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last updated: 6/29/2026
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disclaimer: please do not repost my work anywhere nor feed it into ai databases/bots. I'm very strictly anti ai when it comes to my writing. hateful comments will be deleted <3 mlist below
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goodnight i just love her so much and i love the movie so much i haven’t felt this much joy in so long
Why would I listen to what boring straight white men have to say about the new supergirl movie when obviously that movie was made for gay lil teenage girls - aka me
supergirl movie came out - time to actually finish my abandoned dc fics
a bridgerton-inspired series — clark kent
a prince who guards his kingdom by moonlight, and a lady who guards her freedom with ink. neither expects the other, and neither intends to yield. yet when one unexpected dance leads to letters, secrets, and a quiet war of pride, the season finds itself watching a courtship that was never meant to begin—and may be impossible to stop.
✦ Meet the Crown…
His Royal Highness, Prince Clark, Duke of Berkshire
Known throughout the ton for his disarming smile and quiet intensity, the prince carries the image of the ideal nobleman with effortless grace. He is polite, thoughtful, and endlessly patient. Yet behind the soft eyes and courteous bow lies a truth the court would never suspect: when night falls, the quiet prince becomes Berkshire’s hidden guardian, a figure of strength and unyielding resolve known only as The Blue Knight. A ruler by day, a savior by night—and entirely unprepared for the one woman immune to both.
✦ Meet the Quill…
Lady Y/N Y/L/N of Brookend Manor
A young woman society has never quite managed to contain—admired for her wit and quietly feared for the candor she cloaks in elegance. She observes too closely, thinks too sharply, and refuses to swoon simply because a room insists she should. Her charm is subtle, her mind anything but, and beneath her composed exterior resides a secret the ton has never even thought to question: she is The Silver Quill, the anonymous voice whose whispered pages keep the entire ton awake at night… including one very conflicted prince.
✦ read the latest scandal:
series warnings: contains mature content (18+), slow-burn romance, danger/peril, mild violence, secret identities, class/power dynamics, eventual smut.
chapter I • chapter II (coming soon!)
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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 !!
how he loves
summary: all the ways clark kent loves you, and all the ways you let him.
themes: head over heels clark, just an excuse to write some fluff! slightly guarded reader, he is so soft and gentle and loving. soft dom clark if you squint. just a drabble! enjoy x
wc: 980
For a long time, you thought love was measured by how much it hurt.
People in your life loved loud. Your parents, howling over Sunday dinner together; big bouquets on the table, long kisses by the window. Your friends, pushing and shoving each other whenever a good joke was told- and your exes, who bought you the world yet could never quite stay long enough to be a part of it.
And with all of that love, came an incredible wave of pain.
Divorce papers in crimson red ink. Blocked numbers and recycled yearbooks donning naïve scriptures of Keep in touch! and BFFLS 4ever. Bruises. Wincing when a man yelled too loud. Bracing your body for impact that it unfortunately became used to.
You had never known what it meant to be loved quietly.
Tenderly. Within the smallest gestures, the softest notions. It wasn’t in your instincts, the belief that love could be so soft, so gentle; that it could be chosen without spectacle, kept without demand.
So when Clark Kent came into your life one day, on an ordinary Thursday morning filled with far too much caffeine and nowhere near enough sleep, you didn’t recognise it at first.
Instead, you mistook it for a silly coincidence. It was just kindness, you told yourself cautiously. A breath of fresh air that would always be temporary.
Because Clark loved you in ways that never announced themselves.
No megaphone, no howling laughter. Just the soft, waiting way he watched you with those beautiful blue eyes of his, how he hovered his broad frame over you in a way to both protect you and take you in.
You were a treasure. A darling. And he was more than determined to make you feel exactly as you should.
He studied you like a difficult article he was tasked to amend; drank your very existence in like it was sunlight after battle. He’d rest his hand on the small of your back in a way that didn’t feel possessive, rather safe; a steady reassurance when rooms felt too loud. He listened with a patience that didn’t rush you toward a point, even when your stories wandered, even when you circled the same fears again and again.
“What if you realise one day that I’m not the one?” you’d asked him once.
You were drunk, insecure, couldn’t think straight. All the awful things that came with an alcohol he knew the flavour of yet physically, could never succumb to.
But in all honesty, you weren’t fully joking.
Yet his eyes darkened as they met yours, the disappointment on his face dawning. “That day won’t come.”
“But what if-“
“I love you,” he’d said gently, hands trailing up your arm, your neck, fingers resting steadily on your jawline, “And that isn’t something I’ve ever needed to figure out.”
You waited a beat. Then two. His smile broke through the furrow of his brows, the sadness melting into sincerity.
“It’s something I am honoured to do.”
And Clark was never the type to believe in words over actions. His Pa told him that every spoken promise was empty by default, holding no power other than the trust instilled in the person being spoken to.
It was what you did after that mattered; because that was ultimately what held any semblance of nobility.
Clark folded himself into your routines without reshaping them. He memorised which light you liked left on at night, which ones felt too harsh in the morning.
On evenings when the world had been heavy, he’d wordlessly turn on something familiar- an old documentary, a black-and-white movie you always half-watched- kneeling over your curled-up body on the sofa so your lips touched, his presence an anchor more than a distraction.
“You’ve been running around all week, sweetheart,” he’d kiss the top of your head gently, ready to give you some peace and quiet by retreating into the other room; only to melt at the sweet sound of your voice, timid, subtly begging him to,
“Stay.”
Clark loved you with his hands.
He knew you cherished the obvious touches, of course, but it was the smallest ones- the absentminded, almost unthinking gestures- where his love lived most.
It was subtle, minor; the way he cleared the counter before your eyes ever caught the mess, tightened the bathroom hinge so it wouldn’t startle you again, checked the weather not to caution you- but to make sure you’d be comfortable.
“Take the umbrella, honey.”
“How do you know I’ll need one?” you’d blinked, before cautiously lowering your voice, “can Superman feel the weather now?”
To which Clark just chuckled, enamoured by your oddity, “Just have a feeling. I’ll put it in your bag, okay?”
“Okay.”
When you slept, he learned the rhythm of you. Learned when you needed space and when you curled closer without realising it. On nights when rest wouldn’t come, he’d trace slow, absent patterns along your arm; never asking you to talk, not even asking you to sleep. Just offering quiet company until your breathing evened out again.
“That feels good,” you’d yawn.
“I know, baby,” he’d whisper gently back, “Now close your eyes for me. I’ve got you.”
At the end of it all, Clark Kent simply loved you without demand or display.
Maybe that was the softest part, you thought; how he never made love feel like a debt you owed. He was nothing like your parents. Your old friends. Your exes who could never hold a candle to the man before you.
He never kept score. Never asked for gratitude. He loved you the way the sun warmed a room; slowly, gradually, without demanding you notice– only hoping you felt safe enough to stay.
And in time, your instincts changed.
Because love, with Clark, stopped demanding you hold your breath. Instead, it became the air you could finally breathe.
marks - knight!clark x princess!reader
He stops. Frozen, thumb running tentatively over your skin. You look down, wondering what’s caught his attention, and then you see it. Right where he had been gripping you, where his ring had dug in, is a mark.
warnings: 18+ mildly explicit content, minors DNI. smut. unprotected pnv (this is cate's psa to use protection). cream pie. marks. slight overstimulation bc come on it's clark. marks. forbidden romance royalty au. shhh its a secret relationship!! i know its short don't hate me!!! based on my text post from last night <33
word count: 1.3k
hiii can we have clark and his shy girlfriend who’s never had a boyfriend before, so she thinks she has to be ‘sexy’ for him and how he reacts? love
cw: mildly suggestive, fem “Can I come in?”
“I’m peeing!”
You’re inspecting a little bump on your leg, actually, that could be a zit but doesn’t really look like one.
“Yeah, honey, I just need to grab my laundry. I won’t look!”
You roll your shoulders. You’ve been getting used to this with Clark very slowly —how easygoing his love actually is. Doesn’t care if you’re peeing, if you’re naked and unready, if you forgot to shave. Doesn’t mind the way your stomach gurgles at night laying under his arm, or the smell of your hair in the mornings; that not-quite-sweat dampness, he loves it, burying his nose in your neck every time without fail.
And now. You could have your panties around your ankles with a soft tummy roll and he doesn’t care. It’s perturbing.
“Can’t wait two seconds?” you ask lightly, unlocking the door.
He’s vaguely apologetic. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to rush you off the pot,” he says, moving you aside with a nice hand to your shoulder.
“Oh, what?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at his weirdest phrase to date.
“If you need to go–”
“Clark, stop. Stop, please.”
“Well, don’t be shy about it!” He pulls your slouchy sweatpants back up your hip and kisses your temple. Quick, chaste, and soft. “Got any laundry for me? I’m doing lights.”
Later that night, after you’ve showered and he’s washed up, his neck still the tiniest bit red from shaving, he sits at the headboard in his boxers with his legs crossed. He’s reading a paperback against his thigh, the pages bent back in one hand.
It makes your stomach warm. Zinging excitement all over your skin at the idea of being where his paperback is, under that same thoughtful stare.
You check your reflection in the full length mirror.
It is terrifying to want him like this, but you won’t be a fool. Clark can hardly be expected to match your mood if you crawl into his lap like a worm begging for a nice touch. No, you have to try to persuade him into amorousness. You check that your shift is falling nicely and move for the bed.
girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'
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chipped ceramic (ii)
summary: after a shocking revelation that the man you've been falling in love with and your best friend are the same person, you attempt to shut the world out. but while clark kent understands, kal-el fixates; and it's not long before you practically have a god on his knees and your heart in his hands, begging for forgiveness.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: part two of chipped ceramic, kinda angsty, very sweet, clark is heartbroken, you're ofc so blunt and bold in the best way, yearning. enjoy! x
one | two
You hate running. And you hate Kal-El-ark Kentman even more for making you run.
Your lungs are burning, legs on fire. There's a thrumming sound in your left temple and your foot is soaked in his stupid large black coffee. You don't really have a destination in mind, but you'd decided as soon as the cup dropped that you just needed to get far away. So, you run.
chipped ceramic
summary: ever the lovergirl, you've never been able to resist clark kent, your sweet & dorky coffee shop regular. everyone tells you to either make a move or let go. but when the world fades away, it’s your best friend kal-el you turn to; your confidant, your rock. your heart’s secret is safe with superman… or so you believe.
clark kent x barista ! reader
themes: fluff, you have no idea that superman is clark, funny, you're bold and dramatic in a very cute way, pining, mutual interest but again you have no idea, clark is a sneaky, lovesick man. enjoy! x
Your coffee is too hot, too bitter. One earphone is lagging very slightly behind the other. There's a pounding in your left temple, Kal-El has yet to let you know if he survived this morning's brutal alien attack at the bridge and of course, your favourite regular failed to make an appearance today.
Today is just the gift that keeps on giving.
chipped ceramic
summary: ever the lovergirl, you've never been able to resist clark kent, your sweet & dorky coffee shop regular. everyone tells you to either make a move or let go. but when the world fades away, it’s your best friend kal-el you turn to; your confidant, your rock. your heart’s secret is safe with superman… or so you believe.
clark kent x barista ! reader
themes: fluff, you have no idea that superman is clark, funny, you're bold and dramatic in a very cute way, pining, mutual interest but again you have no idea, clark is a sneaky, lovesick man. enjoy! x
Your coffee is too hot, too bitter. One earphone is lagging very slightly behind the other. There's a pounding in your left temple, Kal-El has yet to let you know if he survived this morning's brutal alien attack at the bridge and of course, your favourite regular failed to make an appearance today.
Today is just the gift that keeps on giving.
new year's resolution
summary: you promised yourself; new year, new you. no more friends-with-benefits junk, no more splitting pastries and staying the night and pretending it’s nothing. this was the year you’d finally cut clark kent off for good- until you pull away a little too well and clark realises you were never temporary to him, even if he was to you.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: happy new year my darlings!! verrrry slight smut, lots of yearning from you in this one, slight angst, clark being a pining domestic work husband, friends with benefits trope, what better way to kick off 2026 than with clark being super romantic?! enjoy!!
New year, new you.
That's what you kept repeating to yourself, over and over and over again, as Clark pulled you in for a mind-numbing kiss on New Year's Eve; precisely three seconds into the dreaded 2026.
2026 would be the year of change. Of course, you'd also told yourself that last year- only back then, it had been in the form of self-help and wellness (you had yet to step back into that fancy gym you were still paying a hefty membership for). This year, it was a little more personal than that... less vague.
Because this year, you were finally going to end whatever the hell was going on between you and Clark Kent.
they're called happy trail, love handles, beauty marks for a reason. everyone shut the fuck up!!
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shapeshifting on a saturday night // (clark kent)
summary: you think superman is hot, and he saves the day (or night). though, you can't help but notice his resemblance to your favourite office crush.
pairing: clark kent (2025) x velvet!reader
wc: 2.6k
tags/warnings: coworkers, alcohol use (probably a concerning amount), lovesick!clark and (mildly)toxic!reader. other than that, fluff!
requests/inbox
nav / clark kent masterlist
a/n: filling out my masterlists one fic at a time :') happy new year everyone!! (also the charlotte gloss in the header is my fav of all time highly recommend)
"He kinda looks like Clark, doesn't he?"
"Who?" Lois responds to your very silly question, glancing up and around the large open room that made up the headquarters of the Daily Planet.
"Him." You say simply, popping your gum and nodding up to the TV on the wall, playing some reruns from yesterday of a battle that had happened near the harbour. No fatalities, very minor injuries, but probably millions of dollars of damage done to yachts bobbing around the water when the creature crawled out of the sea and when Superman sent him right back.
The sudden distraction from their conversation draws Cat's attention too, and they simultaneously squint and tilt their heads as they look up at the TV.
"Clark Kent?"
born to ride Clark Kent, forced to read and write fanfiction of him 🥀
