much as Jimmy was starting to show some progress in his gym routine- Clark was, too.
"I didn't know you could get any bigger." your jaw was practically to the floor the minute he walked back out into the living room, fresh out of the shower, the towel wrapped around his waist practically an invitation for you to let it fall. "How on earth has this happened?! There aren't any hay bales in the city."
"Ha-ha," he quipped, tousling water out of his hair with a broad hand. You heard the droplets scatter all over the floor, too distracted by the way his farm-boy build really filled out.
Five long strides were all it took for Clark to reach you on the couch. Two hands on your waist, four thick fingertips on the waistband of your shorts as you lifted your body upwards to help him get them off; then, one pair of lips, catching yours in a kiss so dizzying you almost forgot to breathe.
"Hard day, today," he mumbled into you.
With your eyes still blissfully closed, you managed a playful murmur, "Superman can't handle a few fifty kilogram dumbbells?"
You felt Clark smirk.
"Not what I meant."
You almost combusted right then and there.
And the sex was good. Obviously. Clark took his time with you like he always did- gentle, slow, fast and hard where it mattered, with a lot of aftercare to make up for the crooked way you'd have to get out of bed in the morning.
But you needed more.
It was funny, really. How a slight change in routine had you pining for a version of him that he didn't deem good enough to even let you near.
"I'm too gross right now, baby."
"Let me freshen up first. It was leg day today."
"You can wait ten minutes, right, hon? Wanna scrub this sweat out of my hair."
You soon realised that Clark Kent wasn't ever going to let up about this. He was stubborn, partially enjoyed your pain, and self-conscious to some degree about body odour that his Kryptonian biology erased completely.
So, you came up with a plan.
No nonsense. Three steps, all beginning with the letter T so you wouldn't forget. A plan so perfect and so poised, he'd have no other option but to fuck you senseless and just apologise later.
Woah, you steadied yourself, shaking your head quickly to rid the shameful thought. Maybe I'm the slut.
A few desks down, Clark paused his tapping, sensing a shift in your bloodstream and focusing on that instead.
You began the execution of your plan on Monday.
Step one was the easiest of all the steps. Tease. It was never going to be hard- though you expected, hoped, that Clark might be.
You woke up late, urging him to start the day without you which he reluctantly agreed to. Then, the second you heard the front door click shut, you sprung into action.
Sheer tights. Red gloss. Fitted skirt one size too small. A pair of heels that made your legs look nothing short of spectacular and finally, a button-up blouse that hugged you in all the right places.
On top of that, a spritz or two of this fancy pheromone perfume Cat had gifted you two birthdays ago from a random sex shop in Gotham. You'd initially stuffed it in the back of your wardrobe to 'macerate', having forgotten about it completely- until now.
And now, it was twice as strong and hopefully twice as effective.
You looked good. You smelled good. Better yet- you felt good.
And you were more than ready for Clark to lose his damn mind.
Tease turned out to be a walk in the park. Just as you expected, your boyfriend short-circuited at the mere sight of you; eyes wide, glasses sliding down his nose that he almost forgot to push back up as you drifted into the Daily Planet bullpen.
"Lois." he'd said, a gulp stuck in his throat as he followed your every move.
The woman housing the workspace next to you raised an eyebrow, somewhat puzzled by Clark's tone, a highlighter paused mid-air in her hand. You bit back a laugh, quickly pretending to focus on something else. "What?"
"Switch desks with me."
"No."
"Lois. Please." he still refused to look anywhere but you, even when Cat sauntered over and locked you in a conversation about pheromones and the interesting thing about this and the crazy thing about that. Truthfully, you weren't paying full attention- but you loved the way Clark was currently looking at you, so you stayed where he could continue. "Just for today."
"No, Clark."
"I'll finish your deadlines for the week."
Lois paused, "I have eight deadlines due Thursday alone, Kansas."
"I'll do 'em. Switch desks with me."
"Are you being serious?"
He nodded, jaw flexed, eyes still on you.
"Deadly."
Of course, Lois agreed. It took less than thirty seconds for her to log off and stand up, and you suddenly found yourself bumping knee caps with the man who'd somehow grown two sizes in the span of a few weeks.
"Hi, baby." you said smoothly, tapping away at your keyboard like nothing was wrong. Clark simply watched you, though from the corner of your eye, you could see his hands twitching.
"Hi."
"Something wrong?" you asked him innocently.
Behind you both, the bullpen roared to life. It became a different place entirely once the very last person logged on and everyone seemed to enter flow state; everyone except for you and Clark.
"You look beautiful," he swallowed. He couldn't help himself; his gaze fell temptingly to your thighs, envisioning the scandalous way the tights clung to every curve on your body. "I've never, um... seen that skirt before,"
"It's new," you said off-handedly, clicking a bunch of random things on your screen for effect. "You like it?"
"I love it."
His mind had been lost now, fully, and you could tell. Whatever strength and resilience Clark Kent had, had been stripped away from him the very second you entered the room.
The day went on. Clark quietly unravelled. Every move you made, every breath you took and every person you spoke to; he was listening, high alert, desperate to catch the sight of you swaying your hips again in that too-tight skirt.
5pm came fast and with it, your decision to fast forward to step two; Torture.
You were supposed to stretch it throughout the week. But seeing as Clark had strategically been using a stack of folders to hide the tent in his slacks all day, you figured you couldn't possibly be cruel enough to do that.
Just today and tomorrow would be fine. That's what you told yourself, when you made your way to the empty archives room in search for some files, and heard the door slam shut behind you.
You didn't move. Didn't even turn around. You felt him again before you could see him; the familiar warmth of Clark's fingers on your waist, pulling your body backwards into his chest.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.
"What are you doing to me?" he murmured lowly, the prominent outline of his dick hard against your back. Successfully, it erased any confusion on what he could possibly mean.
You hummed a casual response back, willing your heart not to pick up it's pace anytime soon. The only way this whole thing was going to work was if you kept a level head; you absolutely could not let Clark catch on.
"Baby," he hissed, just as your hand reached behind you and cupped the bulge in his trousers.
You gave it a slight squeeze, enough to feel it throb but hardly enough to provide relief.
"Don't you have a few deadlines you need to get started on?" you asked him then, smoothly turning around to wrap your arms around his neck.
Clark gave you a small, crooked smile through the wrecked look on his face, "You heard all that?"
"It was flattering, really."
"If you liked that, wait 'til we get home," he peppered a few slow kisses against your throat then, grinding lightly against you and trying to fill the void your palm left behind. You tried not to make a sound.
"We?" you managed, voice only slightly broken, "You're going to the gym after, no?"
"I'll say something came up," he moved towards your jaw, ready to cross the threshold of your chin when you turned your face away. Internal panic bloomed in your chest.
"What? No! You can't do that... Jimmy loves your little gym dates."
"Can think of something else I'd rather be doing..."
"Clark." you said, your tone harbouring a slightly serious edge now as you dodged his kiss attempt once more. "You can't bail on him. It's his new year's resolution."
You were aware of how pathetic of an excuse it sounded- especially after all the initial teasing and disbelief about his idea of 'bulking season'. But again, if this was going to work, then you needed Clark right where you wanted him- and him not even making it to the gym would defeat the purpose entirely.
He contemplated for a second. Then, he pulled away and looked at you, gesturing to the undone top button of your blouse.
"Fine. But this still better be on when I get home."
"Hm. Maybe."
"Maybe?" his brow raised like you'd just personally launched a missile towards the city he was destined to save. "Sweetheart, come on." a light laugh at the sound of his desperation escaped you, accompanied by a slight sigh of disbelief.
"We'll see."
Needless to say, it was the shortest ever gym session you'd ever known Clark and Jimmy to have.
He was home in record time, practically skipping the steps up to your apartment in threes.
Which brought you straight to step three; Tempt.
You swapped the red gloss for red lipstick. The tights came off, exposing your bare skin and providing absolutely no barrier between Clark and what he'd been pining for all day.
But step three, you soon realised, was a complete cop-out.
Because there was absolutely no way this wouldn't go the way you wanted it to. A small part of you feared Clark coming home and forcing himself to jump straight in the shower- rock hard and pulsing the whole time- before coming back out to ruin you both enough to get straight back in.
But he didn't.
And you couldn't even bring yourself to remember the last T of your plan; the most crucial one, because Clark's lips were already on yours and his hands, deliciously starved, gripped you in the way you'd wanted him to for weeks.
"Clark," you gasped, eyelids fluttering shut as he scooped you up and pressed you against the wall. Your legs wrapped around him in response, pulling him closer.
He smelled good. So good, actually, like he always did after a work out. Memories of your drifting conversation with Cat about pheromones came trickling back, and you suddenly wished you'd paid more attention.
"Gosh," he groaned, mouth eager against yours, his chest tightening at the feeling of your much smaller fingers on the waistband of his sweatpants, "Been thinking about you all day,"
"Had a good session?" you breathed, earning a light chuckle from him.
"Thought of you the whole time."
"That's nice," you bit your lip, another gasp escaping as he sank to his knees, kisses constant down your body.
"Yeah," Clark whispered. With a warm hand, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, doing the exact same with the other. "Couldn't think straight. Bent a bar in half,"
You stifled a dazed laugh, murmuring a half-hearted reply that probably made no sense. But it wouldn't have mattered, anyway; Clark was far too focused to take note of much else.
The sturdyness of his shoulders underneath your thighs made you shiver- always so present and soft, now the exact same, albeit bulkier. He just felt bigger now.
"God," you whispered, moreso to yourself, "You're huge,"
"Three years and you've only just noticed?"
"Recent development." you said playfully, earning a light laugh in return. It made you melt in all the right ways, your body relaxing at the sound.
Clark took your distraction as an opportunity. His head ducked, the sensation of his curls against your thighs accompanied by a slow, languid lick up your heat.
A low moan shuddered through you, eyes rolling to the back of your head. One of his hands held you up as another found your own, directing it towards his curls; pressing down on your fingers as encouragement to form a grip on his hair.
"Hold onto me, baby."
You did so, eagerly.
Clark's mouth moved like a man starved. And every muscle in your body obeyed him; every lick and suck met with a desperate whimper of his name, every quickened pump of his tongue rewarded with a grind of your hips and stars in your vision.
You watched his shoulders move from beneath you. The way his deltoids flexed, defined and thick; the ridges of both biceps so prominent, it was almost enough to bring you over the edge alone.
The coil in your stomach tightened. Clark's fingers dug even deeper into your thighs and shamefully, you hoped for a bruise; markings of the man you loved so deeply.
"Fuck, Clark!" you cried, when the coil finally snapped and your climax hit you tenfold; white-hot, blinding, filling your body with a temporary fuzz.
Clark wasted no time. He came straight back up; lips and chin covered in your slick, corners turned upwards in a smug, boyish smile you knew all too well.
"Felt good?" he smirked, still holding you up with one hand as another hurried to get his sweats off.
You nodded, dazed, but the slight demand of your tone still pulled through, "Get inside of me. Now."
And he chuckled back, voice a mock solemn.
"Whatever you want, hon."
Clark delivered. Naturally. He was never one to hold off during intimate moments; his methods of teasing often came before, like withholding sweaty post-gym sex from you until the day came that he simply couldn't any more.
Today was that day.
You watched as he lined himself between your thighs, his tip flushed and red and leaking with pre-cum already. Your body braced itself for the sting; a breath catching in your throat at the feeling of him slowly sinking deeper and deeper inside of you.
The sight of Clark was enough to knock you breathless. Slacker jaw, glossy blue eyes, low lids that he still managed to stare so lovingly at you through. You felt your muscles relax by instinct, body shifting to allow him in even further.
"G-Gosh," he hissed through clenched teeth, eyes falling to where he began and you ended. Each slow pump in and out caused his eyes to widen, his breathing to skip. "Look at you, baby..."
His free hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face downwards so that you were both looking at the same thing; his cock, thick and big like the rest of him, almost too much yet the perfect amount for you.
"Takin' me so well."
You moaned at the pure sight of it. Clark's hand formed into a gentle fist in your hair, holding you in place in the softest way possible, as he began to pick up the pace.
"O-Oh, my..." you mewled, eyes rolling back, body giving into the pleasure. Despite the pain you knew you'd be in the next day, your fingers fumbled for Clark's shoulders, desperate and digging, "H-Harder, baby,"
"Don't wanna hurt you," he groaned lowly, the sound rippling through his chest and into yours.
"Please, Clark," you begged, darting forward to press kisses on his sternum, his throat, his jaw- anywhere that might convince him to just let go.
You believed it was the suck between his chest and his throat that did it.
Clark's paced quickened even more, the sound obscene, filling the room with the world's most livid soundtrack. You lost track of how many times you came; how many moments you screamed his name and stilled in his arms, only to be brought back to life again with his mouth on yours and begging whimpers to come again, baby. Please. One more time for me.
It may have been three. Or four. You weren't too sure, but what you did know was that you simply couldn't take it anymore.
"Clark, baby, I-I can't," you gasped. Your thighs burned, vision slightly blurred. He'd lasted this long before, a handful of times- but by now, he'd at least be close.
In this very second however, it seemed like he could go on forever.
"I-I know, baby, I'm just-" his hand found your throat then, thumb stroking the base as the rest of his fingers slowly wrapped around it.
You couldn't help the small smile that played on your lips. You fluttered your eyes back open for the first time in a while; expecting to see the chiselled jawline of your perfect boyfriend- but what you actually laid your eyes on was far, far better.
Clark had pulled back just enough for you to get the perfect, full-frontal view of his shoulders; straining heavily against the black tank he wore to the gym that day, glistening with sweat, highlighted by the dim light of the living room.
Your eyes widened, pussy clenching around him; your body eliciting the most natural of reactions to a man built like a Greek God mercilessly pounding you in his living room.
Clark caught on immediately. His curls, only slightly damp, fell messily in front of his eyes as he leaned closer towards you, tensing every muscle within your line of vision.
"You like that, sweetheart?" all you could do was nod; fucked so incredibly dumb on him, that it was a struggle to keep it all together.
His once steady pace began to falter, quick and sharp and less precise now- a tell that he was close.
"Come on, baby," he grunted against you, fucking you into the wall in a way that didn't hurt, but felt filthy all the same. "One more time, o-okay? Want you to make a mess all over me."
As a last resort, you felt Clark's impossibly large hand press onto your stomach; snapping the band inside if you yet again, every bit of pressure burning hot and raw.
"God fuc- Clark!" you cried, body squirming from the feeling, limbs all but trembling beneath him.
Regardless, he didn't stop, prolonging your orgasm until it fizzled completely. His jumbled pace stayed relentless, ongoing, until finally- finally, Clark's hips snapped forward, your name falling from his lips in the the most delicious, strangled way.
"G-Gonna come, baby, I-I'm-" he moaned, loud and unapologeetic and breathy. He cut himself off by attaching his lips back to your neck, engulfing you whole, claiming you with the entirety of him.
A warmth bloomed in your lower abdomen, Clark holding you up with an arm that stayed steady yet another that shook against the wall. He rutted slowly against you, his juices mixing in with yours, whispering constant praise that you were far too exhausted to fully take in.
"You looked so good like that- so open for me..."
"I love it when you look at me like that."
For a while, Clark just stood there; holding you steady and listening to a heartbeat that had only just begun to slow. He was hot to touch, every inch of him warming every inch of you.
It wasn't until you lifted your head, the back of it gently hitting the wall, that he finally began to move again.
Carefully, Clark lifted you upwards, socked feet padding across the carpet. He carried you to the bedroom and laid you down; movements careful and coordinated as he then pulled the covers up, slotting in right next to you.
"Did so well for me, baby. Get some rest now."
Praise upon praise fell from his lips, each one more genuine than the last.
A kiss pressed carefully to your forehead had you melting back into him; a dreamy sigh filling the silence, one that he answered with a pleased chuckled of his own.
For the first time that evening, a silence settled between you both.
"Jimmy was right." you murmured tiredly, just as Clark thought you'd began to fall asleep.
He raised a tired eyebrow, moving a couple of strands of hair out of your face as he spoke, "Huh?"
"You are built like a Dorito."
And despite the exhaustion that was currently holding you both hostage, Clark laughed. And you giggled along with him; making a silent vow to yourself to never, ever doubt Jimmy Olsen's future new year's resolutions ever again.
MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT IN OVER 7 YEARS HELLO🫦 hope you all liked it !! but i do apologise if it didnt live up to your expectations,, I AM AN ANGST / FLUFF WRITER TO MY CORE OKAY🤧💋
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 fem ! 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
one | two
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 said amusedly, throwing a ball for Krypto to fetch and destroy somewhere in the Antarctic. "Your person will come. Just… gotta be patient."
You asked when, voice muffled. He just told you to wait.
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.
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summary: your father did everything for you. because of it, the men in your life had called you spoilt, unreasonable, a girl with unrealistic expectations. after years of heartbreak and disappointment, you start to believe them- until clark kent proves that love can be gentle, steadfast, and safe enough to let yourself fully trust it.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: tooth rotting fluff, whatever the opposite of daddy issues is, clark being so sweet and domestic. princess treatment, reader being oh so wonderfully loved, very feel good. enjoy! xx
Your father would do anything for you.
From the second you were born, you had zero need to lift a single finger. Your shoes were always tied. Ice cream always scooped. When the rhinestones started falling off your favourite bejewelled headband, it was replaced within a matter of minutes.
By the age of fifteen, you had your own personal chaffeur. He'd drive you around the block with a big grin and a janky car that rattled when it turned, while your mom watched proudly from the living room window.
He loved her too, of course. So very much. Sometimes, they'd go about their day and you'd just smile and watch them; how he spun her around the kitchen table, the giggles that fell from her lips, the open bills forgotten on the table right next to them. None of them mattered. They ceased to exist the second they laid their eyes on one another.
He'd kiss her cheek, ruffle your hair, call you both his best girls.
You told yourself it was a love you wanted one day- when you were a little bit older maybe, when the right man finally came along. Your father showed you best how a woman should be treated; made it so that princess treatment wasn't a 'luxury' to you, nor would it ever be.
It was a god-given, fully expected birthright.
However, little girls had to grow up sometime.
So when twenty-two finally came, and you packed your bags and headed off to the big city of Metropolis- your father's tearful wave accompanying the faint smell of smoke that always clung to him in the hug goodbye- you simply didn't have it in you to prepare for the dangers ahead.
"You call me if you need a thing," he said gruffly, though the tears in his vision contrasted his voice completely. You nodded, falling into yet another tearful hug, "Don't be a stranger."
You tried.
But- as expected- life took over. You got busy. You'd still call, but visited far less frequently.
And the downside to previously having such a loving dynamic followed you right through adulthood.
The deadbeat boyfriends that you trusted, the almost-fiancé that only wanted a ring on your finger for the status. They took your naivety as gospel and used it to load their pistols of incompetence; missed dinners, connections to their exes, coersion.
How could they be so awful, when your father had only ever shown you the kind side to men? How did you accumulate so many horrible dates, land in so many awful situations that would have the man who raised you barrelling down the freeway with narrowed eyes and anger emcompassing every acceleration?
Your first situationship wasn't real. It was experience.
Your first ever boyfriend didn't like you. He liked the idea of you.
And your second boyfriend-turned-fiancé had none of the qualities you wanted in a partner. So when he came home one day, excited over colour swatches and bouqets for a wedding you just couldn't envision- well, you broke it off. Right then and there.
Because he'd never proven himself, not really. And you needed that proof like your very existence needed oxygen.
He never opened doors for you, never bothered to memorise your coffee order. The vanity you bought months and months ago sat untouched, collecting dust at the corner of the room because he'd promised to put it together one day and just... never did.
Your father would have. He would have driven the whole twelve hours down to central, just to get his hands on a hammer and a nail, and you'd be powdering your face in a fresh mirror within minutes.
So, you took a leap of faith and ended the three year relationship. You moved out into your own studio apartment right in the heart of Metropolis, a few blocks away from all your favourite places.
You thought, maybe love just wasn't for you. Perhaps there was something wrong with you that meant nothing human would ever measure up. Or perhaps, you winced, you truly were as spoilt as your many exes had accused you of being.
"Daddy's girl." your first one had scoffed.
"Ain't ever gonna land a good man with that attitude," the second one spat.
"How... but... I-I did everything right." the third lied tearfully.
But then, just when you started to lower your expectations and announce to the world that you were finally giving up on finding the perfect man, you met him.
Clark.
Clark Kent.
And everything those horrible exes had tried to convince you that you were flew entirely out of the window.
He was soft, sweet. You both met on a rainy day in July, the water warm and faint, making everything smell like fresh air and ozone.
"Oh! I'm sorry-" you blushed, your body bumping against his as you failed to watch where you were going.
"No, no- that's alright," his smile was kind. Patient. The type of smile to base a frequent daydream off of. "Please, after you."
"Thank you."
He'd held the door to the café open for you to walk inside, watching quietly as you claimed your seat in the corner of the lobby before going up to order yourself a drink.
Clark got his first. He paid for yours in advance, tipping the barista 40%, before slipping unannounced straight back out of the door.
When you finally decided on an oat milk vanilla latte, he was gone.
The second time you met him, the key to your apartment had jammed in the lock, and you'd gone back down to the lobby to ask someone for help.
And for some reason, the kind man from the coffee shop was right there; only just about to get in the elevator, when he caught your eye and once again, let you in first.
You were neighbours, would you believe? A few floors apart, sure, but living in the same building regardless.
What were the chances? You made a mental note to thank him for your coffee another time, hopefully on a better day under happier circumstances.
"How's your morning been?" he asked you politely.
On a good day, you typically wouldn't overshare- it was just super unfortunate that he happened to catch you on a very, very, very bad day.
So naturally, you told him everything.
How the wind had ruined your hair the very second you stepped out of the building to go to work; how none of the emails you'd sent made any sense, and how your lunch was gross despite the fact that you always got the same thing. Then finally, how you came home absolutely exhausted and still, your key got stuck- with nobody in reception willing to lend a helping hand.
"It's a couple hundred dollars for a locksmith," Clark's eyebrows raised, in a slightly stunned way that would have had you blushing if you weren't already so frustrated. "I'm not one, but... I could take a look? If you'd like? I grew up on a farm, and we had these old fashioned keys that'd get jammed all the time... I know my way around a keyhole."
You tried not to let the surprise on your face show. You didn't have to beg, plead, barter for this man to help you out- he just did, wanted to, for seemingly nothing in return.
And you weren't even acquiantances, let alone friends. He owed you nothing and still, came to your floor and jimmied the key right out. No struggle, no sighs of exasperation to make you feel bad- just a pleased smile and a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes.
"There," he grinned, plopping it in your palm carefully, "All fixed."
You thanked him, weak at the knees. It was then that you realised just how gorgeous Clark really was- if it wasn't the baby blues, it was the smile, the dimples in his cheeks and the impressive way his shoulders filled out the dress shirt he wore.
But most importantly, he was kind.
That just made him all the more stunning.
You ran into each other for a while. Often in the elevator, and afterwards he'd walk you to your door like it was midnight in Gotham. Never asking to be invited in, just happy to speak to you for an extra twenty seconds of his day.
When you did eventually muster up enough courage to ask him to come inside, you had no idea what you were in for. Truly.
Because that one cup of decaf coffee turned into multiple. It turned into dinner under the lowlight of your apartment (a thanks for the coffee he'd bought weeks ago) and another dinner a couple of weeks later at Clark's penthouse (a thanks for your thanks for the coffee he'd bought a month ago), right at the top of the building you both shared.
Naturally, it turned into something more.
A drawer at his, a space at yours. Two toothbrushes in both bathrooms, one tube of toothpaste. Your mugs began to invade his cupboard space, amended articles with his neat handwriting filling your coffee table.
So when Clark asked you to be his girlfriend four months after your first official date, of course, you said yes. Because by then, you already knew.
He wasn't like the others. They were boys, silly little things that knew nothing of what it meant to really, truly love someone.
But Clark did.
He remembered everything about you, not even just the important stuff like what you didn't like and what you loved- he remembered the exact way you liked your clothes folded, your skincare routine, how you hated cobblestone paths because it made your footing uneven. You were a carefully penned article, one that he was determined to memorise.
Clark never made you feel like you were asking for too much. If anything, he made you feel like you deserved it all and more.
The bookshelf arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.
It came in a flat-packed cardboard box that was nearly as tall as you were, dropped unceremoniously in the hallway outside your apartment by a delivery man who barely spared you a glance before disappearing back into the elevator.
"Delivery for ya, little lady."
You stared at it for a long moment.
Clark was working late at the Planet. He had texted you that morning, a bunch of emojis clouding his gentle words of, Don’t wait up, honey. Perry’s got us chasing three different stories today.
You told him to take his time. Said you’d order takeout, enough for him to come home to, and curl up with a book.
Instead, you dragged the box inside.
It started innocently enough. A pair of scissors slicing through packing tape. The rustle of protective styrofoam that went everywhere and made you huff. Instruction manuals unfolding like complicated maps written in languages you only half understood.
"God." you muttered miserably, narrowed eyes glaring at the box with vice.
By step four, you were sweating.
For step six, you had somehow assembled two panels backwards. Step nine wasn't any better, because that was when the screwdriver slipped in your grip and your knuckles slammed hard against the unfinished wood.
You hissed, sucking in air through your teeth, blinking rapidly as tears pricked your vision. A thin line of red blossomed across your skin.
It wasn’t even the pain that made your chest tighten. It was the echo of a memory.
A different apartment. A different box. A different man sighing loudly from the couch while scrolling through his phone, irritation dripping from every exhale as you asked, softly, if he could help you assemble the vanity he’d promised to build weeks ago.
In a minute.
After this game.
Why can’t you just do it yourself?
It had taken you three weeks of gentle reminders and swallowed pride before he finally assembled it- muttering the entire time like your request was a personal inconvenience. Only to drop to one knee a couple of months later, claims of you being the love of his life dripping from his mouth like venom.
The screwdriver clattered from your hand. You tried again anyway, because who else was going to do it?
Clark found you sitting cross-legged on the floor when he finally came home, surrounded by wooden panels, scattered screws, and instructions wrinkled beyond recognition. The bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, uneven and half-assembled like it might collapse if someone breathed too hard.
The smile on his face dropped, gaze trailing down your arm to your hand, wrapped clumsily in paper towels speckled pink.
He froze in the doorway.
"Honey?"
You looked up, offering a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Hi."
His eyes flicked between the blood, the mess, the lopsided shelf, and something inside his expression shifted. Not anger- never anger with your sweet, careful Clark- but a quiet, wounded confusion that hit you harder than you thought it would.
"…Why wouldn’t you ask me to do it?" the softness in his voice made your throat tighten.
You shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the carpet fibres beneath your fingertips. "You were working. I didn’t want to bother you."
Clark set his bag down slowly, carefully, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile between you.
"You’re never a bother," he said gently, kneeling in front of you. His large hands hovered near yours before carefully taking your wrist, inspecting the cut with such delicate concentration it made your chest ache. “Does this hurt?”
"Not really."
It did. Just not in the way he meant.
So, you explained it to him.
The string of bad exes. The sighs of annoyance that used to follow your requests like thunder chasing lightning. The vanity you once loved and now hated because it took weeks of quiet grovelling just to convince someone who supposedly loved you to build it.
The slow, creeping shame that made you believe asking for help meant being difficult. Being high maintenance. Being too much.
"I just..." you winced, "I just got so used to my dad doing everything for me. I'm sorry."
Clark listened to every word.
"You never have to be sorry for that," he told you gently, reaching a warm hand out to soothe you. "All it means is that you grew up knowing what real love looks like."
You went quiet for a bit, not really knowing what to say back. Never in your life had you told a man about your dad and been met with anything other than an eye-roll or a raised eyebrow.
"I’m not like them," he then said, softly.
You swallowed.
"I said I’d take care of you," he continued, his thumb ghosting across your knuckles with careful tenderness. "Let me take care of you."
There was no arrogance in it, no possessiveness. Just quiet certainty, like gravity. Like sunrise. Like truths that simply existed without needing to be proven.
And then, because your ever-loving boyfriend was Clark Kent, he kissed your injured hand like it was the most natural thing in the world before standing up, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, and assembling the entire bookshelf in under thirty minutes.
"Take a seat, baby," he cleared the couch of instruction manuals and nails for you, "Relax for me, okay?"
You didn’t question how he managed it so quickly. You just watched him, warmth blooming in your chest like something long frozen had finally begun to thaw.
It reminded you of home. Of laughter spilling from kitchen walls, smoke clinging to familiar flannel, strong hands that had spent your entire life making the world feel softer around the edges.
And maybe that was why the next step felt less like a choice and more like destiny.
Meeting your father was… inevitable.
Terrifying for both of you, but inevitable.
Clark ironed three different shirts before settling on the blue one you told him brought out his eyes. He rehearsed greetings under his breath. He even brought flowers for your mother, even though she’d insisted repeatedly over the phone that it wasn’t necessary.
"We just want you both here, safe!" she chirped happily. Even so, you still felt like throwing up and Clark was still ruffling a nervous hand through his unruly hair.
Your father opened the door with that same familiar scent of cedar clinging to him, his pose rigid, still protective, still the safest place you’d ever known. He sized Clark up in less than three seconds.
Clark extended his hand immediately.
"Sir," he nodded slowly, "it’s an honour to finally meet you."
Your father gripped his hand firmly, gaze sharp but not unkind. When he spoke, you felt your boyfriend loosen up a little, though the dread was still apparent in the way he stayed a respectable distance away from you.
"Any man willing to drive six hours just to make sure my daughter doesn’t travel alone already gets a few points in my book." your father replied.
Dinner was loud. Warm. Filled with overlapping stories and constant laughter that bounced off the four walls you'd grown up in. You watched them carefully, nervously, but it didn’t take long before your shoulders relaxed.
Because your father refilled your glass without a word.
And Clark draped a neatly folded napkin across your lap, a soft smile brushing your lips before he turned back to your mother’s story.
When your plate ran low, your father quietly spooned more onto it, telling the story of the day you were born as if the two moments were on- care and memory intertwined.
And then Clark, silently, took the cherries from his own dessert and placed them on yours, his fingers brushing yours just enough for you to notice, your favourite part of a favourite thing now doubled.
Together, wordlessly, seemingly without noticing- they moved around you like two steady orbits around the same sun.
By the end of the evening, you wandered toward the living room while they insisted on washing up. You meant to help, but your footsteps slowed when you heard your father’s voice through the kitchen doorway.
He handed Clark the final dish, water dripping from his hands.
"I know you’re a good man," your father said quietly. "And I trust you’ll take care of her. But please… if anything ever changes. If you ever feel different… don’t hurt her."
Silence stretched for a moment.
"Just bring her back to me."
You peeked around the corner just enough to see Clark swallow, his shoulders straightening with quiet resolve.
"Yes, sir," he said, steadily.
"But please... believe me. I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t even think of it."
Your father nodded once, satisfied. You pressed your hand against your mouth, blinking rapidly as emotion swelled behind your ribs.
And Clark was right. He never hurt you. Never even came close.
Not even when he finally told you he was Superman.
He confessed on a quiet evening, glasses set carefully on the coffee table between you like a confession waiting to breathe. His voice trembled in a way you’d never heard before, words tumbling out in uneven fragments about responsibility and fear and how loving you had become both the bravest and most terrifying thing he’d ever done.
You listened. You watched the man you loved stand before you stripped bare- not of strength, but of certainty.
You forgave him before he even finished explaining.
Because deep, deep down, you believed that you had always known.
Maybe not consciously. Maybe not in ways you could put into words. But the late nights, the impossible saves. The way he sometimes looked at the sky like it was calling him home, the sirens that alerted him more than they should.
You loved Clark Kent. And in turn, you were also in love with Superman.
It didn’t change the way he warmed your side of the bed before you climbed in, or how he held all eight grocery bags in one hand and yours in the other. It didn’t change the way he still insisted on tying your shoelaces if he noticed they were loose, dropping down on the busy pavement just to provide you some ease.
If anything, it only deepened your understanding of how extraordinary it was that someone capable of carrying the world still chose to come home and carry you, too.
Years passed.
The love- as well as the space- that you both shared, grew.
Two apartments turned into just one, and that one apartment became a four bedroom house just outside of the city; one bought with a nursery and young child's bedroom in mind one day.
Your wedding day smelled like fresh flowers and nervous anticipation.
Your father’s arm trembled slightly where it linked through yours as he walked you down the aisle, though whether from emotion or age, you couldn’t tell. You clutched him tighter, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm of his steps.
Clark waited at the altar, eyes glassy, smile already breaking across his face like dawn spilling over the horizon. His good friend Jimmy sobbed into a napkin, Lois right next to him hissing to pull it together- though you could see it too, the glossiness in her piercing blue eyes.
Halfway down the aisle, your father leaned closer.
"I loved you first," he whispered, voice thick with unshed tears.
"I know," you whispered back, hoping for a joke, hoping for a threat towards the only man in the world you knew he'd ever approve of. Anything to ease the nerves, the dread of everyone's eyes on you.
But instead, your father nodded towards where Clark stood, voice barely a croak.
"And now, he gets to love you forever."
Your chest squeezed painfully, beautifully, as he placed your hand into Clark’s waiting one.
Clark held it like something sacred, irreplaceable, something he would protect with everything he was and still had yet to be.
Your father pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping back, pride and heartbreak and joy colliding in his eyes all at once. When the officiant began to speak, and you caught Clark's eyes boring so lovingly into your own, it was then that you fully realised.
You were never impossible to love.
And it was never that your expectations were too high.
You were simply raised knowing what love looked like when it was done right- when it showed up without being asked, when it stayed without being begged, when it took care without making you feel guilty for needing it.
Clark never tried to compete with the love you grew up with. Never tried to make you feel smaller for wanting it to last forever. He never asked you to unlearn the gentleness your father built your world around, or reshape yourself into something easier to hold.
Instead, he treated it like something special, something worth protecting. Something worth proving, day after day, that it could exist outside childhood memories and smoke-scented hugs goodbye.
And in the end, he never tried to stand where your father had. He simply stepped in beside him, honoured- ready to continue the love that raised you.
i cried a little while writing this. hope you're all doing amazingly !! so so happy to be back xx
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.
Your writing is so beautiful. If you take requests, please can I ask for an angsty fic of Clark realising reader hasn't been eating properly, super upset because he loves her so much, maybe she can be fashion ! reader (I've recently rewatched Devil Wears Prada and the work culture is so toxic and is ingrained in me) sorry if this doesn't make sense English isn't my first language! Sorry too if this makes you uncomfortable, I just think your writing style would really do well for this. Love your stuff
not like before
themes: tw - talks of an eating disorder, angst, protective clark, super sweet and domestic and worried clark, established relationship, fluff!
this is a topic that hits very close to home for me and only slightly out of my comfort zone to write- but i hope i did well by your req anon<3
You didn’t have breakfast this morning.
Again.
Clark noticed the second you slipped out the door with a rushed kiss and an apologetic smile, insisting you’d “grab something at work.” He’d stood there in the kitchen, spatula still in hand, watching the door click shut behind you.
The pancakes he’d made were still warm then.
A banana is missing from the fruit bowl now though, and there’s a dried ring of condensation on the counter from the severely oversized water bottle you always take with you.
For a moment, he lets himself believe that means you ate. That you tried.
But when he opens the trash can later to toss out a stack of old letters, he sees it.
Half of the banana sits right on top. And it shouldn’t break his heart clean in two, shouldn’t cause a pit to form at the bottom of his stomach that hurts him more than any blood-soaked battle ever has- but it does.
Because you’re not eating.
He stares at it like it’s kryptonite- like if he looks at it long enough, it’ll rewrite the truth. Like it’ll change the fact that you must’ve taken two bites and decided it was too much before dropping it in the trash. His throat tightens and slowly, quietly, he lets the lid fall closed.
He knows better than anyone not to bring it up. Not immediately. The last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable or make you feel like you have to answer to anyone, even him. Even if knowing would help; even if it would ease the sick twist in his chest.
So instead, he worries.
He leans back against the counter, stroking his jaw with his forefinger and thumb, eyes flicking helplessly between the cold pancakes he’d left out for you that morning and the trash can holding what you’d actually tried to eat. A sigh leaves his nervously bitten lips, chest far too heavy for a Wednesday morning.
He’d booked the whole week off- PTO, a rare stretch of quiet to fix things around the apartment, reorganise, be present. He’d missed you and your home in a way evenings after 6pm simply couldn’t satiate- but the thought that this might’ve been happening right under his nose for who knows how long makes something ache deep and sharp inside him.
Has it been longer than today? Longer than this week? How long has he been oblivious?
Clark presses his palms to the counter and bows his head. He should’ve noticed sooner.
He of all people should notice when something’s wrong with you. Isn’t that what husbands were for? He can hear a heartbeat falter from across the city, is capable of picking a cry for help through concrete and steel and miles of distance- but he didn’t notice this? The way your sweaters hang a little looser, or the way you claim you’re “not that hungry” and laugh it off. All of it should have sent off alarm bells in his head, should have kicked him into gear.
His jaw tightens, but even so, he wills himself not to spiral. You’ve been stressed before, and you’ve had many difficult weeks in the past; that article on Metropolis Fashion Week, the piece on fabric dissonance. And yet, the image of that half-eaten banana won’t leave him. It sits behind his eyes like a stain.
He cleans the kitchen slowly. Not because it needs it, but because he needs something to do with his hands. He throws out the pancakes before he can think better of it. He washes the plate. He wipes down the counter again, even though it’s already spotless.
Clark knows what your job is like. He knows that sizes are important and that your boss can be mean and that the other women you work with can be judgy. It both breaks his heart and angers him deeply; you don’t deserve that. Nobody does. But it’s your passion, your life, the one thing in this world that keeps you going. Who is he to say otherwise?
Every so often, Clark’s gaze flicks to the clock.
You should be home soon.
The minutes stretch thin. He tries not to use his hearing- tries not to tune in to the rhythm of your heartbeat downtown, doesn’t want to invade your space like that- but the temptation curls around him all the same. He forces himself to sit on the couch instead, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough to creak.
What if you’ve been struggling and he didn’t see it?
What if you even thought you had to hide it?
The thought makes him feel ill.
He replays every moment from the past few weeks. The late nights. The “I grabbed something at work.” The tired smiles. You’ve been busy, he knows that. The fashion magazine you work for is established, fast-paced, incredibly demanding; more often than not, you have deadlines due just hours head, meetings stacked back-to-back. You come home drained, sometimes barely able to keep your eyes open.
But busy doesn’t mean you should have to forget to take care of yourself. And it certainly doesn’t mean he should let you.
The sound of the lock turning has Clark on his feet in an instant.
The door swings open, and there you are; hair a little messy from the wind, bag slipping from your shoulder, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips when you see him.
“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re still up.”
Still up. As if he could sleep right now, with his mind racing and heart beating much, much faster than yours.
“Hey,” he replies, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends.
You toe off your kitten heels, nudging the door shut behind you. Your movements are distracted, now focused on getting one of the many bracelets on your wrists off.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. We had this last-minute thing with-“ You stop mid-sentence, brow furrowing slightly. He’s standing so straight it almost looks painful, and the clench in his jaw isn’t subtle in the least.
“Clark?”
And right now, he’s just staring at you.
Not in the usual soft, adoring way. No; it’s stricken, raw with something fresh that he knows you’re currently oblivious to- as he has been to you, it seems.
Your smile falters. “What’s wrong?”
The silence doesn’t even last two beats as he crosses the room in two long strides.
And then- before you can process what’s happening- Clark drops.
It isn’t graceful. It isn’t careful. One second he’s standing, towering solid and steady, and the next he’s on his knees in front of you with a soft thud that rattles the floorboards.
His forehead falls onto your lower stomach, hands snaking up the backs of your legs as he, very gently, pulls you towards him.
“Clark!” your bag slips from your shoulder entirely now, hitting the floor with a startled thud. “Oh my god- are you hurt?”
His hands come around, hovering at your hips like he’s afraid to actually touch you. His head is still bowed against your stomach, and the exhale he lets out is shaky.
“Baby-“
“-I’m… so, so sorry.” he breathes quietly.
Your heart stutters, shoulders still tense despite the volume of his voice indicating he’s okay. “W-What? For what?”
“I should’ve noticed,” His voice cracks, quiet and wrecked in a way that makes your chest ache. “I should’ve been paying more attention. I shouldn’t have- oh, honey. I am so sorry.”
You blink down at him, completely lost. “Shouldn’t have-“ you tug his hair gently, willing him wordlessly to look at you.
“Clark, what are you talking about?”
His hands finally settle on you, warm and careful at your waist.
“You didn’t eat today.”
The words hang between you. And you can’t help it, the way your eyes widen and your breath hitches.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“This morning. And I don’t know how many mornings before that,” He swallows hard. “I saw the banana. In the trash.”
Your face heats with a mix of embarrassment and dawning understanding. “You went through the trash?”
“I was throwing something away,” he says quickly, almost defensively, before his expression crumples again. “You only ate two bites.”
And there it is.
The worry. The guilt. The way he’s currently looking at you like you’re something fragile and already cracked in his hands. He’s never wanted to fix something so badly before, and it’s a pain you can see so clearly on his face.
“Clark…” You crouch down in front of him, forcing him to lift his head. His eyes are glassy, painfully earnest. “I wasn’t not eating.”
“You skipped breakfast.”
“I was late,” you admit, wincing. “I grabbed the banana because I thought I could eat it on the way, but my phone rang and then I had to run into the building and-“ You sigh. “I just got distracted.”
He searches your face like he’s looking for a lie.
“You’ve been saying you’re not hungry,” he presses gently.
“Because I’ve been busy,” you insist. “It’s been insane at work. I’ve had meetings during lunch almost every day this week… and I keep thinking I’ll grab something after, but then something else comes up, and then it’s five o’clock and that’s usually when I realise, I forgot.” Your expression softens when you see how tightly his jaw is set. “It’s not… it’s not like before.”
Before.
He exhales slowly at that, the word clearly heavy for him. For you, too. He helped you get out of it once, with soft whispers and small meals and the constant reassurance that you were and always would be enough. The thought of him forgetting all of that is a torment like no other.
“It’s not?” he asks, and the word is small when it comes out of his mouth. So unguarded.
You reach up and cup Clark’s face in both hands. “I promise you. It’s not.”
His eyes flutter closed briefly at your touch. You can feel how tense he is, like a coiled wire.
“I thought I failed you,” he whispers.
The statement hits you harder than anything else he’s said this evening and you pause, initially unsure of what to say.
“Clark Kent,” you murmur, incredulous and aching all at once. “You think you failed me because I forgot to eat a banana?”
“It’s not just the banana.”
“I know.” Your thumbs stroke gently along his cheekbones. “I know you worry.”
He leans into your palms like he needs the contact to breathe.
“I’m supposed to protect you,” he says. “I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay. But I didn’t see this.”
You smile softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Because there wasn’t anything to see.”
He frowns faintly at that.
“I wasn’t trying to skip meals,” you explain patiently. “I wasn’t punishing myself or spiralling or anything like that. I’ve just been bad at prioritising. There’s a difference.”
He studies you for a long moment, weighing your words with the same seriousness he gives to everything.
“You’d tell me,” he says finally. “If it was… if it felt like before.”
Your expression turns tender. “I would. I swear.”
His shoulders sag, just a little, like something inside him finally loosens.
“I just-“ He breaks off, shaking his head. “When I saw it, I thought maybe you were struggling and didn’t want to tell me. And I’ve been home all week. How could I not notice?”
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Because you were busy reorganising the garage and fixing the leaky faucet and alphabetising the pantry.”
“I’m sorr-“
“No, no! That’s not what I meant- don’t apologise,” you stop him once more, your small smile sincere and soft, “It’s your week off, baby. I’d hate for you to spend it on worrying about me. I’d rather you alphabetise the entire bookshelf if that’s what you wanted.”
A faint, sheepish look crosses his face.
“I always worry about you. I wish I could be there for you… always,”
“You are there for me. I just need to call you,” you say gently. “And I know you’ll come running, Clark.”
He huffs out something that might almost be a laugh, but it’s still tangled in leftover guilt.
“Did you eat anything at all?” he asks after a moment, the concern still there but softer now.
You grimace. “I had half a granola bar. And some coffee.”
He pulls back just enough to give you a look.
“Hone-“
“I know,” you say quickly. “I know. Not great.”
His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your spine. “You need more than that.”
“I do,” you agree easily. “And I’ll do better.”
He searches your face again, but this time he seems to find what he’s looking for.
“You’re not mad?” you ask quietly.
“At you?” He looks genuinely startled. “Never.”
“Even though I worried you.”
He gives you a small, fond smile. “That’s part of the job description. Along with fix the faucet and reorganise the pantry.”
You laugh softly. “I don’t remember that being in the vows.”
“It was implied.”
You lean forward and kiss him properly this time- tender and gentle and grounding. He melts into it immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something precious.
When you pull away, you brush your nose against his. “I’m okay,” you whisper.
He nods, but then his stomach lets out a loud, traitorous growl.
You blink. He blinks.
And then, before either of you can stop it, you both burst into quiet laughter.
“I think,” you say, grinning, “that might actually be you.”
He flushes faintly. “I might’ve skipped lunch too.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Clark.”
He shrugs, looking adorably guilty. “I was planning how to alphabetise the shed.”
You shake your head in disbelief. “You can bench-press a car, but you forget to eat because you’re colour-coding tools.” he doesn’t say anything else; just smiles at you sheepishly. “Okay,” you declare, pushing yourself to your feet and tugging him up with you. “That settles it.”
“It does?”
“Yes. We are both terrible at remembering to eat when we’re busy.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again.
“So,” you continue, lacing your fingers with his, “we fix it together.”
His expression softens immediately as he repeats your words, “Together,”
“Mhm,” you confirm. “You make sure I don’t forget. I make sure you don’t get so caught up saving the world- or reorganising it- that you forget, too.”
A slow, tender smile spreads across his face.
“I can do that,” he says, laced fingers squeezing your hand gently. “What do you want to eat?”
You hum thoughtfully. “Anything that isn’t a sad, abandoned banana.”
He huffs a soft laugh, “I could make pasta,” he offers, “Or those from-scratch sandwiches you love. Or-”
“Clark.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to cook a five-course meal.”
He pauses. “…I might already have the dough rising.”
You stare at him, baffled, but the sudden slight smell of yeast and sugar in the air quickly erases any doubt. When you turn your head towards the two neat, upturned bowls on the counter, Clark’s ears turn pink.
“You’re unbelievable,” you say, but you’re still smiling.
He leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth. “I just wanted you to have something warm when you got home.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache in the best way, “Then let’s make it together.” you say.
He nods eagerly, relief and affection shining bright in his eyes now instead of fear.
And as you move around the kitchen side by side, bumping hips and stealing little kisses between stirring pots and chopping vegetables, the earlier heaviness feels distant. He keeps touching you- light, absent brushes of his hand at your back, your waist, your shoulder- like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there. Really okay.
And when you finally sit down at the table with two heaped plates and tangled fingers across the wood between you, Clark looks at you like you’ve just handed him the sun.
“You tell me if work gets like that again,” he says gently. “If you start forgetting. I’ll bring you lunch. I don’t care if I have to show up in the middle of a meeting.”
You laugh. “Please don’t crash one of my meetings.”
“I’ll wear my glasses,” he says solemnly.
“You always wear glasses.”
“Exactly.”
You squeeze his hand. “I’ll tell you.” he nods once, satisfied.
You take a bite, and Clark watches you. Not in a scrutinizing way now, but in a fond, almost reverent one; like the simple act of you eating, of you being here and safe and honest and really, truly, one hundred percent okay- is something worth framing.
“I love you,” Clark says suddenly.
You look up, surprised by the sudden intensity in his voice.
“I love you, too.”
He stands, making his way around the table; and before you can question it, he sinks down again- but this time, it’s not in guilt. It’s to rest his head in your lap, arms wrapping loosely around your waist.
You laugh softly, setting your plate aside to card your fingers through his curls.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, as you brush a gentle thumb along his cheek. An exhale of relief leaves you both.
“You… everything’s okay.” And this time, when Clark closes his eyes and lets his shoulders fall, it isn’t in defeat.
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 !!
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.
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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 !!
