coffeewithcal

[coffeewithcal]

Can you PLSSS write protective Clark? Maybe a little supes action? Doesn’t have to be life threatening or anything but maybe reader gets hurt or smth in the fallout of a bigger battle and he doesn’t realize until he sees her at home.

this ended up being not quite protective - more guilt-riddled and soft and caring lmaoooo but i hope you enjoy it anyway!!

megaphone to my chest

pairing: Clark Kent x reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: vague descriptions of minor injuries (skinned knees and scraped palms)

author's note: hurt comfort! hooray! and a friendly reminder to everyone that you can always feel free to jump into my inbox to send in a request or just to chat or share your thoughts!

The second Clark walks through the door, it’s like a weight is lifted from his shoulders, like he can finally breathe. Really, that’s just how he feels whenever he’s with you, but walking into the apartment that you share is like entering another world, where nothing from outside can get in and hurt you, either of you.

Except, right now, it feels different. Sure, it might just be from the flight he’d taken across the city, from the buildings he’d kept from toppling and from the monster he sent back to wherever it came from. But that’s all happened before, and the apartment has never felt like this.

It’s still, like the air is heavy. It’s quiet, without music playing softly or a show running quietly. At first, he thinks you’ve had to stay late at work, but then he sees your shoes by the door, right where they always land after you kick them off. He hears water running in the kitchen sink, and he practically sighs in relief when he sees you washing your hands. You must have just gotten back, must not have had time to go through your regular routines yet. 

He’s relaxed until he sees the water that trickles off your hands, the color of rust. The floorboards creak as he crosses over to you, and you look at him over your shoulder, a smile on your face even as more blood from your palms rinses down the basin of the sink.

“Hey, Clark,” you’re still smiling, looking as if everything is normal, waiting for him to cross the room and kiss you but he stays planted where he is, “how was the rest of your day?”

“You’re bleeding,” he ignores your question, too hyperfocused to really listen.

“Oh,” you sound surprised, as if you’d somehow forgotten or somehow hoped he wouldn’t notice, “yeah. I tripped and fell on my way back from work, skinned my knees a little.”

Your knees. Not your hands, your knees. So there’s more, so you’re hurt worse than he thought.

Always so observant, you see the way his gaze hasn’t moved from your palms, so you turn off the water before shifting around to face him fully. 

“I tried to catch myself, banged up my hands.” Now you’re the one crossing the room, over to his spot by the doorway where he hasn’t moved a muscle since he saw you. “Really, Clark, it was mostly just embarrassing, it didn’t even hurt that bad.”

“You’re okay?” He asks, eyes wide and scanning your body up and down for any more injuries you’re planning on hiding from him. His breath gets caught in his throat when he sees your knees.

“Of course I’m okay, just hurt my pride.”

“And your knees.”

“And my knees,” you laugh, finally planting a kiss on the corner of his downturned mouth, what you’ve wanted to do since he got back.

“Where’d you fall?” Clark asks the question that’s been eating at him since you told him what happened.

It’s routine, at this point, to scan for your face in the crowds that amass around the danger. He always searches for you amid the rubble as he pulls others to their feet. Waiting for ambulances and family members, he makes sure he doesn’t see you, scared or hurt or god knows what else. That’s what he’d done today, and yet here you are, and he’s almost certain his worst fear is about to come true. 

“A few blocks from my office, over by that fountain with the mean ducks,” you try to get him to smile, to come to the defence of the birds the way he always does when you badmouth the waterfowl, but instead he doesn’t say anything. 

“Where that building fell,” his voice is quiet, strained. It breaks your heart.

“The aftershocks, yeah,” you nod, torn between reaching for him and not wanting to stain his crips, white shirt with the residual blood on your palms, “how’d you know about that?”

“It was on the news, right before I left.”

“Seriously, Clark, I’m fine. It just stings a little, that’s all.”

“Sit on the couch, I’ll find the band-aids.”

Knowing you’d have to grab the first-aid kit anyway, you do as he asks, if only for his peace of mind. You hadn’t lied to him, it really did just sting. Sure, it hurt at first, but the pain has subsided by now. It reminds you of every time you’ve ever skinned your knees, falling while chasing your friends around the playground or flying over the handlebars of your bike when you forgot how to brake. 

When he comes back, he’s silent, stormy. There’s something going on in his head, but you can’t quite figure it out. Still, when he reaches for you, he’s gentle, soft, the way he always is. The touch of his fingertips is featherlight as he grasps your ankle, positioning your leg across the coffee table. You hiss as your knee straightens.

“Sorry,” he’s quiet still, voice dripping with sincerity and sorrow.

“It’s fine, just sore still.” You smile at him as he squats down in front of you, the first-aid supplies spread out across the floor. 

“This’ll sting,” he warns you as he soaks a pad of gauze with hydrogen peroxide. You nod, and he pauses, just for a second, looking at the injuries on your knees again. They look bad, all raw and red and angry, and Clark’s afraid to touch you, to make it worse. He has to help, though, has to take care of you.

You inhale sharply when the gauze touches your skin, and your eyes start to water of their own accord. The cleaning hurts worse than the fall, you think to yourself as you close your eyes against the sting.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again when he discards the gauze, hands shaking slightly as he tears open a band-aid. He hopes you don’t notice, and you don’t say anything.

“Not your fault,” you remind him as he gently secures the sticky edges of the bandage to the skin on your knee that’s still intact, smoothing over the fabric lightly before he gives in and places a soft kiss to the skin on the inside of your knee. Switching legs, you manage not to wince as your knees get bent and straightened again, irritating the rawness there.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt like this,” he comes as close to confessing as he can. It’s tearing him up, seeing you like this because of him. He probably could have kept that building upright, if he’d tried hard enough. He could have kept it from falling, could have kept the Earth from shaking, could have kept you from getting hurt.

The same tender routine is followed with your second leg, the cleaning and the bandaging and the kiss, before he moves on to your palms. He secures the edges of the band-aids there with medical tape, to keep them from falling off too easily, even though he’d do this all again for you in a heartbeat.

“Come here,” you ask once he’s finished, although it’s not really a question.

“I’ve gotta clean all this up,” he motions vaguely at the mess strewn across the floor, gauze pads and bandage wrappers littered around his feet.

“Clark, c’mon, come here,” you hold your arms out for him this time, and he finally gives in, settling in next to you on the couch. You cross the inches between you instantly, wrapping him in your arms the way you’ve wanted to since the second he walked through the door. The two of you stay like that, for a while, just holding each other.

“Thanks for taking such good care of me,” you mumble against the fabric of his shirt, far too content to create any space between the two of you.

“Sorry you got hurt,” he kisses the top of your head, once, twice, three times in quick succession. It feels good just to hold you, to feel you breathing in his arms, to hear your exhales as you press closer to him.

“Wasn’t your fault,” you remind him again, “probably those evil ducks, though.” Finally, he laughs, the sound rich and deep as it vibrates against your ear. You laugh too, tilting your head up to kiss the underside of his jaw. “I told you they’ve got it out for me.”

Eventually, your laughter dies down, but neither of you make any move to get up. The sky starts to darken, and your feet fall asleep from their awkward position, and you know you’ll have a crick in your neck if you don’t move soon. You just move in closer, even though you’re sure that’s impossible, and Clark holds you tighter, never planning on letting you go.

[coffeewithcal]

David Corenswet Superman audition tape

[coffeewithcal]

Hi! Loveeee your work!! I was reading another story and thought about. Idk if I have made this up or read it before lol

Single mom X Clark Kent

Like she comes into work with her 6 month active baby cause she couldn’t find a sitter. And of course Clark being the gentleman cinnamon roll he is watches the baby for her even though he definitely has a draft due

Clark insists that she she just keep bringing the baby to work to save money on a sitter. And like walks them home everyday buys formula for them and groceries basically becoming the dad that steps up

Bonus points If baby calls him daddy one day!

hey there!!! i've actually been floating a clark x single mom fic around in my head for quite a while so if you like this id be happy to add some more!! i went with more of the first part for this fic <3

it's golden like daylight

pairing: Clark Kent x single mom!reader

word count: 1.6k

author's note: goddddddd i love him. and the baby fever has been hitting hard lately ngl. as always my askbox is always open for whatever <3

There aren’t many people who are as lucky as you. Sure, if you’d said that to someone like Lois, she’d give you a look as though you’ve grown a second head, but you really do mean it. Your darling daughter, Piper, is the most content baby you’ve ever met, your neighbor is nice enough to nanny for her, and your boss is completely understanding of your situation. Perry may have a soft spot for all of his reporters, but the biggest one is reserved for your daughter - the man practically melts every time he sees her.

All that to say, you feel like shit right now. 

Your neighbor has come down with some sort of illness, meaning that not only can she not watch Piper for the day, but she’ll be out of commission for the foreseeable future. Normally if something like this happened, you’d plead your case to Perry and do your work from your kitchen table, Piper in her high chair or play pen beside you. Today, though, you didn’t find out about the incapacitated babysitter until much too late, and you already agreed to collaborate with Lois on her upcoming article, so you really did have to be in person at the Daily Planet. 

So here you are, struggling your way into the elevator with your stroller and more bags than any sane person would need for a single workday. Your heart is a riot in your chest, terrified of getting chewed out for bringing your daughter into the office without asking permission or giving any sort of heads up. Worst comes to worst, you’ll make the agonizing trek back to your apartment as soon as you get yelled at. 

As always, though, your nerves are for nothing, because Perry’s face splits into a grin the second he catches sight of the stroller. 

“Got our star reporter for the day?” He asks, peering over to smile down at Piper, who’s currently working on trying to figure out if her fist is truly edible or not. 

“Thought I’d bring out the big guns,” you quip back, your heartrate finally slowing down into normal territory. It’s a tight squeeze to get to your desk, weaving the stroller through the narrow walkways, but you manage to do so without bumping anyone’s desk or spilling anyone’s coffee, which should be considered a downright miracle. 

It’s only a matter of seconds before your coworkers descend upon Piper with smiles and cooing, which you don’t mind in the slightest if it keeps her occupied while you boot up your computer. For the first time all morning, you allow yourself to close your eyes, breathing deeply as your computer screen flashes to life and Piper giggles beside you, downright delighted with all the attention she’s receiving. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure of her presence?” Jimmy asks once the crowd of coworkers dissipates, leaving just you and your little island of desk buddies to swoon over your daughter. 

“Sick babysitter,” you reply, not bothering to look up from the email you’re drafting, certain there’s a grimace on Jimmy’s face anyway. 

“Well, at least she’s here, I can finally take her staff photo,” he teases, and you just roll your eyes with a fond smile. One of these days, all his asking will wear you down and Piper will end up with her own profile on the Daily Planet’s webpage. She’ll be a copy editor before she can even walk. 

There’s a mug of coffee and a muffin that appears on the corner of your desk, and you glance up to see Lois retreating to her own chair, a matching cup of coffee in hand. You don’t bother with any sort of sentimental thank you, you’ll just buy her takeout the next time the two of you are stuck in the office late. 

The three of you settle into your work, the monotonous typing broken up by Piper’s shaking of toys and wordless babbling. Clark Kent, the fourth and final member of your little crew, is nowhere to be seen. Which is a shame for many reasons, but mostly because Piper absolutely adores him. For someone who claims to have no experience with babies, he’s a natural with everything Piper-related, from settling her cries to making sure her bottle is the right temperature. 

It’s almost as if you’ve summoned him with your thoughts, as with the next elevator ding, he’s trailing to his desk looking like he’s survived a tornado, hair mussed and tie askew. For a split second, you’re worried he’s going to run right into the stroller, but he slides past it as if he’s not the clumsiest, bulkiest man you’ve ever met. 

“Oh, hey Piper,” he says as he sets his bag rather precariously on the edge of his desk, greeting the baby before anyone else, as if she’d be able to respond. She must understand, at least you think to some degree, because her quietness is immediately replaced by a long string of happy babbling. 

“That’s baby for hello and good to see you,” you translate, spinning in your chair to be able to reach into the stroller. Sometimes you just can’t help yourself, it’s like you’ll die if you can’t touch her, so you lean in just enough to softly squeeze one of her socked feet. Clark laughs from somewhere behind you, a sound you wish you could bottle up, as Lois and Jimmy exchange a look. 

The rest of the morning goes smoothly, with Piper content to entertain herself with toys and rattles and the plush starfish you’d gotten for her when she was born. Your work, today at least, is straightforward, and you manage to help Lois and get halfway through a draft of your own all before lunch.

And then, Piper gets fussy. You’re used to it, used to the whines and the cries and the unending screams when she gets in an especially sour mood, but that doesn’t mean the rest of your coworkers need to be subjected to a crying baby. Luckily, you’re also used to transforming into a pseudo-octopus, so you hold Piper tightly to your chest with one hand and eat with the other, all while proof-reading your work. 

“Can I help?” Clark asks as he makes his way towards your desk, leaving his own chair spinning wildly as if he’d launched himself from it. 

“Oh, no, she’s alright,” you’re quick to reassure him, turning away from your screen to look up towards him. The fact that you’re sitting makes his height even more pronounced than usual, and it makes your stomach drop, just a bit. 

“Alright, but do you need help?” He reframes the question, and the fact that he wasn’t asking after Piper makes your heart do this frightening twisty thing, like it’s beating too fast or too slow or out of sync. Maybe it’s just a heart attack.

“I can manage,” your voice is less certain, though, and you know Clark’s picked up on it. He’s just observant like that, especially when it comes to you. It must just be a side effect of spending so long with each other.

“I can hold her, just while you finish eating,” he looks so incredibly sincere, as if you’d be the one doing him a favor, that you agree without much of a second thought. You pass Piper into his waiting arms, and you’re immediately struck by how tiny she looks in his hold. You wonder if that’s because of her size or his.

Clark cradles her, making sure her head is supported as he makes his way over to his own desk, certain that he’s supposed to sit while holding a baby. Her little body is warm, and he can’t help but trail the edge of his pinky along her cheek, reveling in the softness. Piper curls into him almost immediately, and the sight of her big, round, trusting eyes looking up at him makes him feel like the floor has given way. 

Lucky for you, Clark’s focus remains fully on Piper, giving you ample opportunity to stare longingly. The sight of him holding your daughter does funny things to your body, makes your head spin and your heart work a mile a minute. There’s a feeling, deep in your chest, that you can’t quite place, it’s so unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. You find that you like the feeling, though, and you don’t want it to go away. 

Even after you finish with your own food, Piper stays safely in Clark’s arms. The two of them seem more than content with each other, so you turn back to your work, just to make a few quick grammatical edits. 

“I’ll put her back in the stroller, she should be feeling more settled now,” you spin your chair, a smile growing on your face when you see Clark’s pinky finger held in Piper’s own tiny fist and her eyes shut.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to move a sleeping baby,” he says, voice low and quiet as if the din of the Daily Planet would increase at all if he spoke normally.

“What about your work?”

“There’s nothing I have to get done today,” he finds the lie comes easily, although it’s more so a stretching of the truth. Technically, his latest draft doesn’t have to be finished until tomorrow, but it's definitely unpolished in its current state. But that’s all right, he can finish it later. Really, he can’t seem to think of anything beyond Piper, and the way it feels to have her breath against his chest, her little chest inflating and deflating in his arms. 

You don’t bother to argue, letting your daughter sleep and letting Clark watch over her, and you turn back to your work. The sight of the two of them plays over and over in your mind, though, and you’re certain that’ll be the case for weeks to come.

[coffeewithcal]

─ MEET THE PARENTS ♡

♡ pairing: partner!clark x single mom!reader

♡ summary: after months of worrying, you finally agree to meet clark's parents.

♡ warnings / tags: domestic fluff! wc: 1.2k

♡ author's note: this is the same couple as in a little family!

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST ♡

"dada." rosie held up a mushy piece of banana to clark, offering it to him, "thank you, honey, but dada's full." the toddler dropped the piece of banana into her bowl, continuing to play with her food while her dad sat next to her at the dining table. clark cleared his throat, sitting back and turning in the chair to look at you as you were doing dishes. "so, ma called again."

"oh? you turned to him, playing dumb, "what'd she say?" your partner raised his brows in a way that screamed 'really?' "you know very well what she said."

clark stood up and pressed a kiss on top of rosie's head, ruffling her tiny head before making his way to the kitchen. his arms wrapped around your middle, the man nuzzling his head in the crook of your head, "we've been together for over a year already but you keep dodging meeting them." "well, if i meet them, then they're gonna keep pestering about going to see them again, like my parents do with us." clark snorted, "i met your parents the day i met you." "exactly. so that was unavoidable."

your partner pulled his face away from your neck, looking down at you, his hands still staying around you, "they're going to love you. you and rosie both." "but what if they don't?" you turned your head so you were facing him, a small frown on your lips, "what if they think i'm not good enough for you, or that you should be with someone better?"

"they're not going to. they're not like that. every time i send them a picture of me and rosie, they're always cooing over how adorable their grandbaby is." clark squeezed your middle, "and don't think i haven't noticed how you always refuse to be in the pictures when i say i'm sending them to ma and pa."

"i'm just nervous... most parents don't want their only son to date a single mom." "that's a good point... counter point, most parents also don't adopt an alien baby." that made you snort, "and we're not dating. we're a family."

you smiled up at him and pursed your lips, taking a deep breath, "alright. let's go visit them."

"that's my girl." clark smiled, pressing a kiss on the side of your mouth, before pulling his arms away, starting to make his way out of the kitchen, "i swear, clark, you have some kind of kryptonian convincing powers."

"it's just my charming good looks!" clark called out from the dining room, making you chuckle, "bath time, roro." "yaaaaaa!"

a week later, you were on your way to smallville; you were clutching a tupperware with your famous chocolate chip cookies inside, rosie knocked out in the backseat in her baby seat. you kept tapping your foot on the floor, clark glancing from the road to you.

without a word, he grabbed one of the hands that was gripping the tupperware, intertwining your fingers, "i'm not nervous." you mumbled, "i didn't ask you if you were."

but he noticed that your foot stopped tapping.

it wasn't long until the car pulled up in front of the famous kent farmhouse clark had told you all about, and almost like they had been looking out of the windows (like clark told you they might), what you assumed were clark's parents walked out of the front door to stand at the stone steps in front of the house.

as clark went to hug and greet his parents, you instead focused on waking up rosie. "come on, rollie-pollie." you spoke softly, the toddler letting out a sleepy grunt of reluctance. you tickled her cheek, making her scrunch up her nose. "come on, up and at 'em."

after a little more grumbling, rosie finally opened her eyes, rubbing them with her small fists as you unbuckled her from her car seat. you could hear footsteps from behind you, clark appearing at the car door, "is she back in the land of the living?" "just barely." i chuckle softly as i lift her out of her car seat, rosie's little foot now on the ground.

"let's go inside, roro." clark held out his hand, the toddler grabbing onto it. you closed the car door and clark held his other hand out to you, and with your hand on his, the three of you made your way to the two people waiting for you at the front door.

once you were in front of the house, you let go of your hand and held it out to his mother, "hi, mrs. kent, it's nice to meet you. i'm-"

but before you could get your sentence out, clark's mother had pulled you into a tight hug, "oh, it's so nice to finally meet you, sweetheart." she said, making you chuckle softly as you patted her back. when she finally pulled back, she looked at you, "you're even prettier than clark said."

"oh, thank you, mrs. ke-" "none of that. just call me ma, or martha." you simply nodded, and then she bent down to rosie, "oh, and this must be rosie." she cooed at little rosie who clung to clark's leg. "she's a little shy." clark chuckled, "it's okay, rosie. say hi."

the toddler's lips pursed, before the meekest "hi." left her lips, but the older woman still found it adorable. after you'd shook hands with clark's father, the five of you made your way inside.

after a while, you and clark were sitting down with his parents at the dining table, drinking coffee and eating the chocolate chip cookies you'd made along with an apple pie martha had made while rosie was sitting on clark's old high chair, eating playing with a cookie, your hand in clark's under the table.

"it's so great to finally get to meet you two! clark talks about you constantly." martha smiles widely, you turned your head to clark, and chuckled, "do you?" "he really does! i remember, he called me when you first moved next door." "and you asked him if she was pretty." jonathan laughed, "well, what'd he say?" i smile as i look from clark to his mother, "he just said 'maaaa!' all embarrased." "alright, ma, you don't gotta-" "after that, it was like there wasn't a single call without you bein' mentioned!"

"is that right?" you looked to clark with an amused smile, his cheeks turning red, "i turned to jonathan and said, 'oh, she must be real pretty'." martha laughed, "when clark told us you two were together, i said 'about time'.

"clark's a great guy. you raised a great man." you turned to clark with a smile and squeezed his hand. "dada." rosie suddenly piped up, holding up a piece of cookie and offering it to clark, who let out a soft snort, the little toddler making martha let out an 'aww'.

BONUS:

you looked around clark's childhood bedroom, letting out a soft hum as you looked it over, "what is it?" clark asked, his head tilted to the side. you smiled softly as you turned to him, "you really were a nerd."

"hey!" clark exclaimed in mock offence, "i might be a nerd but at least i had the last laugh, though."

you turned to him with narrowed eyes, "how come?"

clark wrapped his arms around you, looking at you with a slightly smug smile, "'cause i get to have a little family with you."

taglist: @angel06babysworld @raahosh @biancasisstuff @iamarealmicrowave @angelicp0etry @howlettsangel @liloolsi @kissmxcheek @maryjaneeeee @animegamerfox @thereallifebambi

join the taglist! ♡

[coffeewithcal]

Happiest Girl in the World

david!clark kent x bookshop!reader (plus size)

Warning(s): female (able-bodied) reader, angst (miscommunication, bad thoughts about self/body) fluff, soft, clark is a yearning man and so obsessed with you, oblivious reader, mutual pining, smut (dry humping, fingering, cumming untouched/in pants [clark's a giver, bby]), not the greatest writing bc I just kinda let myself be possessed and not think or beta (i'm sorry)

let me know if i missed any tags!

word count: 5.1k

The first time you met Clark Kent, you had just taken over your grandma’s used bookstore. The bright yellow sun licked at your uncovered limbs, sweat-covered body aching with the strain of moving what felt like 1,000-pound boxes of books and other necessities. You were on your last trip from the moving truck, following the same path you’ve taken since you started early this morning, when a big white blur comes rushing toward you. 

Then suddenly, you’re on your butt, box ripped open and books scattered on the scorching pavement. Your hands sting as you try to right yourself, muttering a quiet, “Fuck,” under your breath. Red pinpricks surface on your now roughened hands, oozing slowly. Before you can get very far, though, the ball of energy that knocked you down was on top of you, wet yet gritty tongue lapping at your face. 

“Krypto!” a deep voice yells from down the sidewalk, sounding exasperated. 

Trying—and failing—to push the wiry-haired dog away from you, you squint up through the sunlight. The pounding footsteps stop just short of your mess of spilled books, and the dog is hauled off with an easy strength that nearly takes your breath away.

        “Gosh, I’m so sorry,” the man says, voice soft but hurried, as he tugs on the leash. “Krypto doesn’t know his own strength.”

You finally manage to look at him properly. The first thing you notice is the sheer size of him—broad-shouldered, tall, with his tie already loosened like he’d come from somewhere important. The second thing you notice is the glasses, sliding down his nose, catching the sunlight in a way that makes it hard to see his eyes—though you get a glimpse of the beautiful aquamarine shade.

“It’s fine,” you say, brushing dirt off your arms with your palms, though they’re still faintly burning and bloodied from the scrape. “Really. Just…” you gesture helplessly at the pile of books splayed across the sidewalk. “Not ideal.”

He drops to a crouch immediately, the white dog you now know to be Krypto settling obediently at his side now, tongue lolling as if he hadn’t just run full-speed into your legs. “Here, let me help.”

You almost tell him not to bother, but then he carefully picks up a worn copy of Wuthering Heights—one of your favorites—with both hands, like it’s delicate. Like it matters. Something twists in your chest.

By the time everything is stacked back into the box, sweat clinging to your hairline and threatening to spill over, he straightens with an easy grace and offers his hand, his other cupping the back of his flushed neck. “Clark Kent. And, uh—sorry again.”

You take his hand, grip warm and sure as you tell him your name. “I run the bookstore,” you say, a little too fast. “Well. Just took it over. That’s why…” You trail off, gesturing to the mess again.

He smiles, boyish and a little nervous. “Then I guess I know where I’ll be shopping.”

Krypto barks from his spot on the pavement, tail wagging impatiently. 

“Well, uh, I think I’d better get going,” Clark says, face getting a little pink, “This rascal’s got some energy to work off, clearly.”

You giggle at his stern look at the clearly unbothered dog before waving them away, listening as the blue-eyed man scolds the white dog for “Being a menace” and “Causing potential harm to someone.” 

Turning to pick up the now-intact box, you realize that you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. 

You really hope Clark keeps his word and comes back.  

Days pass, and Clark does stop by—first to apologize again, then to browse, then to linger. He asks about books you’d thought no one your age read anymore. His tie is always loose, like he ran there instead of walked, and his glasses are always slightly crooked. 

One day—maybe the third or fourth time he comes in—you invite him to the book club you ran with your grandmother’s friends. 

“You don’t have to,” you say, maybe too quickly, as you slip a receipt into his new purchase, “but we meet every Thursday night. It’s mostly me and a group of retired ladies who’ve been at it longer than I’ve been alive. We’re doing Little Women right now.”

His smile spreads slow and a little shy, dimples deepening, and a pleasant flush tinging his cheeks. “Little Women, huh? I’ve read it.”

That makes you pause. “You’ve read it?”

“Cover to cover,” he says, pushing his glasses up where they’ve slid down his nose. “Twice, actually.” He shakes his head, suddenly embarrassed, like he’s revealed too much. 

You stare at him, warmth buzzing in your chest. “You’re officially more qualified than anyone else in the group. You have to come now.”

So he does. That Thursday, Clark walks into the cramped back room with his tie crooked and a plate of cookies so oversized you wonder if he’s trying to bribe his way into the circle. Your grandmother’s friends—who usually side-eye any newcomer—fall for him instantly (much like you). They tease him, fuss over him, and by the time the discussion turns to Jo and Laurie, Clark is laughing, animated, and entirely at ease, no edge to his jaw or tightness in his shoulders.

You sit across from him, your heart doing inconvenient cartwheels the entire evening.

And, at the end, as you’re stacking chairs, he lingers. “Thanks for inviting me,” he says in a voice as soft as velvet. 

You pause your work, turning to the bespectacled man. “Of course, Clark,” you say back just as quietly, “Thank you for coming. The others loved having you here.”

His face reddens at your words, blush creeping from his sharp cheekbones to the tips of his ears, something soft and lovely flickering in his eyes as he gazes at you. You watch as his blue eyes flash to your mouth for just a second before looking away from your watchful gaze. 

God, you want him to kiss you right now; it seems like he just might. Until he backs away with a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and a hand rubbing the back of his neck. With his other—very large, you can’t help but notice—hand, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he murmurs a “Goodnight” to you.

He’s out the door before you can say anything back. 

By the fifth week, you’ve grown used to seeing Clark in the mismatched foldout chair circle of your book club. Used to the way he pushes his glasses up whenever one of the ladies challenges him, used to the low rumble of his laugh when one of the ladies tries to set him up with a granddaughter (and son).

You shouldn’t be used to him—it’s dangerous, how natural it feels.

So when he walks in one Thursday evening with a woman at his side, you nearly drop the stack of folding chairs you’re carrying from downstairs.

She’s… strikingly beautiful. Her dark hair’s pulled back neatly, eyes sharp and curious as they sweep the little back room. She has the kind of presence that doesn’t need announcing—loud and in charge from the moment she walks into the room. 

She’s standing close enough to Clark that your chest twists before you can stop it.

As you’re watching the woman, Clark’s searching for you, finally finding you as you turn to go back down the stairs to the basement where you got the chairs. Your shoulders draw up toward your ears as he calls out to you before you can even take a step down. 

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Oh, uh… I’m just—the chairs I grabbed were the wrong ones!” you stutter out, warmth creeping up your neck and towards the tips of your ears. 

His dark eyebrows furrow and an unruly curl slips into his eyes as he looks at your full hands. “But those look like the normal ones?”

“No, yeah, totally!” you exclaim awkwardly, turning towards him and awkwardly pulling the basement door closed behind you, “I must have just thought these were the wrong ones.”

His head tilts in confusion—which is totally not the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. “Well, okay…” he trails off before seemingly remembering something, straightening out and lighting up like a lightning bug. “I brought my friend, Lois. I uh, hope that’s okay—she read this month’s book?” His words pitch up at the end like he’s asking a question. 

Your eyes dart toward the dark-haired woman who is now staring at you. 

She takes a few steps toward you and Clark, extending a lithe hand with a quick, practiced grin. “Clark’s been talking about this book club for weeks. I had to see what all the fuss was about.”

You shake her hand automatically, giving her the best smile you can muster in return. But you can feel how flat it really is, edges just barely moving, and your stomach feels like it’s sinking. Friend. Sure. The way she leans into his muscular frame, the way he looks at her with big eyes and a small smile when he thinks no one’s paying attention—it all feels like confirmation of what they really are.

You shake off the ache in your heart, asking Clark to take the chairs you have now—which he does with ease—so you can go back and get an extra one. Before you turn, you face Lois and tell her to, “Enjoy the coffee and snacks while you can, the girls will be here soon; they’re beasts.” 

Her face lights up as she laughs, grabbing Clark’s elbow and throwing her head back. Your stomach twists again as you look at the devastating display; she’s more beautiful than you could ever be. 

No wonder she and Clark were together. 

They were both lovely and sharp and kind. 

And you were just… you. Round in all the worst places and barely there—a shy thing with no friends beside women in their 70s. 

Shaking your head of those thoughts, you turn heel and grab another folding chair from the basement. You take a minute to breathe, schooling your frown into a polite smile by the time you get back to the main area.

The others must have arrived in the brief—okay, maybe 7 minutes—time you were gone, as you hear chattering from more than just Clark and Lois as you ascend the stairs. 

By the time you step back into the room, the circle is already forming. Mrs. Hart is fussing over Lois’s earrings, marveling at how “young people still know how to dress nicely,” while Clark is bent half over trying to balance a plate of lemon bars and napkins.

“Ah, there she is!” Mrs. Singh calls, waving you over. “We were just saying how your young man here brought us the most delightful guest.”

You nearly trip over the folding chair you were trying to set up. “He’s not—” The words jam in your throat. “I mean, Clark isn’t—he’s just…”

Clark looks up at you then, startled, glasses slipping a little down his nose as his eyebrows furrow. There’s a flicker of something on his face—Hurt? Embarrassment?—but you can’t read it fast enough before Lois smoothly laughs and says, “Don’t worry, I’m here because he won’t shut up about it.”

Everyone chuckles, moving on easily, but the heat crawling up your neck doesn’t fade. You unfold the chair, slotting it into the circle, and sit with the kind of posture that aches after thirty seconds—spine so rigid you could be a statue.

Discussion begins. Lois is clever and sharp, the kind of reader who makes connections that even you—who’s practically lived inside these books since childhood—haven’t noticed. Clark listens to her with open admiration, his laugh rumbling low when she teases him about skipping over chapters.

You try to participate, but every time you open your mouth, your words feel thin, unimportant. By the time the group dissolves for the night, you’re drained.

As you stack chairs in the silence afterward, you hear Clark clear his throat softly from by the snack table. “I hope Lois coming tonight didn’t… throw you off,” he says, tentative.

You take a second to really look at him: shoulders curved in and spine slouched, hair tousled from his fingers running through it, and dark circles under his eyes; he seems… almost defeated. 

Looking away from the pitiful image—he looks so much like a sad puppy in one of those Sarah McLachlan ASPCA animal cruelty PSA commercials, it could make you cry—you instead focus on the chair in your hands. “She’s amazing, Clark. Smart, Beautiful.” He opens his mouth to say something, but you continue before he can get a word out, “Honestly. You guys make a great pair.” 

There’s a beat of quiet. You force yourself not to look up, because if you do, you might see him confirming your worst suspicion.

“Right,” he says finally. His voice is soft, unreadable. Then the shuffle of his steps as he walks toward the door fills the otherwise silent room.

The bell on the door jingles as it shuts, leaving you alone with the faint scent of lemon bars and a weight in your chest.

It’s been days since you’ve seen Clark. 

Normally, he would text or call or even stop by with a drink or lunch. But he hasn’t said a word to you in what seems like forever—but is actually just four days. Four long days of silence and torture. ‘

You feel miserable. Lonely. 

You closed the shop early on Friday to give yourself some time alone, but you ended up not leaving your bed until this Monday morning. Despite your body aching from disuse, you go through the motions, brushing your teeth, getting a quick shower, and trying to eat breakfast. Your body’s on autopilot as your mind races and slows methodically with thoughts of Clark and Lois and your feelings. 

Had you imagined it all? The warmth in his voice when he lingered after book club. The way his eyes crinkled when you said something that made him laugh. The look in his eyes as he gazed at you. Surely those things meant something.

But then Lois—an amazing woman with spunk and beauty—had appeared, so comfortable at his side, and everything tilted sideways. Maybe you’d been foolish to think a man like him—practically a god—would want a woman like you: quiet, shy, bookish, bigger than you should be.

Your toast goes cold in your hands, uneaten.

By the time you push open the shop door, flipping the sign to open, the bell’s cheerful chime feels like a mockery. The shelves loom too quiet, the air heavy with dust and disuse. You sink into the stool behind the counter, chin propped on your hand, staring at the door like it might conjure him if you wish hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Instead, the morning drags. A couple of regulars drift in, a student asks about course books, Mrs. Singh drops off a bag of homemade bread on her way to yoga. You smile, you nod, you make conversation, but your chest feels hollow. The grey-haired lady gives you a knowing look before she leaves. 

It isn’t until nearly closing, when you’re half convinced he’s disappeared from your life entirely, that the bell finally rings, and Clark walks in.

Tie askew. Hair mussed. Glasses sliding down his nose like always. Flushed from the neck up.

Your heart kicks painfully, but you force your voice to stay level. “Clark.”

He swallows, gaze flicking around the shop before settling on you. “Hey. I… uh, I think we need to talk.”

You fold your arms tightly over your chest like armor, trying to look steadier than you feel. “About what? About how you disappeared? Or about Lois?”

His brows draw together and his mouth parts, surprise flashing across his face. “Lois?”

You laugh, sharp and tired. “Come on, Clark. She shows up at book club, sits next to you, everyone assumes you’re together, and then you stop talking to me for four days. What am I supposed to think?”

He shakes his head, curls jostling, stepping closer. “Gosh. No. No, you’ve got it wrong.”

Your throat tightens. “Do I?”

“Yes,” he says, firm this time, like he needs you to believe him. “Lois is my friend. My partner at work. That’s all. She came because she was curious—and because she doesn’t believe me when I say I’ve been spending Thursday nights at a book club with one of the most beautiful women.”

Heat floods your face. “Clark…”

“I stayed away,” he says, running a hand over the back of his neck, “because I thought I messed everything up. That maybe you didn’t… feel the same way I do.”

Your breath catches, sharp. “The same way you—?”

He cuts you off, walking a little closer to you and murmuring, “I really like you.”

Something snaps in you at his confession. 

Closing the gap with a few quick strides, your fingers curl around his patterned tie and use it to drag his mouth down to yours. 

His mouth is on yours—warm, certain, desperate. His eyelashes tickle your cheeks. How you’ve dreamed about for weeks and more.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, “I thought you didn’t want me.”

You shake your head, tugging him in again by the tie. “Idiot,” you murmur into his mouth, a smile curling at the edges of your lips.

This time, his laugh rumbles into the kiss, low and relieved, as his hands find your waist.

You both smile into the kiss, giggling with relief and glee. And for the first time in days, the hollow ache in your chest is gone.

You’re kissing the man of your dreams. He wants you—all of you.

And he shows it with surprising strength as he lifts you into his arms and onto the checkout counter, never breaking your connection. You squeak in surprise at his show of power, allowing him to slip his tongue in to taste you, groaning at the first touch of your taste on his tongue. 

You have to grab at the short curls at the back of his head to get him to stop for breath; he nearly whined at the loss.

“Clark,” you breath out, chest heaving as your lungs fight to get oxygen back, “Baby, we need to breathe.” 

The blue-eyed man just hums in reply, pecking your lips and cheeks. 

His lack of response makes you laugh, body warming as his hands travel up and down your sides contentedly. Soon, though, he settles his broad palms on your waist and pulls away, opening his eyes to take in the sight of you: mouth kiss-swollen and glossy with spit, cheeks pushing up into your eyes with a smile, and eyes a little dazed but full of care and need. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs with a dimpled smile.

“Stooop,” you say with a mumbled voice, your warm face hidden in the crook of his neck, inhaling his manly oak barrel and burgundy smell. He smells like safety and warmth. 

Clark’s hand comes up to the back of your head, fingers carding through the hair there. You feel his chuckle reverberates against you, shaking you to your very core.

He tucks his face in towards yours, kissing the side of your head before he continues to compliment you, “You are so smart. And kind. Your laugh makes my heart race. You—”

Before he can get anything more out, you whine into his neck, basically plastering your body into his—you look as though you’re trying to meld into him. 

“Clark!”

The hand not on the back of your head comes from your waist to help coax you from the depths of his neck, thumb and pointer fingers grabbing at your chin when you finally—very reluctantly—pull away from the safe place. 

“Why’re you hiding from me, hmmm, honey?” he asks, blue eyes bearing into yours. The hand holding your chin slides against your jaw as he cups your face.

“Just don’t like being complimented…” You mumble, eyes looking anywhere but him.

“But you’re too pretty not to, sweetheart.”

The only response you give him is a sheepish smile while trying to burrow your face into his hand to hide.

Clark allows it this time, just smiling softly down at you, large palm at the back of your neck pushing you up into him so he can kiss you just in the divit of your smile with ease.

His black-framed glasses poke at your cheek as he tries to nuzzle into your face. You bring a hand from where it was resting on his chest to his face, ready to swipe them off of him, before he stills you with a grip on your wrist. 

“I want to be able to see you.”

Your chest stills for a second as a breath gets caught in your throat. But soon, your heart is thundering against your ribcage in a valiant attempt to beat itself out of your body and into this perfect man’s hands. 

He owns your heart already, and he doesn’t even know it.

You pull him in for another—more sloppy—kiss when you can’t think of anything to say back, mind blank other than the thought of the imposing man in front of you. 

Clark’s hands find your hips again mid-kiss, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter and into his toned body. The pressure on your center makes your mind spin, a breathy noise leaving your throat involuntarily. 

The curly-haired man moans in response, hands gripping you tighter, pulling you against him and rutting his hips into yours.

The added force has you mewling embarrassingly loud, your hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulder and in the small black curls at the back of his neck. You hide your face, your nose back into the hollow of his throat again as your whole body heats. Despite your embarrassment, your body follows his movements, grinding onto him and chasing your pleasure. 

Clark makes a low, encouraging noise—sourced somewhere in the back of his throat—at your movement, one hand moving to press on the small of your back. You let out a pant as your skin tingles and heats, a fine sheen of sweat already building on you. You’re all worked up, swollen clit dragging deliciously against his hard-on through both layers of clothes. Your cunt is achey and wet, soft underwear slick with your essence and sticking to you as it drags with your movement.

Another roll of her hips brings another noise, muffled into Clark’s throat.

“That's it,” Clark’s murmur is low and rough, rumbling against you, and his grip on the back of your shirt tightens with hesitation before his fingers slide below the hem, touching your bare skin. His voice shudders as you sink your teeth into his collarbone, feeling the heat of his broad hand, as he says, “Take what you need, honey.” 

You let out a whimper at his words, taking a second to find your voice before you say, “Need you, Clark.”

“You have me, baby.”

“No!” you practically whimper out, “Need to feel you. Your fingers.” 

His body trembles against you, fighting to control himself against the pleading tone of your voice.

Clark peels himself away from you, grabbing your face in two big hands and making you look at him, asking, “Are you sure?”

Your breathy, “Yes,” with a nod against his hands is all it takes for him to let out a guttural groan.

His forehead comes down to rest against yours, his curls sticking to the sweat accumulated there. A large hand smooths down the side of your face, over your neck, then collarbone, then your breast—which he lingers at, making your breath hitch—down your side, all the way to the hem of your shorts, which he fiddles with before moving down and popping the button open and pulling down the zipper. 

Clark’s broad chest stutters as his fingertips make contact with your wet heat. His head falls from your forehead to your shoulder, hot breaths hitting your skin and fogging his glasses as he stumbles out, “Gosh,” at the feeling of you. 

“You’re so wet,” he mutters, almost as if he were talking to himself.

Your breath hitches as he swipes from your entrance to your clit, wetting his fingers with your before he focuses on rubbing tight circles around your engorged bud. Finding your breath, you reply, “All for you.”

That response has him basically whining into your neck, his hips jerking into where his hand sits stuffed in your pants. 

“You can’t say stuff like that, honey,” he says with a slight shake of his head.

You don’t get to reply—not that you had one—because Clark decides that he is done teasing, adding the perfect amount of pressure to where he circles your clit perfectly. Your hips buck into him, chasing the pleasure.

“Need you in me,” you murmur into his ear, breathless whimpers leaving you. 

Your voice and movement goad him into slipping his fingers lower, where he circles your entrance. Before you can whine at his teasing, he slips a finger in experimentally—just barely in before he pulls out to just the tip. His eyes squeeze shut, brows furrowing as you grip him tight.

“Only got one in and you’re already squeezing me.” 

Your plush thighs squeeze against his hips at how thoroughly fucked out he sounds, voice low and gravelly despite how he hasn’t even been touched. 

You don’t get time to properly think before a second finger starts prodding at your opening, quickly slipping in with the first. And he doesn’t waste any time finding the spongy spot just inside you, fingers curling with intent. When he finds it, you cry out, your head dipping back and eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“‘S that it? That’s the spot?” he slurs out, sounding drunk on pleasure—on you. He curls his fingers again, hitting that damned spot with precision. 

“Yes! Fuck, Clark!” you exclaim, hips impatiently thrusting to meet his movements.

Clark chuckles then, though it’s breathy and cut off by hot pants of breath leaving his lungs. “Mhm, that’s it, honey. I’ve got ‘ya. You can let go.” 

Your hips stutter in their movement, chest heaving and eyes crossing as you tighten around his thick fingers. 

You’re going to cum on his fingers. 

Fast. 

And Clark makes sure of it as he prods at that special spot with intensity, fingers moving in a ‘come hither’ motion faster than you can think. 

He lifts his head from your shoulder, eyes opening to watch as you writhe on his fingers with awe. Gosh, he couldn’t get enough of your tiny little noises or the way you look so absolutely wrecked under him. His dick twitches in his pants, a large wet spot staining his underwear where his tip sits.

“C’mon, let go,” he says, almost sternly. 

Your eyes snap open to look into his—though it’s a little difficult, with how his glasses have fogged up—as you start shaking, thick thighs squeezing his hips even tighter—if even possible, at this point. And then you’re gone, eyes rolled to the back of your head, and a high-pitched moan of his name leaving your spit-soaked lips as you finally fall over the edge. 

Feeling you pulse around him sends Clark over, too. He groans and whines as he leans into your body like it’s a haven, hips canting into where you’re intertwined. He doesn’t stop—only slows—the two fingers he still has in you, prolonging your orgasm; they don’t stop until you’re pushing his hands away, body overstimulated.

The both of you are panting, bodies flushed and warm against each other, sweat and spit and slick mixing into one heady combination.

Clark presses soft kisses to your damp skin, murmuring your name with so much affection that your stomach flips. You nuzzle into him, still catching your breath. When your lungs are relatively back to normal, you deposit kisses up and along his jaw until you catch his mouth with yours, savoring the taste of him on your tongue.

Separation from the kiss, you nudge your nose against his gently, murmuring a “Hi,” with a small, shy smile. 

His cheeks dimple as his mouth spreads into a wide smile, teeth on full display. 

“Hey, pretty girl.” 

Your cheeks—which had been cooling down—flare back to life at the nickname he bestowed upon you. 

“Claaark!” you whine, looking anywhere but him.

“What, honey? You’re my pretty girl.” 

Despite the shyness you feel creeping up on you, you smile wider at his words, eyes finally finding his blue ones. 

“Nothing, just…” You trail off, head in the clouds, before you sit up a little straighter with a start, “You never got to… y’know? Get off.” 

Your sudden realization makes Clark laugh so hard that it shakes you. 

“No, baby. I’m okay,” he says with nothing but love in his eyes.

“But—”

You’re cut off before you can get any further with your questioning, the black-haired man quick to pacify you with a, “I’m taken care of.” 

“But… what? How?” Your head tilts as you look at him with squinted eyes, trying to understand what he means.

“I…” he pauses, face scrunching and cheekbones lighting up an adorable bright pink as he bites his lip, “I already came.”

“Wh-what?” you wonder aloud. Before you can say anything else, though, he grabs one of your hands and guides it to the front of his dark slacks. There, you feel a wet spot seeping through, causing your eyes to widen. 

“But… but how?”

“How?” Clark repeats, “Honey, I had the prettiest girl in the world at my fingertips, trembling under me. What else was I supposed to do?”

A startled sound leaves your lips as the realization of what happened hits you like a ton of bricks—Clark Kent, easily the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, came untouched just because he got you off. Your pussy pulses around nothing at the thought. 

“Oh.”

Clark laughs again, rumbly and undoubtedly happy. 

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ My girl’s just too gorgeous.”

You don’t hide from being called gorgeous this time. Instead, you allow yourself to bask in his aquamarine gaze, preening under him. 

“‘Your girl’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Gosh, I think it does,” he murmurs back with a smile. 

Clark leans down and peppers your face with ticklish kisses, making you giggle and writhe underneath him. 

A smile never leaves either of your lips as you settle in together, never leaving each other’s side as you fix yourselves and get the shop closed. Not even as Clark walks you home—always stationed on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road—does your smile slip.

You’re his now, and that makes you the happiest girl in the world. 

this is NAWT good !!!! I wrote it in a few (3ish) hours spanning two days.

tag(s): @moompie @claudiwithachanceof @basking-in-sunlight-shark @noisyflowerking @les4elliewilliams

(sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged!!) & (if you want to be tagged in anything else I may write, leave a comment!)

[coffeewithcal]

the sun won’t resign (until you’re by my side); clark kent hcs

pairing: clark kent x childhood best friend!reader (can be read as gnc, there is one mention of reader wearing lipstick though but that can be easily ignored and doesn’t really affect the plot !!!!)

word count: ~1.2K

warnings: none. sickeningly sweet fluff. clark being endearing (that needs a warning in itself imo)

a/n: thank you to my beloved @rosesaints for encouraging me to post this! love you mara, hope you like the polished version of the rambles i sent you <3 title is a reference to ya’aburnee by halsey

Clark who’s just so accustomed to your presence in his life and the casual affection between the two of you that he doesn’t even realize he’s been completely and utterly in love with you since you were kids.

He’s simply grown so comfortable with you and this little dynamic you two have that he’s never really felt the need to question the nature of your relationship— bless his heart… he loves you so much but he’s a little oblivious.

Neither of you shies away from displays of affection; “I love you”s are as frequent as they are casual, and you’re always touching in some way— it doesn’t matter if it’s a hand on a bicep, or knees touching each other, or fingers subconsciously running through one another’s hair— your bodies are constantly in contact, like there’s a strong magnetic pull that brings you two together. The intimacy goes way beyond simple touches: it’s forehead/temple kisses that radiate comfort, hand holding that comes like second nature, the sharing of a bed that almost always ends up in cuddles and pillow talks at 3 am that ends in fits of tired but fond giggles— basically everything someone would expect from a romantic relationship, really, but without the aforementioned romance (or so you thought).

He always has to have you in his sights— to keep you away from danger, he claims, but in reality it’s because the sight of you brings him a sense of comfort he hasn’t ever felt with anyone other than his parents. It’s also something he rationalizes by telling himself that it’s normal that he feels this way, after all he’s known you for pretty much all of his life, so why wouldn’t the sight of you alone ease even his darkest, deepest anxieties? Yeah, that’s totally normal and not at all an indication of much deeper feelings, obviously. To be fully honest, he doesn’t even take the reflection that far; he doesn’t question the completely visceral need to have you around. He doesn’t feel the need or even see the point in doing so— it’s just something that exists within the warm, liminal spaces of your friendship, and both of you are comfortable in it, so changing things up isn’t conceivable in his mind at first.

Quite honestly, he doesn’t even realize the nature of his feelings for you until Lois points it out to him one day— it happens after you’ve dropped off a surprise lunch for Clark at the Daily Planet because he’d forgotten to pack one, and he thanks you with a warm squeeze of the waist and a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. You bid him goodbye with a warm kiss to the cheek and go back to your own workplace, leaving Lois to stare at Clark who’s still looking at the spot you were in moments ago with a grin on his lips. It makes her snort and shake her head, patting the taller man’s shoulder in a consoling manner before letting out a sentence that changes the trajectory of Clark Kent’s life forever: “You two are so in love it’s a little bit nauseating.”

It’s a fleeting comment for her, something she doesn’t think twice about saying because it just makes so much sense to everyone around you, and she actually goes right back to work after uttering the words but Clark just freezes and suddenly his whole entire world just shifted off its axis because golly, Lois, what on Earth are you talking about? The thought strikes him harder than anything ever has before and he finds himself having a complete and utter mental breakdown in the middle of his work day, rethinking every single interaction he’s ever had with you in the thirty years you’ve known each other, and it finally clicks.

He IS in love with you.

How did he not notice it before? It’s as plain as day. The world is spinning and before he has the time to blink, he finds himself picking you up at your job like he always does, but his hands are sweating and he’s flushed all the way down to his chest like a schoolboy with a crush. His newfound feelings turn him into an endearingly awkward mess, but you pay it no mind— Clark has the notorious habit of becoming incredibly awkward when he gets too into his head, which isn’t a rare occurrence in itself, so you don’t pick up on this new kind of nervousness right away, assuming that he’ll tell you about whatever is keeping his pretty little head so busy when he’s ready. You opt for your preferred method of casual comfort instead and lace your fingers with his, unaware of the fresh wave of emotional turmoil your action brings Clark. He tries to steel himself but his heart is pounding against his ribs and his throat is running dry, and he’s not sure how he’s gonna survive movie night with you if he has to go through all of the casual affection you two usually shower each other with. It takes every last kryptonian supercell in him to not blurt out that he’s in love with you when you start swinging your joined hands back and forth while walking because he’s suddenly hit by a wave of fondness so intense it almost knocks him over. You squeeze his hand and he stumbles over a crack on the pavement, nearly faceplanting against the concrete before he catches himself, a breathy, embarrassed laugh coming from the very back of his throat.

The confession slips out later into the night despite his best efforts, but really, he thinks he can’t be blamed for it given the circumstances: you’re both lying in your bed, with you on your back and his head on your stomach while you distractedly play with his hair and watch a tv show he hasn’t paid a single second of attention to, your warmth seeping into him like liquid sunrays, your scent curling tighter around him with every breath he takes. You laugh at a joke on tv and his heart seizes in his chest, large hands squeezing your sides before he rests his chin on your abdomen to look up at you. He bites on the inside of his cheek when you smile at him tenderly, moving a curl away from where it slipped between his eyes.

“Hey you.” Your voice is soft as always, fingertips running across the slope of his nose playfully before tapping the tip of it, and he suddenly can’t bear to keep this secret for a minute longer.

“I’m in love with you.” Your eyebrows raise in surprise, blinking a few times, fingers pausing their gentle exploration of the curves of his face— dread barely has time to carve itself into the depths of his heart before you smile again, this time softer, and allow yourself to look at him like you always do when he’s looking away; with unconcealed love and tenderness.

“I’m in love with you, too.” He laughs breathlessly when your words register into his brain, moving upwards to cup your face in his hands and finally kiss you like he didn’t know he’d always wanted to.

Lois gets a “thank you” basket the day after— and she doesn’t even need to ask what for when she sees the lipstick mark on the inner side of his shirt collar— the color you always wear.

[coffeewithcal]

✿ what matters most ✿

(clark kent x reader blurb)

summary: Clark is hard on himself, luckily he has you to remind him who he really is. content: fluffy fluff, lots of comfort, established relationship, 1.5k words

based on this request

⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹

Grocery bags nearly slipping from your grasp, you swung the apartment door closed with your foot, stumbling into the entryway.

“Clark?” You called out.

It was odd that Clark would let you do all this heavy lifting without offering to help. In fact, you can’t remember a time he ever let you bring the groceries up your building’s five flights of stairs on your own.

Nearly spilling the contents of the paper bags, you heaped them haphazardly onto the kitchen counter. Looking around, there was no sign of your boyfriend; a presence that was pretty hard to miss.

Then out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of one leather-loafered foot on the ground. You rounded the kitchen counter into the cramped living room to find Clark - all six feet and five inches of him - huddled on the ground with his knees up to his chest. Dropping your keys, you rushed to where he was sitting against the back of the couch with his head in his hands.

“Clark? Clark, baby, what happened?”

You quickly kneeled next to him, lifting his chin in your hand to get a look at his face. His brow was furrowed in distress, faint dampness on his cheeks where a few stray tears lingered.

“Oh my God, Clark, what happened? Did someone do something?”

Every day, you watched your boyfriend fly off to save the world from the window of this apartment. And every day, you waited for some terrible news, word that he wasn’t returning, that he was finally hurt so badly that even his otherworldly healing ability wouldn’t be able to put him back together. Your stomach dropped now, thinking this must be that day.

“Yes, someone did something,” he said quietly, hands running anxiously over his tweed work trousers. “I did.”

That answer was somehow worse than anything you were picturing. Surely Clark couldn’t have done anything that bad…right?

“Oh, Clark. I’m sure it’s okay. Whatever you- whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together, I promise. Just tell me what happened.”

Your heart was pounding behind your ribs, mind spiraling ahead to all the worst case scenarios. You even tried to remember where you’d last seen your suitcase in case you and Clark needed to flee the country.

“Do you know the new custodian at the Daily Planet office? Lynn?” He asked, voice shaking.

“Um, I think so, yeah.” You tried to visualize Lynn’s face, vaguely recalling the kind eyed, middle aged woman who had emptied your trash can this morning. “Why? What about her?”

“I did something awful.” Clark’s eyes finally met yours. There was pain behind his blue irises that made your stomach churn.

“Clark, you’re making me nervous. Just tell me, I promise I won’t judge you-”

“I would understand if you did,” he said. “I probably deserve it.”

“Sweetie, I’m trying to understand, but I need you to focus. Tell me, please, what did you do to Lynn?” You grabbed his hand for reassurance. You were really trying to be comforting but the suspense was slowly killing you.

“I was on the elevator after work, I had just finished a long phone interview with that city counselor, the one I told you about, and my brain was totally fried…” Clark took a breath to rein in his rambling. “Lynn was on the elevator too but her stop was first and when she got off she said ‘have a good night Mr. Kent’ and I…gosh, I can’t believe how awful I was…I said…’you too, Linda.”

Clark ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots until it was all tousled and messy with his distress. You waited with baited breath for the rest of his story, for him to finally tell you what he did that was so terrible. 

When he didn’t continue, you asked, “and then…?”

“And then, I tried to correct myself, to say sorry for calling her the wrong name, but the elevator doors had already closed. Now, she’s out there thinking that after two weeks of her cleaning our office, I don’t even know her name!”

A wave of relief washed over you. You sat back on your heels, a slow smile spreading on your face as Clark squeezed his eyes tight like he could erase the shameful memory from his mind. When he heard the small laugh you couldn’t help but let slip, his eyes shot up, indignant.

“See I knew you’d judge me! You’re laughing at me!”

“No, baby, I…I’m sorry, I’m not,” you gathered yourself, trying to suppress the giggle that was fighting through your words. “I’m not laughing at you, Clark I promise. I’m just admiring you.”

“Why? You heard what I did, you should be mad at me,” he shook his head. “I can’t believe I was such a…such a bonehead.”

“Hey,” you grabbed Clark’s face between your hands, pulling his eyes towards yours. Your heart squeezed with such affection for this sweet man you couldn’t help but place a small kiss on his nose. Your touch seemed to soften him a bit, his head involuntarily nuzzling into your soft palm.

“Clark, I know it’s important to you that you're kind to people, but everyone makes mistakes sometimes. There are four hundred people that work in that building, you can’t be expected to remember all of their names.”

“Yes, I should,” he shook his head. “I have powers no one else has. I can lift buildings and run a thousand miles an hour, but I can’t remember a simple name? I’m pathetic.”

You lowered yourself back onto the floor so you could sit across from him, your eyes directly on his. His expression was downtrodden, hair messy around his face. You brushed a single curl off his forehead.

“Clark,” you began gently. “I love you, but that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”

Clark pulled away from you in shock, not expecting such a blunt response.

“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” He asked, feeling betrayed.

“No, I’m trying to make you see the truth here,” you said. “Clark, your greatest power has never been your strength, or your speed. Your greatest power is the way you make every person you encounter feel like they matter. You don’t save people because they’re perfect, you save people because you think everyone is worth saving - even when they make mistakes. And sometimes, you’re gonna make mistakes, too. But you have to give yourself the same grace you give everyone else, Clark. Because you matter, too.”

Clark let your words wash over him for a second, biting the inside of his cheek as he considered their meaning. 

“So you’re saying I’m just like everyone else,” he surmised, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

“No, you’re not,” you smiled softly. “Because most other people wouldn’t spend this much time thinking about one small interaction.”

“I just feel like such a jerk,” he confessed.

“I know you do, baby,” you nudged his leg with your toe. “I also know you’re going to find a great way to make it up to Lynn. But you can’t do that if you keep sitting here throwing yourself this little pity party.” 

Clark gasped in indignation, “pity par…I am not throwing myself a pity party!”

Your eyebrows shot up, teasing. For the first time since you’d gotten home, Clark let himself smile a little, his dimples creasing.

“Okay fine, maybe a small pity party,” Clark conceded, leaning forward to bring his face closer to yours, your sweet, silly boyfriend finally returning to you. “Not even a party. More like a pity shindig. A pity soirée if you will.”

Rolling your eyes lovingly, you leaned forward to nearly close the gap between your lips and his. Clark moved to kiss you, but you pulled back slightly.

“Well then, surely you can take a break from your pity soirée long enough to help me put away the groceries,” you pecked his cheek before standing and padding to the kitchen, leaving him to watch you go with an adoring smile on his face.

⋆˚✿˖°

The next morning, when you arrived at work, you noticed a ginormous bouquet of flowers sitting on Lynn’s cleaning cart. In handwriting you’d recognize anywhere, the card read:

Thank you for all you do, Lynn. You’re our superhero!

Love, your co-workers.

Forcing down the tears that were beginning to well, you made your way to your desk. Not only did he go out of his way to make sure she knows how important she is, he didn’t even take the credit for it. Metropolis may have Superman, and this office has Lynn, but your superhero would forever be Clark Kent.

As you entered your password into your work computer, a large arm reached around you, placing a single rose across your keyboard - the same color as the roses in Lynn’s bouquet. 

Clark leaned over your shoulder, close enough for only you to hear as he whispered, “just so you know, you matter to me most of all.”

⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹ ♡⋆˚✿˖°₊ ⊹

a/n: thank you to the anon who sent a request for this!! i hope you like it, i loved writing sweet sad boy Clark!! I'm always open to requests but just write whatever inspires me so if i don't get to some, i'm sorry!! I have some longer fics in the works for Clark/Superman still so sorry if i disappear for a few days while I finish them! mwah!

[coffeewithcal]

epilogue, all of me // clark kent x reader

Inspired by superman 2025

I You and Clark Kent work for the Daily Planet and are, at most, cordial with each other. What happens when the both of you become more interested in each other and explore something more? |

DISCLAIMER: PART 5 / 5

✰ warnings and comments: intense kissing, suggestive language, some fluff, continued-series, coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, clark is sometimes gloomy, it-tech!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, both of them are very awkward at times.

✰ WC: 2.1k

✰ a/n: hey there! sorry for the late update, but thanks again for all the love on my previous posts. i am truly blown away by how much of you love this! this is the fifth and final part in my clark kent x reader slow burn office romance series. hope you enjoy!

feel free to leave criticism or comments! comment to make taglist!

DO NOT COPY, REPRODUCE, USE, OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOURS ON ANY PLATFORM, SUCH AS BUT NOT LIMITED TO, ANY AI GENERATOR, TUMBLR, AO3, WATTPAD ETC.

The bruises were fading, though your body still ached when you stretched too quickly or when you suddenly stood up too fast. It wasn’t awful, more of a dull throb than pain, but Clark noticed every tiny flinch like it was a flare in the sky.

If you rubbed at your shoulder, he was there in a second with a heating pad. If you shifted your weight too much, he was offering to fetch extra pillows. He’d already adjusted the couch cushions twice that morning, muttering about lumbar support, and you were pretty sure he was staring down the throw blanket like it might be plotting against you.

“Clark,” you said from where you lounged, cocooned in that same blanket. “If you hover any closer, you’re going to fuse yourself to me.”

That made him pause, standing in the middle of the room with a pillow clutched in his huge hands. He blinked at you, caught somewhere between shame and amusement, before his mouth tugged into a half-smile.

“I just don’t want you hurting more than you already are.”

You patted the empty cushion beside you. “Then sit. Please. Before you wear a hole in the carpet with that pacing.”

He obeyed, reluctantly, and sank down beside you, though the way he hovered his arm near your shoulders instead of settling it around you screamed restraint. You nudged him until it finally landed where it belonged. He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath all day.

The truth was, you didn’t mind the soreness. If anything, it was a reminder of what had happened between you two. Of the walls that had fallen, the fire that had followed. But Clark, sweet, guilty Clark, was still wound tight. He looked at you like he’d broken something sacred.

“I hurt you,” he murmured again, quiet and raw.

“You loved me,” you corrected, same as you had every day since. Then, because silence stretched too long, you added, “And you know, for an alien god who can bend steel or whatever, you’re surprisingly gentle—most of the time.”

His heated eyes snagged yours, and momentarily you were reminded of the amount of erotic heat swimming in those depths a day ago. The way he tried and failed to keep his hands off of you. The many hours of him over and under your body—insatiable, your name like a sacred mantra, as he put you through the mattress, and shower wall…

And bathroom sink…

And vanity?

You’d lost count.

All you knew was that he’d have a bunch of furniture to replace this upcoming week, and some wall renovations.

“You’re not playing fair…” you heard him grumble, adjusting his pants as he moved closer.

“Huh?” You were so lost in your thoughts. “What do you mean?”

“How can I not want you when you look at me like that?” He breathed, almost sounding strangled.

“Who’s stopping you?” You all but moaned, and he huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“I’ve done enough.” He sighed. “You should have never let me go that long. Gentle doesn’t come easy to me. Not when I’m always worried about… how fragile things are compared to me, and not when I’m all riled up like that.”

You tilted your head. “Fragile? Excuse me, I’m tougher than I look. You’re just—” You gestured vaguely at his whole body. “—a walking granite statue with puppy eyes.”

He laughed a breathy chuckle. “The point is, it's dangerous for me to get like that. You can’t let me—“

You closed the gap for a quick peck on his lips, before the tip of his nose, utterly enamoured. “CK?”

“Yeah?” He shuddered.

“I’d let you put me through this floor if you weren’t so insufferably noble.” You spoke into the small space between you.

His breath hitched, his eyes latching onto yours. Passion and heat passing between you too, thick and electric.

“You’re crazy,” he chuckled incredulously, yet it was warm.

For a moment, you just existed in the easy air that settled between you too. Not in a rush to do anything. Until Clark’s soft laugh shook the silence.

Your head tilted in curiosity.

“Granite statue, huh?”

You snorted a laugh. “With puppy eyes,” you repeated firmly. “Don’t forget the important part.”

The grin he gave you then could’ve powered the city.

———————————

Over the next few days, Clark’s guilt transformed into fussing. He carried groceries, cooked every meal, insisted on handling laundry, and even tried to stop you from lifting the kettle. He tucked blankets around you as if you might vanish without them.

“Clark,” you groaned one evening as he set down a bowl of soup in front of you. “I’m sore, not bedridden.”

“Humor me,” he said.

So you did. You let him hover, let him fuss, let him brush your hair back when he thought you were dozing. Because the truth was, as much as you teased him, there was something quietly fulfilling about being cared for like this. About him pouring himself into you for once, instead of everyone else.

It was in those moments that the stories started spilling out. Whether it was while he refilled your tea or tucked another blanket around your shoulders. Little things at first: how his mother used to be tickled about him and Mixie, how the Kansas air smelled before thunderstorms, how he was always terrified his strength would crush something he held too tightly.

Then bigger things: the first time he ever flew, how it felt like freedom and terror all tangled together. The impossible choice of becoming Superman. The nights he came home after saving hundreds but still carried the weight of the one he couldn’t.

And every time his voice cracked, you reached for his hand. Every time he looked away, afraid of disgust, you smiled instead.

“You’re not supposed to love me for this,” he whispered one night, eyes shadowed with memory.

“Too late,” you said simply, resting your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t answer, but the way his arm tightened around you spoke louder than words.

———————————

By the fourth day, Clark was restless.

He dropped things, spoons mostly, which was almost funny. He paced. He checked the time too often, though you were pretty sure time meant little to someone who could race the horizon.

Finally, he blurted, “I want to take you somewhere tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Somewhere, or somewhere?”

His lips twitched. “Somewhere. No cape. Just us.”

That was how you ended up blindfolded in a cab, his warm hand wrapped around yours as he gave the driver quiet directions. You tried to complain, but he only grinned every time you threatened to peek.

When he helped you out and guided you up a final set of steps, you nearly tripped, and he caught you effortlessly, of course. “Trust me,” he murmured.

“You know I don’t like surprises,” you teased, though your pulse was racing.

Finally, he slipped the blindfold off.

You gasped.

You were standing on a rooftop, the city sprawled out around you like a sea of stars. But it wasn’t just the view — it was the thousand candles flickering in a wide circle around a table set for two. White linen, gleaming glasses, the faint scent of roses on the air.

“CK,” you whispered, hand flying to your mouth. “This is…”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”

“Too much?” you laughed, spinning slowly to take it in. “Clark, this is… perfect. You’re setting the bar very high for yourself, you know.”

He smiled, nerves still tugging at the corners.

He pulled out your chair, poured the wine, tried hard to act like this was just dinner, but his hands trembled every time he reached for something.

Halfway through the meal, you leaned forward, chin in hand. “You’ve been fidgeting since the cab ride. Spill it.”

Clark froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “I—uh—”

You smirked. “Oh no. Is the great Clark Kent nervous? Should I be worried?”

Suddenly, he set his fork down. His movements reverent. When he gasped and looked up to the sky, your gaze followed, looking for what startled him.

It was only when you felt a quick breeze next to you that you turned to look down at him.

Look down.

Holy shit.

Clark Kent. Superman—your Clark, down on one knee, holding a velvet box like it was the most fragile thing he’d ever touched. Gazing up at you with those larger-than-life ocean eyes, nervous but certain.

Your breath caught.

The world tilted.

“I’ve spent so much of my life hiding,” he said, voice low, almost shaking. “Hiding from the world. From the truth. From myself. And then you came along, and you saw me. Really saw me. Not the cape. Not the disguise. Just… me.”

Your eyes stung, tears threatening.

“I don’t want to hide anymore. I want every part of my life to be with you. The good, the terrifying, the impossible. I want forever.” He opened the box. The whimsical ring inside glittered in the candlelight, but your eyes never left his. “Marry me, p-please.”

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak. You could only laugh through the tears, hand pressed to your mouth.

Finally, you choked out, “God, CK. Yes. Of course yes.”

The relief that swept over him was breathtaking. He slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, then pulled you into his arms, lifting you clean off the ground, twirling your bodied in the air, as you laughed into his shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, like a vow.

You leaned back just enough to grin at him, eyes still wet. “I love you too, granite statue.”

His laugh rumbled against your chest, and then he kissed you, slow and soft, the city lights burning all around.

And for once, Superman didn’t feel like he was carrying the world. He felt like the world was carrying him — right here, in your arms.

[coffeewithcal]

you meet clark’s parents for the first time (and it goes well)

wc. 1.3k

cw. gn!reader, established relationship, big found family trope here, fluff, angst, consensual touching, hugging, the kents are big ole softies, reader is eluded to have had a rough upbringing, reader is a bit self-deprecating, reader knows clark is superman, not beta read.

author’s note. a childhood hyperfixation just resurged to the max and the new superman movie isn’t helping so what better way to quiet the Write Clark voice than to write found family fic? this is very much a personal fic and slightly different from my usual writing style but today i wasn’t writing with perfection in mind. i was writing with my heart. /gen

“i really want you to meet my parents this weekend,”

the words alone make you sigh with your whole body. shoulders slackening, mouth pulled downward in a deep frown.

“they’re not gonna like me,” you whisper, mind going straight to that place of black and white thinking.

and like you figured, clark isn’t having any of it. he rounds the kitchen island and pulls you in for a hug. he doesn’t have to try— you’re fully engulfed, wrapped against his wall of a chest.

“that’s not true,” he promises, confident of it. “they’ll love you, i know it.”

they’ll love you.

sure, you thought. whatever floats his boat.

you came from parents you didn’t love in the conventional way. they were aggressive, leaving no room for safety in your home. love from parents of any kind was foreign to you.

you didn’t doubt his parents must be lovely people, considering the puppy dog of a son they raised, but who’s to say they’ll feel the same about you?

suppose you’d find out in a few days.

—

behind you left metropolis and out to the countryside, to the cutest, quaint little town— emphasis on little —with some of the friendliest citizens you’ve ever met.

it was quiet out this far into the countryside, much different from your city life together in your apartment above a busy street.

“are you gonna be okay?” his response comes out soft, unlike the rattling of his old, high school pickup. could you have flown here superman style? absolutely. but he insisted with a cute little grin. she’s got character, he’d said.

“yeah,” you lean your forehead against the window, feeling much less okay than you let on. you were nervous. akin to a frightened animal. but you would do this for him.

fortunately for you, your boyfriend is as perceptive as ever and notices your less-than-stellar mood and reaches a hand over, taking up space on your thigh.

“it’s okay to not be,” he comforts, rubbing your jean-clad leg. “you don’t have to pretend.”

and you knew that, though it was so ingrained in your brain to be* dishonest about your feelings. shoving it down, masking it, putting on a brave face. that’s what you were used to, though you were trying to unlearn it. it wasn’t easy, but it was definitely easier with someone like clark to aid you.

“you’re right,” you concede, sighing. “i’m nervous. about a lot of things.” your parents not liking me, the night going poorly, screwing everything up.

he knows these things. already knows how your mind works. he knows there’s a storm of self-deprecating thoughts swirling around your pretty head. he didn’t like that you looked at yourself so negatively, but wouldn’t force you otherwise. just encourage you to be gentler with yourself.

“it’s okay to be nervous,” he reiterates, glancing between the road and you, one hand on the wheel, the other on you. grounding you.

the rest of the drive is fairly silent, but not the tense quiet from before. it’s much more tender now.

when you pull up to the farmhouse, two people you assume to be his parents are already standing on the porch, waving from under yellow lights. the sight has your boyfriend grinning before he throws the truck into park.

he gets out first, clobbering right up the porch steps and right up to his mother, bending to her height for a hug that tenderly screams i missed you.

you’re left behind in the passenger seat, dumbly gawking at the display. as sweet as it is, it’s also odd to you. truthfully, you didn’t know* people even touched their parents like that, let alone hug.

your name is called, pulling you out of your daze. when your eyes pull into focus, you catch sight of clark waving you over, and rather enthusiastically too.

you take that as your cue to finally get out, so you do, hopping right out and letting the heavy door slam shut behind you. your sneakers crunch on rocks as you make your way up to meet his parents, your heart racing a little faster than you would’ve liked it to.

immediately, his mom bounds down the steps in her apron, right toward you.

“sweetheart, you must be tired from that drive,” she greets you, the softest, most maternal expression on her aged face. “dinner’s on the table, but first— can i hug you?”

… huh?

hug? hug you? for what reason? why? and of all people, you?

but you didn’t want to come off as rude, and after all, the offer was there. a warm, gentle woman wanted to hug you.

“uh, sure…” you stiffly open your arms, the woman pulling you in for the second best hug you’ve ever felt, all the while clark is smiling from the porch, watching this all play out.

when you part from the hug, she pulls back to smile at you. “i’m martha,” she introduces, holding you by the elbow and taking you up toward the landing. “and this is jonathan.”

the older man steps up to you, less forward and more polite, but still friendly. “clark’s told us all about you,” for a second, your stomach drops. all about you?

“don’t worry, all good things.”

you’ve officially started malfunctioning at the mention of all good things. what good things?

but somehow, from what you tell so far, you’ve seemed to won the kents over. that’s a huge accomplishment in your book, even if it does feel unbelievable.

“uh, that’s…” you don’t really know how to process this. the kindness— the genuine kindness. “… that’s good.”

despite how painfully awkward you feel, it doesn’t faze the small family in the slightest. no looks of judgement, only warmth. they let you exist as 100% yourself without flinching.

“come,” martha waves you in. “before the food gets cold.”

—

dinner goes as smooth as you can go with your tendency to blue screen. like before, out on the porch, no one seems to flinch. everyone’s nice. sweet as sugar. they offer smiles, they listen to you talk even when you don’t have much to say. and all through it, clark’s right next to you, squeezing your knee periodically, encouragingly.

after everyone’s plates are empty, you stand alongside clark, only to be immediately shut down (gently) by martha, who’s taking your cleaned plate from your hands.

“we’ve got it, honey,” she reassures. “you sit. relax.”

and that* blows you away. you’re left standing there, stiff as a board, watching clark kiss his mother on the cheek before taking over dishwashing duty.

it’s then when it really dawns on you that he sees this as normal. he’s used to feeling unconditional love. giving and receiving affection. he grew up in a house that loved. it seems unreal. faraway. but it exists, right in front of your eyes.

—

later, when you’ve managed to squeeze into clark’s childhood twin bed, his bulky arm wrapped around your waist, you whisper, “you actually… hug your parents like that? by choice?”

he doesn’t tease you. doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile. no trace of judgement. just earnest confusion, and a little tilt of his head, a tiny furrow of the brow.

“yeah?” it sounds so normal coming from him. he’s used to this, he’s actually used to this.* ”always.”

“wow,” you huff a breathy chuckle. “my parents would never.”

he softens, unconsciously tugs you closer. “i know,” he doesn’t deny it nor try to comfort you. he just lets the truth sit and accepts it. “but you have us now. we already love you.”

you aren’t entirely sure how believable that statement is until sunday rolls around, you and clark are bidding your goodbyes when martha hands you a bag full of leftovers and murmurs to you, “you’re welcome here anytime.”

the statement, the action, it already has tears welling in your eyes. that was real. that was earnest.

and so is the shoulder pat you receive from jonathan on your way out.

on the porch, you cry about it. about the family that accepted you as you were when you didn't realize you needed it.

now, it’s solidified: you know you’re loved.

[coffeewithcal]

cockwarming and clark on the mind rn

cw, no plot just pōrn — spooning + cockwarming with clark kent | great minds think alike anon!

the room’s quiet enough you can hear the soft click of the ceiling fan. the kind of dark where every shadow feels close. you’re on your side, sunk into the mattress, and clark’s behind you—no, wrapped around you—like he’s built for it. big chest pressed to your back, his arm slung over your ribs in that heavy, immovable way that makes you feel caged in and safe all at once.

his palm cups your breast, the heat of his hand almost too much, thumb brushing slow circles over your nipple until it peaks hard under his touch.

he’s deep inside you. just sitting there. fat cock stretching you full, the ache sweet and lazy now, like your body’s stopped fighting the stretch and decided to mold to it instead. you feel the throb of him—slow, steady, like his heartbeat is inside you—and every time your cunt flutters, he answers without thinking, hips giving the smallest push forward.

you gasp, soft, and he huffs a slow, wet breath against your shoulder blade. “mm—sorry,” he says, except it’s not sorry at all. his voice is rough, thick with sleep, but there’s a low heat curling through it. “you’re just… fuck, you’re so warm.”

your hand finds his arm, fingers digging into the muscle there. you don’t want him to move. you do want him to move. you can’t decide. but he decides for you, giving a slow, unhurried roll of his hips that grinds him deep, deeper, until you can feel him press at your cervix and your toes curl in reflex.

you make a sound—half whimper, half moan—and his grip on your breast tightens. “that’s it,” he murmurs, mouth finding your shoulder, lips dragging lazy kisses down to your neck. “just let me… fuck, baby, just let me have you like this.”

he moves again, another slow rut, not pulling out, just grinding that thick length through you until your clit brushes against the base of him and you have to bite back a moan. the bed shifts under the weight of him, every push making you aware of just how much space he takes up in you.

sometimes he stops moving entirely, just breathing into you, cock twitching inside you while your walls flutter helplessly around him. then—another push, deeper this time, enough to make your breath break.

“you keep milking me,” he groans, almost frustrated, like he’s trying not to lose it. “fuck—can’t even sleep with you wrapped around me like this.”

you shiver when his hand leaves your breast to slide down, over your stomach, until he’s pressing right where you’re stretched around him. “feel that?” he whispers against your ear, voice low and filthy. “that’s me. right here, baby.”

you can feel it. the thick, hard shape of him, deep inside, and the press of his palm only makes you clench tighter. he groans again, hips giving a slow, messy thrust, and the heat of it drags through your whole body.

he doesn’t speed up. clark doesn’t need to because every inch of him is already inside you, keeping you full, keeping you his. and in the dark, with his mouth hot at your neck and his cock stretching you open, you realize you don’t want him to stop—not to fuck you harder, not to let you sleep. you want him like this. slow. filthy. forever.

[coffeewithcal]

not enough fics include diana, i was wondering what your take would be on spencer telling her she shes going to be a grandma

grandmother — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader is pregnant, post!prison spencer, lots of tears, spencer is extremely emotional in this, mentions of alzheimer and schizophrenia, mention of spencer's childhood, spencer practically having an identity crisis ( let me know if I missed anything else ) a/n: haii hai hai !! i hope you like this <3

“I’m nervous.” Spencer mumbled as he turned to you, helping you step out of the car.

You shut the car door behind you without looking, your focus entirely on him. “Why?” you asked gently, tilting your head as you reached up to smooth the collar of his cardigan.

Spencer hesitated, his eyes flickering away for a moment. “It’s a big change,” he said finally.

“A happy one, is it not?” you murmured, coaxing his eyes back to yours as you pressed your thumb gently against his jaw, guiding his face toward you.

“Very happy,” he admitted, the corners of his lips lifting in a small, tender smile.

You mirrored his expression, but you knew him too well to let it end there. “What else?” you asked, tucking a curl behind his ear.

Warmth crept through his body, and he felt his nerves subside a little. It always amazed him, how effortlessly you could read him.

“I’m… growing up?” he said, the words half a question, half a realization.

You couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Well, yes. You’re having a baby.”

Spencer chuckled, shaking his head. “You know what I mean,” he said, his hands finding yours and lifting them to his chest. Absentmindedly, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist, his lips warm against your skin.

You waited, giving him the space to gather his thoughts. His gaze drifted past you as he spoke again.

“My mom… she likes to think about my childhood a lot. She almost always lives in the past with me.” His voice was quiet. “Now, this is such a big step into the future. I’m just… worried about telling her.”

You let his words settle between you, turning them over carefully before responding. “I know it’s not easy,” you said softly, your thumb tracing circles against his knuckles. “But there’s no guarantee as to how she’ll react.”

You offered him a small, hopeful smile when he met your eyes again. “Maybe this will be the thing that makes her look forward to the future.” You weren’t sure if your words helped at all, but you pressed on, your voice softening further. “She loves you so much, Spence.”

Spencer’s smile was faint but genuine, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours.

“She’s going to love our kid even more,” you continued, lifting his hand to your lips and pressing a kiss to his palm. “Even if telling her could be difficult at first—which I don’t think it will be.” You smiled, watching as the tension in his shoulders eased just a bit.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. He didn’t want to be a pessimist, but the nerves had been gnawing at him all day, and he’d needed to voice them before you both stepped into his mother’s living room.

You smiled, searching his face for any more worries. When you found none, you nudged him playfully. “Your mom is going to be a grandma. Isn’t that exciting?”

And just like that, the spark returned to his eyes.

“There you are,” you teased, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh, ducking his head slightly. “Sorry,” he whispered, as if he’d somehow ruined the moment with his fears.

But you shook your head firmly. “Nothing to apologize for.” Before he could protest, you tugged him down into a hug, your arms wrapping tightly around him. He melted into you instantly, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he held on just a little too tightly.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I love you,” you murmured against his skin. “And it’s all going to be okay.” When you pulled back, you cradled his face between your hands, waiting until his gaze met yours. “You’re going to be a dad, Spence.” A pause, then a grin. “Well—you are a dad. Okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, a big smile immediately forming on his face. “Okay.” And then he leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. “I love you too.”

Your fingers intertwined with Spencer’s as you led him up the building. After signing in, the nurse guided you both toward Diana’s door. You thanked her softly before pausing outside, turning to face him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his free hand flexing at his side. He was overthinking again.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping aside so that he could be the one to open the door first, to take the first step.

Spencer inhaled deeply, his eyes flickering between you and the door before settling on your face. His lips parted, then pressed together, as if weighing his words. “Everything’s going to be okay.” It sounded more like he was convincing himself than reassuring you.

You squeezed his hand. “Exactly.” With a slow exhale, he turned the knob.

Diana was seated at her desk, pen gliding across paper. At the sound of the door, she turned and her face lit up.

“Oh, hello, Spencer.” Her voice was soft. Then her eyes landed on you, and her smile widened. “And you! What a lovely surprise.”

Spencer crossed the room in three quick strides, pulling her into a hug before she could even rise fully from her chair. You lingered in the doorway, watching as he pressed a kiss to her temple, his shoulders relaxing immediately. Good day, you noted with relief. You’d called ahead, of course, timing was everything with Diana, but nonetheless it was always a delight to see her so lucid.

“Hi, Mom,” Spencer murmured, pulling back just enough to smile at her.

Diana’s hands fluttered to your shoulders the moment you stepped closer. “It’s been too long,” she chided, her fingers brushing over your hair.

Spencer guided you to the armchair before you could protest, his insistence on you sitting had become a near-ritual since the pregnancy. You bit back a laugh as he dragged a wooden chair beside you, close enough that his knee bumped yours.

Diana’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she settled back into her seat. “Still hovering, I see.”

Spencer smiled softly at the tease, leaning forward to peer at the paper on her desk. “What are you writing?”

“Just a letter,” she said, setting her pen aside. “To you, actually.”

Spencer stilled.

Diana’s smile was wistful. “I was remembering the day you learned to read. You were so small, but you held that book so carefully.” She reached out, patting his hand. “Funny how the past finds its way onto paper when you least expect it.” Spencer’s throat worked. You looked at him concerned. This is what he meant earlier. Always living in the past.

Diana's gaze dropped to your intertwined fingers, then to where Spencer's other hand hovered protectively near your waist. "What's the reason for your visit?" she asked as she nodded toward your joined hands.

Spencer's fingers twitched against yours. "Well, uh-" he began, his voice cracking slightly.

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, stepping in gently. "We have some news," you said, offering Diana a warm but tentative smile.

Spencer nodded rapidly, his knee bouncing slightly where he sat. "Yes. Yeah." The words tumbled out in a rush.

Diana waited patiently, the only sound in the room the quiet tap of her fingers against her desk. "Well?" she prompted after a moment, her head tilting slightly in that way that reminded you so much of her son.

You felt Spencer take a deep breath beside you as he gathered courage. You stayed quiet, letting him have this moment.

"We're having a baby," Spencer finally managed, the words bursting forth in one breath.

Silence stretched between you. Spencer kept his eyes firmly on your joined hands, unable to meet his mother's eyes. You could feel the tension radiating through him, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing for an outburst.

Your own eyes remained fixed on Diana, watching as a series of emotions flickered across her face. Surprise, confusion, then sudden understanding as her gaze dropped to where your hand had unconsciously come to rest on your still-flat stomach.

"You're pregnant?" she asked, her eyebrows arching upward.

You nodded, swallowing past the sudden dryness in your throat. "Yes. Just a month along," you explained, answering her unspoken question about the lack of a baby bump.

More silence. Then Diana's face softened, a slow smile spreading across her features. "Well those are wonderful news, are they not?" she said, her voice warm with genuine delight. "Why are you so nervous?"

Spencer's head snapped up. "You're... you're happy?" he asked, voice small and vulnerable.

Diana paused in brushing invisible lint from her pants, her hands stilling as she regarded her son with confusion. "Why wouldn't I be?" The question hung in the air, simple yet profound.

Spencer's fingers twitched against yours, his throat working as he struggled to articulate the fears that had been haunting him. "Well... I don't know," he finally mumbled, the brilliant linguist suddenly at a loss for words in the face of his mother's joy.

Diana studied him for a long moment, before her gaze drifted back to your stomach. "I'm going to be a grandmother," she declared softly, her hands folding neatly in her lap as if to contain her excitement.

You nodded, unable to suppress your smile as you watched the realization settle over her features. "You don't know the gender yet, do you?" Diana asked, her fingers tapping against her knees.

"No, not yet," you admitted.

Diana hummed thoughtfully, her brow furrowing slightly. "Hm, I suppose I can't get you any appropriate presents just yet." There was a playful lilt to her voice that made Spencer's shoulders relax.

You shook your head, grinning. "No, but I have a feeling it might be a girl," you confessed, glancing at Spencer to see his reaction.

Diana's face lit up. "Oh, wouldn't that be wonderful," she breathed, turning to her son. "You'd be a wonderful father to a little girl."

He stared at his mother as if she'd handed him the stars. "You think so?" The question was barely audible, weighted with decades of longing for maternal approval.

Diana nodded firmly. "I know so."

Spencer drank in those words like a man dying of thirst. He knew these were precious syllables. Words he might not hear again when Diana's mind wandered to darker places. He swallowed them whole, memorized their shape on his mother's lips, stacked them carefully in the vault of his perfect memory. He wanted to engrave everything about this moment into his consciousness.

Especially when his mother began proposing names. "What about Harper? Or Jane? Or-" she paused dramatically, "-Agatha?"

"Agatha?" you repeated, nose scrunching adorably as you giggled.

Diana waved a hand. "Fine, fine, too old-fashioned. But you must consider at least one literary name - it's tradition in this family."

As the conversation flowed around him, Spencer sat motionless, his heart too full to speak. His eyes flickered between you, the love of his life and his mother, more present and vibrant than he'd seen her in months. They were discussing his future child. His family. He felt warm. Happy even.

Spencer didn't notice how much time passed until his mother stood, smoothing her skirt as she glanced out the window.

"You should go soon," Diana said, her voice worried. "I don't want you driving in the dark."

The words snapped Spencer back to reality like cold water. His fingers, which had been tracing absent circles on your knee, stilled abruptly. You saw the exact moment the dreamlike quality of the afternoon shattered for him. The way his eyes darkened as he remembered that not all days with his mother were like this.

You stood without comment, offering Diana your warmest smile. "It was wonderful to see you, Diana." As you embraced her, you caught the faint scent of her lavender perfume mingled with the crisp starch of her blouse. You found yourself wondering if you should bring that scent into your home, for Spencer’s sake, especially when harder days with Diana approached.

"Don't hesitate to come by again," Diana murmured, her hands firm on your shoulders as she pulled back. Her gaze dropped to your midsection. "You and your baby girl."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Diana chuckled. "I have a feeling you're right about having a daughter," she explained, turning to Spencer with knowing eyes.

The smile that broke across Spencer's face was precious. It was the smile of a boy who still believed in his mother's wisdom. You found yourself mirroring it without thought.

Then it was Spencer's turn. He approached his mother slowly. He wrapped his arms around her as he closed his eyes. His fingers memorized the feel of her cardigan's wool, his perfect memory cataloging the exact cadence of her breathing. Every visit ended this way, with Spencer clinging just a second too long, terrified that the next time he saw her, the brilliant woman who'd raised him might be gone again, lost behind the veil of her illness.

You watched them, your own throat tightening. Even from across the room, you could feel the emotions radiating from Spencer. Quiet grief for moments they'd never get back and the fragile hope for moments yet to come.

When they finally parted, Diana cupped Spencer's face in her hands, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones with tenderness. "I am happy for you, Spencer," she said. "Having a child is a wonderful thing."

You saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, saw the way his fingers trembled slightly. In that moment, he wasn't Dr. Spencer Reid, the genius who knew everything, he was just a son who knew nothing, receiving his mother's blessing.

Spencer managed a fragile smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll visit soon," he promised, his fingers finding yours. You laced your fingers through his, squeezing gently as you turned toward the door.

Just as you crossed the threshold, Diana's voice floated after you. "The two of you are going to be wonderful parents."

Spencer's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. "Thank you, Mom," he murmured. You added your own thanks with a look back and a soft smile.

The walk to the car was quiet. Spencer remained silent, his grip on your hand tightening and loosening as if he couldn't decide whether to hold on or let go.

When you reached the car, you stopped him just as he held open your door. "Spence?" you asked gently, searching his face. He froze, one hand still braced against the car roof. "You okay?"

He nodded mechanically, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Yeah," he said after a beat too long. "My mom's happy for us." The words came out like he still couldn't quite believe it.

You smiled, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. "Yeah, she is."

The drive home was filled by soft jokes about ridiculous baby names and plans for nursery decorations.

Upstairs in your bedroom, you were removing your earrings at the vanity when you finally found the courage to approach the subject again.

"Your mom was quite happy for us," you observed, keeping your tone light. You had waited until you were both back home to bring up Diana again, intentionally. You could sense he needed the safety of your home to let his emotions surface. And you knew it wouldn’t be long before they did.

Behind you, Spencer's hands stilled on the buttons of his cardigan. "Yes," he mumbled, the word barely heard over the rustle of fabric as he hung it carefully in the closet.

Something in his voice had you removing your second earring with hurry. You crossed to him in three quick steps. "Spence?" you murmured, turning him gently by the waist until he faced you.

When he met your eyes, you saw the tears. His breath came unevenly, his lower lip trembling. In that moment, he looked heartbreakingly young.

He whispered, "She was really happy."

"Yeah, she was," you agreed softly, brushing your thumb along the ridge of his ribs. His heartbeat thrummed wildly beneath your palm. You searched for the right words, struggling to understand what emotions he was battling right now.

Perhaps he sensed your hesitation. "I don't really know who I am if not her son," he admitted. "And now my whole identity is... changing."

A shudder ran through him as he continued. "I'm going to be a dad now, and getting her approval—" His voice cracked. "It makes it real in a way I wasn't prepared for."

You watched as his eyes grew impossibly brighter, the amber flecks in his irises swimming behind a film of unshed tears. The lamplight caught on the single tear that escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. It landed silently on your joined hands.

"It means I'm not just a son anymore," he breathed, the words barely audible. "Or at least—to her, I won't be soon." His throat worked as he swallowed hard. "And I only know how to be a son. I don't... I don't know how to be a dad."

You had to suppress tears of your own as you heard his words. Without thinking, you pulled him into your arms, holding him so tightly you hoped he could feel the truth of your words before you even spoke them.

"Whether she remembers you as her son or not, Spence, you are her son," you whispered against his temple. You pulled back just enough to cradle his face in your hands, brushing away his tears with your thumbs. "Nothing will ever change that."

His breath hitched, his lashes fluttering shut as another tear escaped. You caught it with your fingertip.

"And you are a wonderful dad," you murmured, correcting again, because he needed to hear it, needed to believe it, even now. Whether the baby was a month along or already in his arms, the truth remained. "You are the most wonderful dad a child could ever have."

A shaky exhale escaped him, his shoulders loosening just slightly. You smiled. "Did you not hear what your mom said?"

He nodded.

"She knows," you continued softly. "She knows the man she raised will do nothing but love his child unconditionally—because that’s what she did. What she still does." Your thumb swept over his skin once more. "She’ll always love you, regardless of everything. And you’ll pass that love on. She knows that."

Relief bloomed in your chest as the tears slowed, his breathing steadying against your palm.

Spencer watched you with those impossibly large, expressive eyes. Then, without warning, he pulled you into another crushing embrace, his nose burying itself in the curve where your shoulder met your neck. "Thank you," he whispered. "I love you so much."

Already, instinctively, he was doing it, passing the love forward.

Your heart swelled as you carded your fingers through his curls. "I love you too, Spence," you murmured into his hair, smiling when he made a small, contented noise against you.

When he finally pulled back, he simply studied you. You let him. You always did. There was something sacred in these quiet moments where words weren't needed, where his hands mapped the planes of your face like he was trying to commit you to memory all over again.

"Come on," you whispered after a while, tangling your fingers with his and leading him to bed. The mattress dipped as you both settled in, Spencer immediately gathering you against him. His right hand found its habitual resting place, curved protectively over the gentle slope of your stomach, his thumb making absent circles.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke again. “You know that I’m excited for our baby, right?”

“Of course I do,” you murmured, your smile brushing softly against his chest.

“I really am,” he whispered, like he needed you to believe it as much as he needed to say it. He kissed the crown of your head, his lips lingering. Beneath all his worries, he feared you might forget how much he loved this. Raising a child with you, building a life, creating a family.

You let out an amused hum, eyes still closed. “Spence,” you mumbled through a yawn, “there are fifteen pregnancy books stacked next to the bed. Seven more in the living room. I’m pretty sure I saw two by the coffee maker this morning.”

Spencer let out a chuckle, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek.

“And,” you added with a small smile, “you’ve cleared out almost your entire study for the nursery. And I know you asked Garcia to look up the best nearby schools.”

You didn’t mention the five books quietly hidden beneath the rest, ones about genetic predispositions, the statistical likelihood of passing on Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia. You didn’t mention that you knew he'd asked Garcia which districts had the lowest rates of bullying.

You didn’t need to. You knew. And he knew you knew.

“Okay, good,” he whispered with relief. Despite all his worries today, his heart felt full.

It was a beautiful thing to be loved like this, completely, without conditions. And even more unbelievable was the fact that he got to build a family with you. Despite everything, his past, his fears, the parts of him even he sometimes struggled to face, you stayed. You chose him, again and again. And even with all the uncertainties the future held, Spencer knew that you'd keep choosing him. Maybe that’s what made it all feel less daunting. The knowledge that you were here. That you adored him so deeply, that despite everything, you stayed. You stayed and loved him, and now you were building a life with him. A family.

He was going to be a dad. And you were going to be a mom. The two of you were going to raise a child.

And somehow, impossibly, that no longer felt like a faraway dream. It felt real. Tangible. Because you made it real. You gave him that. You made him believe that he could live this kind of life. That he was worthy of it.

That he was capable of loving and being loved, without conditions or expiration. You gave him a future he never thought he’d have.

You smiled down at where his long fingers splayed across your body, then nuzzled into the warm hollow of his neck. "You think me and your mom are right? About it being a girl?" Your words slurred slightly with approaching sleep, these days, it seemed you could barely keep your eyes open past nine.

Spencer huffed a quiet laugh. "I trust you two, so yes," he mumbled into your hair, smiling at the way you were already half-gone, your body growing heavier against him by the second. The emotions from earlier had made him tired too.

"I can't wait to see you with her," you murmured, pressing a sleepy kiss to his collarbone.

Spencer's breath caught. This time, the reason for his tears was different. "Me too," he whispered hoarsely, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head in return. Then, with sudden realization: "You're going to be a great mom, you know that?"

He hadn't said it today, too tangled in his own worries, a fact that struck him with sudden guilt, even though he told you every morning without fail.

Your answering smile was so wide he felt it against his chest before he saw it. "I love you," you sighed, already succumbing to sleep. Spencer watched as your breathing evened out, his fingers still tracing invisible patterns over your stomach, over your future.

"I love you more," he murmured, knowing you couldn't hear him, but needing to say it anyway.

And as sleep finally claimed him too, his last thought was of a little girl with your smile and his eyes, and how very, very loved she would be.

[coffeewithcal]

I'll Always Reach for You

clark kent x fem reader

Clark comforts you after you've been taken (cw: mentions of kidnapping)

It had been a week since Clark, well Superman, found you in a shed abandoned and tied up. The two of you were supposed to go out to dinner that night, and although most of your date nights ended with you in Clark's arms, this time it was for different instances.

Clark had tracked you down through the sound of your erratic heartbeat, sometimes he still heard that sound and couldn't help but worry that you had been taken again. It killed him that even now when you were safe in his arms, he could still hear your heart beating the same way he found you that night

"Sweetheart are you doing alright?", you had settled in Clark's arms as he was tracing little shapes onto your palm. He hoped the gesture would help calm you down, but all you did was nod in response to his question.

"I went to the bookstore to pick up that book you mentioned the other night… Did you want to read it?"

You refused, shaking your head. Clark knew you had trouble focusing on things you usually enjoyed after you had been taken, out of fear that being distracted would end up with you back in that dark shed.

"Okay that's fine, I'll just read it to you then", Clark could hear your heart calming down as he picked the book up. "Oh this sure is a long one", he chuckled as he flipped through the pages.

You were asleep by the time he had finished the fifth chapter, head lulled onto his chest. Clark slowly started to fall asleep himself now that he couldn't sense any sort of fear from you.

Clark wasn't planning on going to work as he woke up the next day, the Daily Planet could survive a day without him. At least that’s what he thought before Perry had called him down to finish up an assignment, one that Clark had failed to worm out of. Surely it wouldn't take more than an hour, meaning he would be back before you had a chance to wake up. He made a note to stop at your favorite bakery and pick up a few donuts for you, sprinkles always painted a smile on your face.

A nightmare forced you awake while Clark was at the Daily Planet. The sunlight that gleamed through your windows contrasted the dark chamber that you dreams tortured you with.

"Clark…", you roll over as you tried to reach for him only to find his side of the bed empty. You shot up immediately, trembling legs now standing up and on the move to go find him.

"Clark?", you called out in the kitchen. No response, just toast left on the pan. Knowing your love, he probably left to go finish an article. You would ask him about it when he returned, you always did love reading his notes and drafts.

You slummed onto the couch with the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Warmth brought you comfort, and you desperately clung onto it after it had almost been taken away from you that night.

The clouds were already settling in Metropolis, you weren't surprised when drops of rain stained the glass of your window, but then the thunder started. There was a thunderstorm the night you were taken, you still remembered how hard the rain poured down when Clark flew you back home in his arms.

'Noise can't hurt you', you mentally remind yourself. It was true that the roars of thunder couldn't physically hurt you, yet the noise reminded you of the hands that forced you into that old outhouse.

"Clark!", you called out knowing he wasn't home. Cold hands forcing your mouth shut. Rope tied around your arms and legs.

Clark had put his hands over your ears as soon as he found you that nigh bound to ropes, he knew how you picked up every little noise in your anxious state. You tried to mimic the motion now, but your hands didn't comfort you like Clark's did.

"Sweetheart I'm home", Clark called out as he closed his umbrella. He knew you were awake by the sight of closed curtains, Clark had always left them open insisting that sunlight would brighten your mood along with your apartment.

You looked up, still curled up on the couch, "Clark?" You almost tripped over the blanket because of how fast you ran up to him.

"Oh honey… Oh you're alright". Clark collected you in his arms, one of his hands resting on the back of your head.

You gaze met the box he had put down. "I brought back donuts".

"Donuts?", your lips slowly stretched into a smile.

"Mhm it's Sprinkle Sunday".

"Sprinkle Sunday? Is that going to be a catchphrase you're using for that article you're doing on that local donut shop that just opened?"

"You like it?", Clark's grin lit up at the chance of gaining your approval.

"It's dorky.. but in an adorable way". Your words seemed teasing, but Clark didn't disregard how you clinged closer to him as the thunder outside started to boom louder.

"I got you", he chanted softly. "It'll pass, I promise". You didn't have the senses to perceive emotions like Clark could, but you could always rely on his truth. You always thought he was too honest for his own good really. Your boy truly had a pure heart, one that was still willing to stain his own hands just to keep yours clean. And even now that you felt as if you were stained, Clark was willing to scrub your stains clean until you believed in your clarity again.

[coffeewithcal]

like a sunset going down

pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

warnings: smut (18+) - f!receiving oral, a fade to black situation after that

word count: 3k

author's note: if this is bad no one look at me, im gonna go die of humiliation (i dont write smut so idk... this just happened... oops i guess - also it's really only the last 1kish words tbh) also pls tell me someone thinks the title is as perfect as i do (its from a rolling stones song i wish i was creative)

Clark knows what it’s like to dedicate yourself so fully to something that it consumes your every moment. He knows what it’s like to work your fingers to the bone, to push yourself harder and harder because you know you can do it, you know you can do better. He knows what it’s like to work so hard you become fully depleted, and that’s why seeing you like this tears him up inside. 

You’re completely oblivious to the chaos around you, the laughter and the joking and the pens flying across the room. Headphones on, fingers moving at the speed of light, you barely look away from your computer screen. Sometimes you pause, just to take a long pull from the open energy drink beside your computer. You’d switched over from coffee, and now the trash can under your desk is a graveyard of aluminum cans. 

Earlier in the week, when you hadn’t been quite so consumed, he’d teased you about it, sighing dramatically when the sound of the tab popping had rung through the room. 

“Seriously?” He’d asked, swiveling around in his chair with a grin. You’d smiled back, gesturing towards the coffee cups on his desk.

“Same thing,” you’d countered, twisting around fully to see him better.

“No it’s not,” he’d retorted, already exasperated. 

“It’s only one, though,” Lois had chimed in, needing your playful bickering to end so she could finally focus on her work again, “it’s the same as your twelve cups of coffee.”

“I don’t have twelve of them,” Clark muttered, looking defeated, but his smile returned as you laughed in victory, turning back towards your computer. 

That seemed like a lifetime ago, and you’d long since abandoned only drinking one a day. Clark watches as you sigh, rubbing desperately over your tired eyes before returning again to your work. It hurt him to see you like this, he was barely able to focus on his own article. Instead, he threw himself from his chair, muttering something about running an errand even though no one was really listening, all far too used to his casual disappearances by now. 

When he returned, he placed a soft hand on your shoulder, knowing you wouldn’t hear his footsteps with your headphones, with the music rattling through your skull. Still, you jump at the contact, fingers stuttering on the keyboard as you struggle to find a stopping place, searching through your open tabs to stop the music. 

“What’s up?” You play at being casual, as if there aren’t dark rings around your eyes, as if you’re not radiating exhaustion. 

“Brought you some snacks, a water bottle,” he sets everything gently on your desk, careful not to disturb anything.

“Oh,” you smile up at him, and his heart pangs at how tired, how worn out, you look, “thanks, Clark.”

He wants to ask, to beg you to take a break, but he doesn’t. He knows you’d just brush it off, tell him this is how everyone gets sometimes, you just have to finish and then you’ll take a break. Instead, he just gives your shoulder one last squeeze before returning to his desk, sighing as you slip your headphones back over your ears. 

The next time you feel a hand on your shoulder, hours have passed. The Daily Planet, usually the epicenter of noise and movement, is completely empty. The overhead lights have dimmed, and the glow of your computer illuminates your face, making you look sickly. 

“Shit,” is all you can manage, slipping your headphones off your ears and letting your head fall onto your desk. Clark doesn’t say anything, not at first, instead just shifting his soft touch from your shoulder to your upper back, rubbing soothing lines down your spine and up again.

“We should probably go,” he tries for levity, but he’s unable to keep the concern out of his voice. 

“I know, I just-” you inhale deeply, and then you groan, the sound ringing through the empty space, “I just know it could be better. Perry knows it could be better.” 

Finally talking about it makes you close to tears. Your throat is tight, and you’re pushing with all your might to hold it in, to keep your tears from falling and your voice from cracking. Clark hears it, though.

“Did you send it to him yet?” Clark’s hand keeps moving up and down your back, slow and rhythmic. You feel the heat of his touch through your shirt. 

“No,” you huff, balling your hands into fists in a desperate attempt to release some tension, to regain control over your body and your emotions, “I know it’s not good enough.”

“You’ve been working on it for days,” his voice is gentle and measured, and it hits you right in the middle of your chest, “you just need to stop looking at it.”

“I need to finish it,” you bite back, nails pressing crescents into your palm. Clark’s hand leaves your back, and you immediately miss the comfort, the warmth, of his touch. 

Gently, tenderly, he takes hold of your hands, squeezing just enough for you to loosen your own grip.

“Shut down your computer, and I’ll walk you home,” he looks directly into your eyes while he speaks, the most he’s seen of your face in days. He’s still holding your hands, and he drags his thumbs gently along your knuckles, trying to prompt you into giving in, to packing up and going home. 

After a minute that feels like a month, you take your hands back from his grip but only to save your work and shut down your computer. Your body protests as you stand, muscles and joints stiff from spending all day sitting, and your back and shoulders ache like never before. Clark packs up the rest of your things, throws your bag over his shoulder along with his own, without you needing to ask.

The two of you are mostly silent as you walk, hand in hand, to Clark’s apartment. You feel less like crying now, but the emotions swirling through your body are numerous and unnamable. Still, you’re grateful that for every step you take further and further from the Daily Planet offices, your headache seems to lessen. 

There’s still a tension in your body, from keeping all of your muscles clenched and primed all day long. Your shoulders ache, and you find your rolling them backwards, over and over again, in an attempt to get some relief. 

Once you make it to Clark’s apartment, he sets your bag down beside his own on the table while you slip off your shoes, grateful for the small amount of tension it eases. With his hands free, Clark immediately sets them on your shoulders, kneading the sore muscles there. He can see it on your face, when the pain starts to dissipate, as your eyelids flutter close and the downturn of your lips is replaced with a small smile.

“Hungry?” Clark asks, voice barely above a whisper. It’s just the two of you, in the stillness and semi-dark of his apartment, and it’s perfect. Finally, after the unmitigated stress of your life, it’s like you’re in a little cocoon, all safe and warm and protected. You nod, and Clark presses a kiss to your forehead before releasing you from his hold, turning towards the kitchen. 

“I’ll get dinner ready, if you wanna take off your clothes,” he says, facing the cabinets and unable to see the teasing look that blooms on your face. 

“Alright, smooth talker,” you joke, and when you see the defeated slump of his shoulders, you laugh for the first time in days. He’s grateful for the sound, even though it’s at his own expense. 

“Get your mind outta the gutter, you know what I meant,” he replies, and even without seeing his face, you can tell he’s smiling, can hear it in his voice. 

Shedding your work clothes like a snake sheds the skin its outgrown, you slip on one of Clark’s t-shirts, something old and well-worn and unbelievably soft, the epitome of comfort. When Clark joins you in the bedroom, you realize that ‘getting dinner ready’ had really just meant pouring two bowls of cereal, but you can’t even pretend to mind. 

After the week you’ve had, you’re more than happy to eat cereal in bed, so you take the bowl he holds out for you gratefully and settle up against the headboard. Clark sits beside you, and as the two of you eat silently, he uses his free hand to trace around your knee, your thigh, whatever he can reach, still trying to release that tension that resides right under the surface. 

Once you’ve finished with your cereal, you don’t think you can move, instead letting the empty bowl rest in your lap and letting out a long exhale, like you’ve been holding your breath all day. Clark takes the empty bowl from your hands and makes his way back to the kitchen, while you manage to rinse your face in the bathroom, desperate to wash the day away. 

He returns from the kitchen when you emerge from the bathroom, the light from the open door illuminating you from behind, making you look nothing short of the angel Clark knows you are. There’s still water clinging to your eyelashes, the tip of your nose. Clark reaches for you to wipe it away, and you smile at him, finally looking close to contentment. 

“Wanna talk about it?” He finally asks, unable to resist any longer. He drops his hand, gives you space.

“I dunno,” you sigh, and Clark can see your mind working behind your eyes, trying and failing to come up with the right words to explain how you’re feeling, “It’s like my brain is about to explode, I can’t explain it.”

You take a pause, a breath, and Clark waits. He wants to reach for you, to hold you, to make everything better, but he can’t do that until you tell him what’s wrong, until he can figure out the best way to help. His hands twitch at his sides as you take three quick, almost painful breaths before you continue. 

“I just feel so-” you cut yourself off with a noise from deep in your chest, something between a grunt and a groan and a cry, and your hands come up in front of your chest, curled into claws. You can’t manage to explain with words, but that visual, the sound of your distress, is the best explanation you can muster. You sigh, defeated, letting your hands drop.

“I know I’m being ridiculous, I just don’t know how to stop it,” you finally manage to push out. It’s like you’re trapped, like you know you shouldn’t be acting the way you’re acting, you’ve got no real reason to, but you can’t help it. You just have to ride it out. 

“You’re not being ridiculous,” Clark counters as gently as he can, “you’re just stressed.”

“I’m stressed about ridiculous shit,” you shoot back, “you’ve saved the world like twelve times in the past week, and here I am losing my mind over a newspaper article.” 

“Hey, don’t do that,” his voice is quiet, still so soft and so gentle but firmer now.

“Do what?”

“Don’t talk down on yourself like that,” he steps towards you, closing the little distance that was between you and taking his face in your hands, “you’re allowed to be stressed and worried and upset. Just because someone out there has a life-threatening illness doesn’t mean the flu won’t get you sick.”

“What?” His frazzled analogy confuses you, what with the little brain space you have left at this point, and he huffs, racking his brain to try and make you understand.

“You’re allowed to have feelings,” he starts again, “your feelings matter to me, whatever they are, yeah?”

You nod, and he traces his thumbs along your cheekbones, his touch featherlight. Starting by your hairline, he presses kisses across your face, your nose and your cheeks and your jaw before he makes his way to your lips. When he finally pulls away, he finds himself unable to stay apart from you, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.

“That article is all I can think about,” you whisper into the fraction of space between you and Clark, “I just wanna shut my brain off, stop thinking for the rest of the night until I have to work on that stupid thing again.”

“Yeah?” He asks, closing the gap between you once again.

“Yeah,” your voice is small but sure, spoken against his lips.

Suddenly, he’s everywhere. His hands, his lips, he’s covered you completely. He trails kisses down your neck as his hands fist into the fabric of the t-shirt covering your hips. Your eyes slip shut, you can’t take the onslaught of so many sensations, of Clark filling all your senses.

“Your turn to lose the clothes,” you manage to push the words from your throat, along with a groan as Clark just barely drags his teeth along the junction of your jaw and your neck, scraping just beret enough for you to feel the gentle sting that he soothes with another kiss. He’s chuckling against your throat, rich and deep, and you’d die happy if that’s the only sound you could hear for the rest of your life.

“Now who’s the smoother talker,” he teases, a cocky grin on his face even as you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, whatever, my point still stands,” you reach for the buttons on his dress shirt, fingers slipping over the tiny buttons until you give up, grabbing the open space of the collar and pulling as hard as you can. Clark looks at you, stunned, and you can’t help the shocked laughter that escapes your mouth.

“You owe me a shirt,” Clark says, still smiling, eyes crinkled, even as he grabs your hips just firmly enough to walk you back towards the bed. 

“You’re chatty tonight,” you quip as your legs hit the back of the mattress.

“Oh, are we not talking?” His grin could kill you, you’re sure of it.

“I just feel there are better uses of our time right now,” you settle onto the edge of the bed, delighted as Clark follows, settling onto the floor in the space between your thighs.

He laughs, right against the skin of your knee. He leaves a trail of kisses along the inside of your thigh, trailing his hands lightly along the outside as he goes, pushing your t-shirt up to your hips. He kneads the skin there for a moment, thumbs digging into your hipbones, before you lift your hips and he hooks his fingers into your underwear, dragging them down your legs until you kick them off.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, the sight before you knocks all the air out of your lungs. Clark’s looking up at you with so much affection and adoration, it physically pains you for a second, but then he’s holding your hips again and you can’t see his face any more, just his crown of inky curls. 

Now, the frustrated groans you’d been making earlier today are replaced with soft moans and sighs, sounds so featherlight you’re not even sure if you’re even making any noise. Clark knows, though, and it’s music to his ears. He always loves the way you sound, the little breathy noises you make when you’re together like this, but after seeing you push yourself so hard lately, it hits him deeper, right in the heart. 

Your breath comes out in stutters, and you let yourself fall back, fully untethered from anything besides Clark. He’s all you can feel, his soft touch rubbing soothing circles over your hips even as he takes you apart completely with his tongue. He’s all you can hear, little noises of his own joining in with yours, he always sounds so pretty it makes your head spin. With your eyes squeezed shut, breath coming quicker now, he’s all you can think about. Everything else is gone, your mind blank except for him. 

He doesn’t take you apart so much as put you back together, even as you feel like you’re floating, shattering into a million tiny pieces. There’s a kiss pressed to the junction on your thigh, and then another, all sweet like you’re not struggling to remember how to breathe normally. You manage, somehow, to suck in one lungful of air and then another, and then you’re finding purchase on the bed to prop yourself up again. 

What you see almost makes you want to fall back again. Clark’s still on his knees, bracketed by your thighs, and he leans his head against your bare skin. Looking up at you like you’re the center of the universe, stars in his eyes as if he’s not the one who just made you see stars. And he’s covered in you, his lips, his nose, his chin, like you were water in the desert, a meal for a man starved. 

When you can’t handle it anymore, you do let yourself fall back, closing your eyes as you go.

“Fuck me,” you sigh out contendly, and Clark chuckles from deep in his chest, pulling himself up to standing.

“I’m getting there,” he replies, and you crack one eye open to look up at him. He’s so perfect, you’re not really sure what to do with yourself, and with how fuzzy your brain has gone, you do nothing to stop the laughter that bubbles up in your chest. 

Clark just shakes his head at you, smiling along with you even as he unbuckles his belt, slides it through the loops. 

“Oh, I can’t talk but laughing’s ok?” He teases, leaning forward to place his hands on either side of your head, and once you’re face to face your laughter dies down, leaving only a smile in its wake. 

“Hey, I didn’t make the rules, I just follow them,” you reply, still smiling, and it’s like a punch in the chest for Clark, who hasn’t seen your face light up like this in days. He’d do anything to see you smile like that, to keep you smiling like that.

“Well we better follow those rules then,” he gets the last word in before he kisses you again, deep and slow and mind-numbingly perfect, just like he is. You don’t think of your article or your stress or anything besides Clark for the rest of the night.

[coffeewithcal]

breakfast for breakfast | clark kent

summary: waking up next to clark, and he’s just a softie in love. you both are tbh (fluff)

word count: ~1.9k (of the main, then I got bored and antsy so I did bullet points. Not sure on a word count for that)

warnings: slight spoilers for superman 2025 (maybe?), one pet name I think, kisses and some bare skin but no smut, i believe it is gender neutral

notes: i am literally giggling and kicking my feet, he makes me feel so giddy. first time writing for clark pookies

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Clark’s favorite morning was always Saturday. In childhood, they were the mornings he’d wake up and rush to watch cartoons. Mornings spent with his Ma and Pa, who made pancakes every Saturday, never missing even once. The tradition was so ingrained at this point that they still did it, even without Clark home.

Saturday mornings stayed his favorite in college because it meant no classes. Shockingly, the Kryptonian found himself easily drained in his college days, catching sleep anytime he could. Could’ve had something to do with the beginnings of a vigilante lifestyle that kept him up in late hours of the night, but he’d never confess to that.

And Saturday mornings stayed his favorites now because of you. A guaranteed slot of time spent holding you, kissing you, fawning over you. No interruptions from your nosy (but loving) friends, no deadlines to meet by noon, nowhere to rush off to for a story. Occasionally Superman was needed, but Clark always became yours the second he got back.

Saturday mornings didn’t always stop when the clock hit 12. Well, technically the afternoon began, but Clark always reminded you that “Saturday mornings are a mindset” while pressing a honey dip kiss into your neck. Saturday mornings could last all weekend, if one really pushed for it. But right now was a true Saturday morning, 7:38am to be exact. Your busy lives kept your bodies and minds from sleeping in much later than that anymore.

You were awake just a moment before Clark, deeply inhaling cold air as you woke. Your comforter was pooled over your bodies, and you felt warmth radiating from his place in bed. Clark was always running hot, which provided your ice cold hands with a personal heater on several occasions.

Laying on your stomach, you turned your head to check on Clark. His breathing was still steady, slow, rhythmic. You watched as his torso rose and fell, his hand on his stomach giving every reason for his torso to be center focus. You knew that Clark was awake when your eyes flickered back to his face and you saw a dimple form on his cheek. He couldn’t help himself. Never could.

“Morning,” his voice was deep and rasp. There wasn’t a single time where you were staring at him and didn’t get caught. Blame it on his abilities.

“Morning.” You smiled, watching him slowly open his eyes to see you. You were the first thing his eyes were met with every morning, and he couldn’t be happier about that.

He shifted in bed, turning so he could fully see you. You looked gorgeous, his brain could hardly comprehend. It didn’t seem fair that you got to wake up so beautifully. Hair askew, just giving him a reason to fix it. The sunlight’s orange haze peeking through the curtains gives him an excuse to look into your eyes and discover a new fleck of a color. And, anytime you were awake before him, your lips were curved into a smile that he wanted the world to see, swearing it was some sort of miracle cure.

His hand instinctively reached out, fixing your sleep ridden hair with a few strokes. And just like routine, his fingertips glided over your cheek before the palm of his hand rested to hold you. His thumb glides over your cheekbone carefully, a sensation that pulls both of you further from sleep.

“Caught you staring again,” he mumbled tiredly, pressing a kiss to your nose. “That makes… three days in a row?”

You covered your face with your hands, groaning into your palms. Clark’s smile deepens, eyes flickering desperately to take in your every move. His hand on your cheek lifts and takes hold onto one of yours, gently trying to reveal your face again.

There’s that smile. He reassures, “No, it’s cute. Maybe tomorrow will make lucky number four.”

You laugh at his remark and let him remove one of your hands. With half your face covered, you look at him with one eye. His sight rarely left you in the mornings. In the beginning it felt like some immense pressure, being almost observed by a man known for protecting an entire world. Being observed by Superman. But the pressure faded once you realized that you weren’t being observed by Superman, you were being memorized by Clark Kent.

“Can you blame a person?” You joke and remove your other hand. “I’ve got an actual godlike being in my presence here.”

Clark rolled his eyes, and, despite his disapproval of that comparison, his dimples deepened as his lips found a smile that actually had served as a cure of some degree in the world.

“Don’t start,” he grumbled and rubbed his face to wake himself up.

You continued anyway. “I’m laying mere inches away from Superman himself, I’m never gonna stop.”

Clark looked at you with raised brows, like trying to give you a warning to stop. Didn’t make a difference other than maintaining the smiles on both your faces and making a laugh roll from his chest. He couldn’t even take himself seriously like that.

“You know I strongly dislike that, even in jokes.” His tone lacked any and all sternness.

You grinned, pulling up the comforter just a little further to hide your teasing smile from him. He was impossibly adorable, strongly dislike. Everything he did, you ate it up. He knew exactly what you were doing too, hiding behind the blanket.

“Oh, huh uh,” he laughed, wagging a finger at you.

“Huh uh?” You repeated with raised brows, voice muffled from the fabric. “Huh uh, what?”

“Huh uh that.” He tugged the blanket away and pointed to your shit eating grin. “I’m just a guy, and you’re being…” his brows furrowed as he searched for a word. “Mischievous.”

“Mischievous?” You laugh, eyes darting all over his face. He was doing his best to withhold a smile… meaning, he was smiling, just not quite ear to ear.

“Devious, even!” He found a new word.

“I’m devious now?”

“Ornery.”

“Really putting your journalism expertise to work here.”

“You’re teasing me.” He finally just states it.

For someone that was just a guy, Clark had a sickening effect on you. Even caught red handed, you turned yourself over to him with joy.

“I am.” You easily reply.

He laughs at that, the way you just give in. His hand takes hold of yours again. He just needed to be close to you.

You continue. “But you really are godlike, Clark.”

“Uh huh.” He chuckles, tongue in cheek as he slowly leans closer. Your hand is brought to his lips, covering your knuckles with kisses.

“Like a son of Aphrodite or something.” Your gaze is locked onto his. He didn’t so much as glance away.

“A son of Aphrodite?” He grinned, kissing the inside of your wrist. “Her children were the result of an affair, right? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Always a way out. He couldn’t stand to be put on a pedestal, lighthearted or otherwise. But he was so impossibly perfect in everything he was, is, did, touched, said. You knew that wasn’t fully true, but it was true often enough.

“No,” you reply with a smile. Your heart fluttered as his lips warmth into your skin, trailing up your arm. “I’m saying that you’re beautiful.”

His lips were pressed to you, just above your elbow now. You felt the way they curled into yet another smile. It drove you crazy.

“Beautiful?” He repeats. He gives a second kiss to that same spot before continuing his trail. “That I can accept.”

Beauty didn’t equate perfection, not always. Although, it did to him when it came to you. And he supposed it equaled perfection to you when it came to him. Still. It was a standard he felt he had at least a chance of living up to. It meant a lot of different things to people.

God, he loved Saturday mornings.

Your eyes closed again, Clark now kissing your shoulder and heading along your back. Your arms came up to rest beneath your head, just taking it all in. His carefully laid kisses, hot breath brushing your skin with each placement of his lips. Clark sat up for a moment, readjusting to hover over you.

The bed dipped around you as his hands went on either side, holding himself above you. He needed more and more. His fingers pulled the comforter down and then slid beneath the edge of your shirt, carefully pushing the fabric up to expose some of your back.

Chills went through your body as his fingertips teased along your spine. He just looked over you for a moment. How you looked beneath him, how you looked on your stomach, how you looked with goosebumps from the cold air and his lingering touches. He needed it carved into stone, sealed into a vault deep within his mind. He needed you forever.

“Would you eat pancakes?” He quietly asked, kissing your shoulder blade.

What?

It hadn’t occurred to him how random that would sound, even after he asked. The question just made sense.

“Honey?” His voice vibrates in your ear, searching for an answer.

You hum, turning your head to the side and resting your cheek on the pillow. “Pancakes would be good.”

Clark had such an innocent air. Pancakes? Here you were, heart racing at the notion that he was about to strip you of your (minimal) clothes again. And he asked about pancakes? It warmed your heart.

Clark’s lips had begun to trail down your spine at this point. His hand rested on your ribs, gently holding onto you as he relished you being his. How’d he get so lucky?

“Perfect.” He smiled, pressing a kiss between your lower back dimples before tugging your shirt back down.

He let himself relax a little, his hips resting at your upper thighs. He was careful not to put his entire weight on you, always cautious. He was holding himself up on his forearms now, back pressing against yours as he leaned down to cover what was showing of your face with kisses.

Your heart rate didn’t seem to slow down, given there was zero reason to. His fractional weight on you felt good, and the way he absolutely covered you in kisses could’ve sent you into cardiac arrest because this was casual for him. This was routine, an obvious part of every single Saturday morning now. He hadn’t even made it the point of your lips connecting, you knew he wouldn’t until later. And it didn’t matter.

“I’m starving.” He mumbles, one final kiss on your cheek before pushing himself off you and climbing out of bed.

You watched him from that place, body still feeling every place his lips had just been. There was no sin behind those lips, but they still burned. Like the sun when you stay in it for too long, unable to resist how comforting it feels soaking into your skin.

And he continues his routine, tugging his blue sweatshirt over his t-shirt, giving you a glimpse at his bare torso when his arms are raised. Is this how Victorians felt? Commemorating any and every detail to memory with the unknown of when you’d see it again. Or maybe it was more keen to how artists such as Michelangelo carved Moses, a need to share lifetimes worth of beauty if only every detail is right.

skip to him going in the kitchen, and you hearing him trying to quietly talk to Ma on the phone for tips on making the perfect pancakes. He really, truly believes you don’t hear him. But, god damn, he is terrible at whispering over the phone because Ma already can’t hear

You give him time to talk to her on the phone, needing time to recuperate and plot revenge anyway

Which, by the way, your revenge would not have to be complicated. Clark is giddy about any little thing you do. You wrap your arms around him when you come in the kitchen? His heart is running. You kiss his back through his sweatshirt? His heart is speeding. Your hand sneaks beneath his shirt and up his side? His heart is literally gone.

He 100% makes faces on your pancakes, just like Pa always does for him

And I have to state the (hopefully) obvious and say… Clark is eager to share this family tradition with you, hoping it’ll last a lifetime

wanna write something about him being able to pick you up so easily, but my brain is struggling with it for some reason

feel free to send requests (please, please, please)

[coffeewithcal]

that man has never been vulnerable a day in his life. actually he was vulnerable one day, and it was awful, so never again.

[coffeewithcal]

Humming lullaby (Reader x Benedict Bridgerton)

Requested by: , @slythetic Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @floatlosers, @alex–awesome–22, @merlieve, @wildiefleur , @meyocoko , @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23, @melsunshine  , @venomsvl, @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedrava-bitch-187, @erikasurfer ,   , @eliscannotdance, @p0nycurtis, @slythetic, @bitchybananaflower, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @awesomemikaus

Summary: Friends to lovers where you are both too afraid of your feelings towards each other. Longing eyes, linguring touches and soft smiles. Will one be finally be brave enough to speak the truth in their hearts when they are masked.

You’re the rhythm and I am the catch.

You needn’t step one foot in the Bridgerton household for he was already present. Darting between his siblings. Shoulders bumping to reach you. Bringing a finger to his lips, he quickly grabbed your wrist. Pulling you forwards, guiding you around his siblings with haste. – “Ben… Benedict!” – Violet called out for she had no proper moment to greet you to her household. Chuckling blissful you followed him.

Francesca entangled her arm with her mothers, coming to lean her head on her shoulder. – “Oh mama, you know him. He’s a blind fool around Y/n.” – she spoke in a soft tone. Guiding her mother back to the drawing room. – “I know, but he at least could’ve made me greet her first.” – still slightly annoyed with her son’s behaviour. – “No worries mother, I’ll give him a proper scolding later.” – Anthony pitched in, hands behind his back. Eloise rolled her eyes beside him. Quickening up her pace to get the best seating in the drawing room.

Changing his position on your wrist, he spun around. Looking forwards to his destination. Leading you to the back of the house towards the gardens. Picking up the hem of your skirt, you turned your wrist to break his grip of you. Taking a firm hold of his hand afterwards. Chuckling happily, you started running with him on the grass. Hastening over towards the large trees and the swings it carried.

You arrived first, plummeting onto the seat with a loud pant. Moving your hands up with a sweet smile. Benedict caught his breath coming to stand behind you. Taking the swings cords in his grip. Gently pulling you back, coming to lean over you. – “Want to know a secret?” – he asked with a quirky smile. You stared back at him, humming loud. Benedict lowered his hands a bit that they touched yours holding the cords.

“My mother’s theme for the upcoming ball.” – he spoke sparking your interest. – “Oh do tell me Ben.” – you called out. Benedict let go of you, making you swing. You screamed it out, caught off guard that he suddenly let go. Laughing loud, he grabbed the cords once more when you swung back. – “Benedict Bridgerton!” – you said cross with him. He gulped at your glare, yet still upholding a smile. Doing a turn by the cord, he swiftly dropped on one knee before you.

Making you blink flustered. His gaze going down to your hand having dropped onto your lap. He took it, bringing it closer to him. Drawing circles with his thumb whilst speaking. – “You’ll like it.” – he spoke, gaze flashing up to you and remaining there. A sweet smile on his lips. You leaned in a bit closer. – “Do tell.” – requesting again as you bubbled with curiosity. – “Imagine chandeliers, floating lights and masks.” – he spoke. Seeing how your face lit up by the thought.

Getting back up, he plopped himself down on the swing with you. Sitting in a cramped spot. Letting his shoulder rub against yours. – “Imagine it Y/n, all fading away. Hidden behind masks.” – he began, swallowing nervously. Turning his gaze away. – “Perhaps one would be brave enough to speak a truth.” – finishing, staring down at his own hands. You let your chin rest on your shoulder, looking away. – “Or one would still be to frightened.” – whispering the words out.

Heart racing a little bit. Nervous at the thought. Both having fallen silent. Struggling with the truth within. Too scared to speak the words. Unsure how it would be received by the other. Benedict planted his feet on the grass, using it to move the swing gently back and forth. Catching your attention, you turned your head back to him.

Staring at him as his gaze slowly locked on yours. Remaining there. Heart beating a bit harder in each other’s presence. Perhaps feeling a bit strong. Benedict swallowed nervously, getting lost in your gaze. Heart is leaning, gaze to gaze learning how he needs your loving. Gently inhaling, his chest rose with some bravery.

Words burning on his lips, yet staring into those deep pools of your eyes, swiped him under. Retreating with cold feet. Benedict got up, removing himself from the swing with you. Gaze torn apart, it made you lower your gaze. Noticing his hand extended to you. Hesitantly you placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you back up. His hand having clasped over yours. Guiding you back to the house.

Illuminating lights shined bright against the darkening evening. Masked guests arriving at the Bridgerton household for the season’s ball. Pulling your sleeve a bit higher, you exhaled deep. Unsure how you were possibly going to recognize anyone underneath their hiding. You didn’t like being left alone in room full of strangers. Stepping through the doors, you entered the estate. Following the music. Doormen opened the doors for you, making you step up front.

Waiting by the steps with a glistening wonder in your eyes. Dazzling lights making a wonderous sky up at the ceiling. Masked ladies and gents dancing in sync. Conversating with neighbours. Some hurdled together trying to recognize one as a little guessing game. Your gaze lowered, locking eyes with a gentleman amongst the crowd. While all other eyes were occupied, his stared right up to yours. Smiling bashful, you curtsied at him.

Stepping aside to go down the stairs going in a curve down at two sides. Taking one side. Gaze remaining on the gentleman. Seeing how he was staring dreamily. Astonished by beauty. Reaching the bottom stairs, you watched how he made his way through to reach you. With eagerness.

Suddenly stopping in surprise when a group of giggling ladies passed. Fading the image away. Breathing quickening, he ushered them to move along. Stepping forwards, yet pausing again when she was gone. The girl dressed in silver, he for sure knew was you. Having slipped through his fingers. Running his hand through his hair, Benedict groaned soft.

Shuffling on your feet, you felt intimated and overwhelmed by the masks. Strangers staring back at you. Getting up close, making you pant loudly. Heart racing as the walls were closing in on you. Their loud laughter making you nervous. Gasping loud, you bumped against someone. They turned around.

Their mask black and with a long nose. The dull eyes staring back at you, making you gasp. Knees buckling, making you take a run for it. Knowing your way around the household, you rushed away. Away from the ball inside. Embracing the gardens that held no walls. Wandering towards the small bridge over one of the ponds. Panting loud, you grabbed the railing.

Staring down in the waters. Seeing your own rippled reflection with the mask on. Making you swallow loud for you found no pleasure in wearing masks. You thought it would be magical, but all of this proved it all wrong. Looking up to the nights sky, you wished for Benedict to be here. To have someone around you felt safe and secure around. The one person that could calm you.

His presence a lullaby. – “There you are again.” – a voice came through, making you startle. Move a bit back when a man with a simple black mask approached. Coming up on the bridge with you. You recognized him as the one from before. The one that had eyes for you. – “Are we strangers or are we not?” – he asked coming to move more. Making you turn your posture more towards him.

“It depends.” – you responded. The man grabbed the railing of the bridge, leaning with his back against it. Gaze lingering on you. – “Perhaps one can finally be brave enough for the truth.” – he spoke looking briefly away. Setting himself off, he approached you. – “Don’t you think Y/n?” – he added making you gasp soft with widened eyes.

“How… how do you know it is me?” – you answered. The man smiled, touching your chin with his thumb. Bringing your chin slightly up to gaze deeper into your eyes. – “I recognize these eyes anywhere.” – confessing with a deepness. Gazing back into his eyes, you slightly gasped recognizing him as well.

“Ben…” – whispering out. He shushed you, setting his hands on the railing beside you. He took a deep breath before speaking. – “I am brave enough to say this. Hidden behind a mask, but revealing a truth.” – he began. – “Y/n, if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. Because my love for you is higher than words, I have decided to fall silent.”

Fluttering your lashes, you stared with fondness back at him. Benedict took your hand, raising it to his lips to kiss the edge of your palm. – “My more than love.” – slipping from his lips. Bringing your hand to his chest, he placed his hand over it. Feeling his heartbeat.

“My heart never beats that way, only when you are near.” – confessing. He slowly removed the mask from his face. Curling up a smitten smile. Bringing his hand to yours, he slowly removed your mask as well. Smiling more at his confirmation of it being you.

“My heart is leaning to you, every time you are near it is a humming lullaby I can’t forget.” – speaking with fondness back. His hand went up to your cheek. Keeping your hand pressed against his chest, holding it tight. Leaning in, head lowering, slowly closing his eyes. Lips kissing yours tenderly. You’re the fire and he is the match.

--------------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[coffeewithcal]

you're my savior

in which anthony bridgerton’s childhood best friend is desperately in love with him…

PAIRING: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader, platonic!bridgertons x reader

WARNINGS: given last name (Kinsley), typical sexism of the era, PINING, avoiding the inevitable, oblivious Anthony, angst, fluff, kissing, fluff ending!!

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

🎶 : sailor song - gigi perez

AN: 🩵♥️💗 - this is a personal fav of mine!! it's also a long one, so have fun!!

Dearest reader, the time has come to place our bets for the upcoming social season. Consider the household of the Baron Featherington. Three misses foisted upon the marriage market like sorrowful sows by their tasteless, tactless mama. Far better odds might exist in the household of the widowed Viscountess Bridgerton. A shockingly prolific family noted for its bounty of perfectly handsome sons and perfectly beautiful daughters.

Your father extended his hand, guiding you out of the carriage. You smiled gratefully, kissing his cheek. "Thank you, Papa."

"Of course, my darling."

Your mother hooked her arm through his, eyes full of adoration. "Shall we head inside, mon cheri?"

"Lead the way, my love."

The castle was magnificent as always, with flowers draped on every surface, and ushers waiting behind every door. Your father led you through to the main hall, his voice carrying as he greeted the young lord. "Viscount Bridgerton!"

"Lord Kinsley.” Anthony showed no sign of embarrassment or disdain for your father’s enthusiasm; in fact, he welcomed it. “I cannot recall how many times I have asked you to call me Anthony."

"As you wish." The older man laughed. "My lord."

You fought the urge to roll your eyes at your father. Your mother apologized to Anthony, hugging him as tightly as she hugged you. "It is his nature, to tease you.” She stepped back, holding his hands in hers. “And how are you?”

“Well, my lady.” He smiled, practically begging to be saved when his eyes met yours. “Very well.” 

You hid your laughter behind your hand, shaking your head in disapproval. "My lord." Your mother moved aside, allowing you to greet your lifelong friend.

“So formal today, Miss Kinsley.”

"You know very well I cannot smack you in front of the Queen.” You whispered. “Must you tease me so?”

The Viscount laughed, hooking his arm through yours. “Those poor Featherington girls.”

You frowned, watching as Penelope, Prudence, and Phillipa were practically marched towards the Queen. You held back a gasp as Prudence fainted in front of the Queen, the room erupting into chaos. Leaning over, you whispered in Anthony’s ear. “I assume Lady Featherington is hoping this is all a dream.” 

Anthony laughed. "I imagine this is her nightmare."

"Miss Daphne Bridgerton, presented by her mother, the Right Honorable, Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton." The doors opened slowly, Daphne almost gliding through them.

"She looks beautiful." You leaned into Anthony’s side, smiling brightly. "Don't you think?"

He looked down, his heart skipping. You looked radiant, the pale blue dress brought out your features wonderfully. It did not go unnoticed by him that you were wearing his family's colors, something he found pride in for some odd reason. “Yes. Yes, she does.” 

She bowed deeply, the entire room holding their breaths as the Queen stood, placing her finger beneath Daphne's chin. "Flawless, my dear." 

You grinned, squeezing Anthony's arm tighter. He winced, hissing from the pain. "Christ. You are more excited for my dear sister than I am."

You lay haphazardly on Daphne’s bed, smiling as you watched the Bridgeton women gossip around you. Moments like this made you long for siblings, for some sort of companion. You supposed the Bridgertons filled that longing by making you a part of their antics - whether you wanted to or not. 

You had known Anthony since you were a mere two years of age, meeting the young boy when your family had moved in those many years ago. You’d been there when each of the Bridgerton children was brought into this world, you’d been there when Edmund died, you’d been there when Anthony became the lord of their family, and you had been there with your mother when Lady Bridgerton gave birth to Hyacinth. 

"You absolutely sparkled, sister."

Daphne was the very picture of grace, brushing off her sister’s kind words. "Come now. I merely simpered and minced in a pretty dress like everyone else.” 

You scoffed. “Not exactly like everyone else, you were perfection itself."

Eloise sighed. "Oh, I shall need to go and visit with Penelope. Her presentation was anything but... what was it the Queen called you again?"

Daphne blushed, slipping into her dress. "Flawless. Or some such thing. Trust, I was astonished Her Majesty offered me, out of two hundred young ladies present, a most gracious remark."

"Yes, it was quite a distinction. And now, 200 young ladies have a common adversary. I wish you luck, sister."

"Eloise!" Daphne gasped. 

Eloise did not look shocked by her sister’s outburst, and you had a sneaking suspicion she was trying to rile her sister into a frenzy. “What? It is true.” 

“My success on the marriage mart influences all of your prospects. We will all need to find love one day. Indeed, a love as pure as what Mama and Papa once shared, if we are so fortunate. I merely hope I am able to continue such a grand tradition.”

Violet burst through the door, the maids trailing behind her, each carrying at least three boxes. “Your dresses have arrived.” The rest of the girls followed after Daphne, who had practically raced toward the new arrivals. 

Eloise stayed in her chair, staring at you curiously. “Surely you agree with me?”

“Eloise.” You gave her a pointed look. “Why must you tease your sister so?” 

“It is all in good fun,” Eloise grumbled, crossing her arms. 

You sighed, slipping off the bed, holding your hand out to the younger girl. "You know I wholeheartedly agree. The marriage market is no honorable arena. It is a bloodbath indeed."

Eloise laughed, putting her hand in yours. "I wish I were like you."

"How so?” You tilted your head. 

“You can flout about undetected, without fear of your mama forcing you to attend fitting after fitting.” 

You laughed, nudging her arm. “If it is any consolation, I wish I were you.” You walked through the doorway, gazing at the dozens of dresses laid out for Daphne to peruse at her pleasure. 

"Why would you want to be like me?" Eloise smirked, wiggling her eyebrows teasingly. "To be young? I didn't take you to be so vain, Kinsley."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You know what I meant." You looked out at the room full of Bridgertons, watching with a concealed envy you hardly ever let show. "That, that is what I meant." 

Eloise squeezed your hand. "You do have that. We are family, you and I." 

"Yes, well..." You shoved Eloise towards the dresses, laughing at her disgusted face. "Enough chatter. Try one of these exquisite gowns on. I demand it." 

Eloise glared, sticking her tongue out as she grabbed the latest gossip column. "Mary Edgecombe, now the Countess of Fulton, apparently spent the last year living in a cottage hundreds of miles away from her Earl. It says it all right here."

Violet sighed. "Do not tell me it is yet another scandal sheet. Eloise-"

"No, no. This one is different. This one lists subjects by name, in full."

Hyacinth jumped. "Let me see!"

"Just wait-"

Francesca stared at the paper. "Lady Whistledown?"

"Do we know a Lady Whistledown?"

"Surely, Lady Whistledown cannot be her true name." Daphne glanced at the scandal sheet.

"What does it say, dearest?"

"She loathes the fact that we've been named alphabetically, oldest to youngest."

"Your father and I found it orderly."

"Lady Whistledown finds banality."

You rolled your eyes. "Lady Whistledown sounds like a bored old hag."

Violet gave you a disappointed look, raising a single eyebrow. "I may not be your mother, but I am sure she does not allow you to use that kind of language."

You instantly cowered under her gaze, smiling guiltily. "Yes, Violet."

"The papers were distributed around town today without charge."

"Without charge? What kind of author-" Violet gasped, holding Daphne's hand. "Well, at least she has one thing right. She has named Daphne this season's Incomparable. She calls you a diamond of the first water.” The older woman sighed, smiling to herself. “Well, how lovely."

You clapped your hands, grabbing the attention of the room. “I'm afraid I must be off. My mother will be wondering where I am."

Daphne smiled. "Will you be at the ball tonight?"

"Of course I will, Daph."

You waved goodbye once more before traipsing down the stairs towards Anthony’s study.

You watched as he worked or tried to, at least. He kept staring at his father’s pocket watch, distracting himself from his duties. And you kept getting distracted by how perfect he looked in the midday light. Ridding yourself of those outlandish thoughts, you pushed the door the rest of the way open, leaning against its frame. "Waiting for someone, my lord?"

"It’s you." He glared playfully. "Please, come in."

"You seem to be in a mood." You stood in front of his desk, wiggling your eyebrows. “Is dear Sienna denying your visits?"

“When I tell you things in confidence, that does not mean you may bring them up every waking moment.” 

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "I think that is exactly what that means, my dear Anthony. Friends tease; it is in their nature."

His eyes were heavy, as if he found offense with your statement. Still, he said nothing of it, leaning forward in his chair. “Shall you be in attendance at the Danbury Ball as well?”

“I would not miss it. Even if I wished not to attend, you know as well as I that my mother would require it. She is determined to find me a husband by the end of this season.”

Anthony looked unempathetic, feigning pity. “What a horrible life to lead. I seem to recall more than one man proposing to you over the years.”

You crossed your arms. “And what a horrible friend you are. You know very well I would wait centuries if that meant finding a love half as fulfilling as my mother and father’s. You do not seem to understand how horrible these men, your peers, truly are. If I had told Benedict, he would have at least tried to-”

“Well, I am not Benedict.” His tone was harsh, all inclinations of humor leaving his face as he sat back, his gaze returning to his paperwork. “Save me a dance.”

You nodded, wishing you could stay just a moment longer. “It is humorous.”

He looked up, taking the bait you had laid. “What is?” 

“That you believed I had not already done so.” You smiled, leaning across the desk and kissing his cheek. “Don’t be late.” 

The Danbury ball, as it had been every year before, was the very picture of elegance, the ultimate beginning to your seventh season on the market. Your dress was pale pink, practically white, with draping fabric that billowed when you walked. Your mother had chosen it herself, stating that if this gown did not attract suitors, she had no idea what would.

You smiled at Daphne, leaning over to your mother, who was locked in some conversation with a lord whose name you didn’t care to learn. “The Bridgertons are calling me over, Mama. Excuse me.” You hadn’t bothered to wait for permission, skirting across the room as you expertly avoided eye contact with any eager young lord in need of a wife. 

Anthony smirked, shaking his head at your antics. “Ms. Kinsley.”

“Lord Bridgerton.” You curtsied. “Lady Bridgerton.” 

Violet smiled. “Are you enjoying the ball, dear?” 

You nodded. “It is quite exquisite.” Looking over at the newly debuted girl, you forced yourself not to laugh at her overwhelmed expression, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “Relax your shoulders, Daph. You look as if you forgot how to breathe.” Daphne smiled gratefully, releasing the tension she hadn't even realized she was holding. “It is not so bad, the balls and picnics.” You hooked your arm through Anthony's as if it was second nature, muttering under your breath. "Unless you get stuck with some boring lord like-"

"Lady Bridgerton, Miss Bridgerton." Ambrose sighed, smiling faintly. "Lord Bridgerton."

"Are you not forgetting someone?" Anthony’s voice was harsh, clipped as he gestured toward you. Ambrose nodded, extending the courtesy of a quick smile. 

"Miss Kinsley."

Violet smiled. "I believe you have already met my daughter, Daphne, Lord Ambrose."

He nodded. "Yes! We met at your brother's levee."

"If I recall, my lord, you had just won your first race at Newmarket."

Anthony smiled condescendingly at the lord in front of him. "His first and only, I believe."

"Well..." Daphne looked back at the visibly embarrassed lord. "In that case, let us hope your lordship has found yourself a new horse."

"I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you at our club lately, Ambrose. Should it have anything to do with the unpaid balance you left on our betting books winter last?"

Ambrose practically gulped, walking away without another word, leaving Daphne and Violet standing in uncomfortable silence. Anthony turned to his mother and sister, that terrible all all-knowing look on his face. "Ambrose is a cheat."

“I did not realize.”

"Well, how could you have done? It's the very reason I am here, sister. Now, let us take a turn about the room."

You felt as if this was a conversation best left to family. While you had grown up together, this was not your place. You began to slip your arm out of Anthony’s, whispering. "I should get back to my mother-"

"Do you really want to be stuck in a meaningless conversation with a boring lord?" Anthony scoffed, pulling you closer to him, closer than what many of the ton deemed proper. You choked on your breath, heart stopping at the gesture. "I am saving you from a night of misery."

You rolled your eyes, Anthony quickly reminding you of his arrogance. "How charitable of you."

Daphne interrupted, pointing towards a blond man dancing. "He is rather pleasing."

"He is here to shuffle about hunting fortunes. Trust Mr. Lewis knows of your sizable dowry. Leave him be." 

She frowned, pointing towards another man. "I presume you know him too?"

"Mr. Worthington. Second son. We shall find better."

You nudged Anthony’s side, signalling that he should ease up on the girl. “Anthony, you are going to scare her.” 

“I am merely warning her about the-”

"Anthony, Daph, Miss Kinsley!" Benedict waved from across the room, pushing his way across. You grinned, wiggling your arm out of Anthony's hold to greet him. 

It was not missed by Lady Bridgerton or Daphne how Anthony’s face fell from the loss. 

“Benedict! How are you?”

He brought your right hand up to his lips, kissing the back gently. "Better now that you are here."

You laughed, smacking him lightly with your fan. “You flatter me.”

Anthony glared at Benedict, shaking his head. “Benedict, do not flirt with our dear friend.”

“Why not?”

"Because I said so, that is-"

Colin interrupted. "Did mother tell you yet? About my tour? I'm to begin in Greece."

"Greece, how adventurous, Colin."

You grinned. "Greece is wonderful this time of year; you will have a wonderful time, I'm sure."

Anthony's eyes practically fell out of their sockets, grabbing your hand and making a run for it. “On guard!”

Lady Danbury approached, laughing. “Too late. I already noted you.” She turned to Daphne, smiling. “Miss Bridgerton, you look rather lovely this evening. Is there a reason I've yet to see you on the dance floor?”

Anthony jumped in. "All in good time, Lady Danbury."

The older woman glared at Anthony, leaning towards Daphne. "You poor thing."

You laughed, agreeing with the lady wholeheartedly. "I thank the lord every day I do not have an older brother."

Benedict nudged you, faux frowning. "If only I had been born one year earlier."

"And from different parents." You shook your head, laughing. "The sentiment is there." You turned to Anthony, who was still staring down every eligible young man in the room who had their sights set on his sister. “I believe I saved you a dance.”

“Do not think you can save Daphne by distracting me.”

You raised an eyebrow, an easy sort of smile gracing your lips. “Do I distract you so easily, Lord Bridgerton?” 

His cheeks flushed, and he rolled his eyes. “Come along then.” Still holding your hand from when he tried to escape Lady Danbury, he led you through the crowd, stopping at the center of the dance floor.

A simple waltz rang through the room, the kind that even children knew. Anthony lowered his lips to your ear, shivers running down your spine as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in. "We have not danced in quite some time."

You whispered, not trusting your voice to remain stable. “The last time you asked me to dance, I believe we were in your study." Your smile fell slightly at the thought of him erasing the memory from his mind. "Remember?"

His gaze softened, his fingers pressing into your waist as he pulled you even closer, closer than one should be for a waltz. "How could I forget?"

"It was a rather odd waltz." You retorted, desperate to break the tension. "There was no music after all."

He laughed, a look gracing his face you hadn’t seen in some time, since before his father’s passing. Peace, pure, unadultered peace, perhaps with a sprinkle of mischief. "Such a difficult woman to please." 

"I am not." You glared at him, hating the way he made you feel, the way your stomach twisted when he looked at you the way he often did. "Anthony-"

"You are not a hard woman to please?" His smirk grew into a boyish grin. "What an inappropriate thing to-"

“Do not finish that sentence, Anthony Bridgerton.” You scoffed. “What happened to being a gentleman?” The conductor bowed, the waltz ending what seemed out of nowhere. Or perhaps, you would later tell yourself, it was because you got lost in Anthony Bridgerton’s eyes for the umpteenth time. You curtsied, walking away from the Viscount with your nose in the air. 

He chased after you, walking a mere step behind you. "I forget what being a gentleman is when I am around you." You knew he was jesting, but the way he had said it caused your stomach to twist and your cheeks to grow hot. 

"Please." You pulled your fan out, desperate to save face. "Save your theatrics for Sienna."

"You bring up Sienna quite often." He practically jumped in front of you, a dangerous look in his eyes. "Are you perhaps jealous?"

You scoffed, grabbing a glass of champagne from the table beside you, taking a large sip. "You are the most indignant man I have ever had the displeasure of-" Your eyes drifted over his shoulder, squinting. "Is that Basset?"

"Basset?" Anthony whipped around, grinning at the sight of his best friend. "Basset!"

"Bridgerton!" The Duke smiled kindly at you, bowing. "Miss Kinsley."

"Simon, it’s wonderful to see you."

"Old friend. I heard news of your father.” Anthony had a look of astonishment on his face. “Deuce, take it, you are no longer Basset."

"I shall always-"

"Hastings! The Duke of Hastings, now known for evermore."

Daphne tilted her head. "The Duke of Hastings, is it?"

You jumped. Daphne had shown up out of nowhere. Anthony nodded. "Right, Hastings, this is my sister."

"Your sister?"

"Daphne, Hastings, and I know each other from our days at Oxford, days we shall not soon forget."

"Yes. As I am well aware of the company you keep, brother, I am certain your days with His Grace were most civilized indeed."

You coughed, trying to cover up a laugh that had unfortunately spilled from your lips.

"Hastings, we shall need to get together properly. I expect to see you at our club then."

Simon nodded. "Indeed. Evening Bridgerton. Miss Bridgerton. Miss Kinsley."

Every week since your two families, the Bridgerton’s and the Kinsley’s, had come to know each other, you had had dinner.

This week was no exception, walking behind your parents as the butler escorted you to the dining room. Your father hugged Violet quickly, running after the youngest Bridgertons, who had been trying to attack him while he’d been distracted. 

Your mother laughed, shaking her head affectionately. "I believe my husband will never mature, Violet."

"I believe you would be right, Elisabeth." Violet sighed, her eyes drifting from her typically light-hearted nature to one of melancholy. "Shall we take our seats?"

Ever since his father’s death, Anthony had taken his seat, and for just as long, you had been sitting on his right. It was fitting, your mother would say when you whined. ‘You will marry, I know it.’ That is when you would scoff, shaking your head.

Now, you secretly wish your mother were correct. 

“For all we know, Whistledown may be some interloper living in Bloomsbury of all places."

Benedict rolled his eyes at his brother. "And what should be so terrible about Bloomsbury? That the people there actually work for a living?"

"She does seem to be someone with access."

"Who knows if Whistledown is even a she?"

Anthony nodded, taking a bite of his dinner. "Good point."

You scoffed, leaning forward in your chair. "You all are forgetting one crucial detail."

Anthony raised an eyebrow, waiting for your apparent revelation. "And what is that?"

You smirked, teasingly pointing at him with your fork. "Men do not possess the capacity to remember such details."

Eloise nodded vigorously. "Because she is simply too good to be anyone but a man?"

Anthony sighed. "I must say, you are not a good influence on my sisters."

"Well, I think it is rather obvious that the writer is Lady Danbury."

"Lady Danbury enjoys sharing her insults with society directly. She would never bother herself writing them all down."

Hyacinth spoke up. "Could it be Lady Featherington?"

The table fell into thunderous laughter. "No!"

"You have yet to read what Whistledown writes of the Featherington's, little sister." Eloise pointed out.

Hyacinth sat back, frowning. "I was just trying to help."

"And you were doing wonderfully, Hyacinth." You smiled warmly. "It is not your fault that you are normal and uneducated on such trivial nonsense, unlike Eloise." The girl rolled her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you. "Some say your sister is obsessed."

"I am not obsessed. Simply curious." She said as she stabbed a potato rather harshly.

"I'm only teasing, Eloise. I am equally curious as to who the author is. Wouldn’t it be spectacular if it were-" 

"Hastings! I am most excited that you decided to join us this evening. It was most spontaneous of you."

You glared, muttering under your breath. “I was not finished.” Anthony paid you no heed, staring at his friend with a curious look in his eye. 

"Not at all. With Lady Danbury accepting your dear mother's gracious invitation on my behalf, well. However, could I have declined?"

You laughed, covering your mouth with your wine glass, whispering. "What a matchmaker your mother is."

Anthony scowled. "Do not remind me."

You once again found yourself peeking through the cracked door of Anthony’s study. You smiled to yourself as his face came into view, admiring him from afar. He was quite handsome, with his terribly witty look, his dark features, and his kind eyes. You stepped closer, about to enter the study, when Lady Bridgerton’s voice cut through the silence.

"I was under the impression that the two of you are good friends."

"We are good friends. That is why I know that he is certain of never getting married."

Violet sighed. "Well, you must understand that all men make that assertion. Your father-"

Anthony snapped, looking up from his ledgers. "Do not bring Father into this. Even if he were in want of a wife, you would most certainly not have the duke anywhere near Daphne."

"I am fully subscribed to the belief that reformed rakes make the very best of husbands."

"He will not make her happy! Daphne deserves better. And I know that you think you are solving the problem, but you are not. That is all I shall say about the matter."

"The duke will be joining us as our guest at Vauxhall tomorrow evening. Now, I admit, it was not easy to convince him to come-"

"You overstep."

"She is my eldest daughter."

"Yet she is my responsibility, as are you."

Violet scoffed. "Responsibility?"

"Do not make this any more difficult than it already is."

Violet continued. "I wish to know something, Anthony. Tonight, when you leave this study that you continue to keep at your family home, are you to return to your bachelor lodgings across the square, or will you pay a visit to a certain soprano that you tend to in an apartment that you pay for on the other side of town?" 

You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth. 

"You like to speak of responsibility. My dear son! Of duty? Pray, tell, what should you know of it? You must ask yourself, are you merely an older brother, or are you the man of this house?"

Violet stormed out of the study, and you tried your best to look as if you’d just happened upon the hallway, that you had not, in fact, been eavesdropping the entirety of their conversation. Anthony’s face was in his hands as you entered. 

"Mother, please leave me-"

"Anthony." You frowned, shutting the door gently behind you. "Are you quite alright?" He shrugged, finding it difficult to form words. You walked behind the desk, sitting directly in front of him. “Do not become cross with me.”

"Why would I be cross at you?" He tilted his head.

You reached out, holding his hands gently in yours. Your thumb caressed the back of his palm, your eyes trailing up from your joined hands to his eyes. "Anthony..."

"Not you, too." He sounded properly exhausted, simply dropping your hold as he walked toward the fire. That was somehow worse than him ripping his hands out of yours.  

You followed after him, crossing your arms. “I am merely saying that your mother has a point. You are a great Viscount, but you could-”

"I'm not my father."

You felt as if the very air you breathed had been pulled from your lungs. Your voice was soft as you spoke. "I know that."

“Then why does she keep insisting that I be-"

"I know that it feels as if she is putting the weight of the world on your shoulders, but she is trying to help you." You could not fight the urge to hold him any longer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “She loves you.” You whispered, heart skipping. “As do I.” 

He turned around, pulling your hand from his shoulder and holding it in his. “Promise me something.”

You decided to humor him, nodding. "Anything."

"Do not ever leave me." His eyes held a longing, a want for everything to remain the same. You pitied him. Eventually, you would marry, and now that you had accepted that you and Anthony were never to be, that would mean you would cease to see him.

"I will try my best."

He shook his head and pulled you closer, your breaths intermingling as his eyes darted to your lips every so often. You so longed to jump up, to pull his lips to yours. “I do not know what I would do if I lost you.”

“Anthony, please.” You put a hand on his cheek, smiling as he leaned into your touch. “You would be fine-”

"I do not believe I would." He leaned down, your breath hitching as he laid his forehead against yours. "In fact, I know I would not."

You laughed, falling into the trap of domestic bliss. "Anthony, I will marry eventually. You and I will no longer see each other." 

He scoffed. "Pray tell, what possessed you to ruin my dream? Humor me." 

"Dream?” You raised your eyebrow, smiling giddily. “What dream is that?" His finger pressed against your lips, and you stopped, thanking the lord for the dim lighting the room provided. Hopefully, he could not see how wide your pupils were, your shallow breaths, your burning cheeks.

“It will not happen.” 

You raised your eyebrow once more, this time in offense. “Am I that difficult on the eye?” 

He laughed. “Do not fish for compliments. You know you are exquisite.” You sighed, stepping back. It all became too much, this complimenting, his dream, him. He tightened his hold on your hands, eyebrows furrowing. “Where are you off to?” 

“I should be going, Anthony. It is late-” 

“You always stay this late.” He frowned. “Is something-” 

“Dearest!” Your mother’s voice rang through the house, and your eyes widened, pulling away from the Viscount. “Dearest, we are leaving!” 

You would later thank your mother for her help. Curtsying quickly, you darted out of the study, racing down the steps. “Goodbye, my lord.” 

You hadn’t intended on seeing him here, of all places. You were surprised, in truth, that Anthony still frequented the library. It was gorgeous, and even though you were no student, the librarian still allowed you to frequent the aisles from time to time. You could be found here in truth, just sitting, enjoying the silence. The solitude. 

When you saw his ever familiar frame and you jumped, hiding behind an endcap in the hopes he’d missed you. You groaned when he’d called out your name, squeezing your eyes shut. He whispered your name again, and you took a deep breath, stepping out to face the man you’d been avoiding. 

“Lord Bridgerton, how wonderful to see you.” 

“I would say the same-” He took his hat off, smirking. “But it seems you have been avoiding me as of late.” 

“I do not know what you mean.” You scoffed, walking past him, desperate to escape. “If you’ll excuse me-” 

“Why?” He asked, following after you. “You have not been attending our dinners.” 

“I haven’t been feeling well.” 

“Oh?” He frowned, stepping in front of you. Reaching up, he placed the back of his hand on your forehead, checking your temperature. Your eyes widened, and you stepped around him. He squinted, watching you with interest. “You seem well.”

“I am.” You nodded. “I am now.” He kept looking at you, kept trying to understand you. “Can you stop staring at me?” Your cheeks felt hot. “It is unbecoming.” 

“I have missed you.” He whispered. “May I call on you?” 

You scoffed. “Call on me? Anthony, you have been in my home more times than I care to count. You do not need to call on me.” 

“I know.” His hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “I will see you tomorrow, then?” 

“Anthony…” Your eyes trailed down to his hand, which was still holding your wrist. “I’m afraid I have the time reserved.” 

“Reserved?” He tilted his head, voice becoming hostile. “Reserved for what?” 

“For whom.” You corrected, hating that this conversation was occurring, in public, no less. “It is for Lord Goring.” 

“Lord Goring?” Anthony yelled, drawing the attention of the many students strewn throughout the hall. “Lord Goring? That man is twice your age-”

“His wife recently died, and he is kind.” You hissed. “We are going on a promenade.” Anthony stood before you, fuming silently. You frowned, curtsying quickly. “Goodbye, Lord Bridgerton.”

You’d practically flown down the steps, you walking pace closer to a light run. You hadn’t bothered to look behind you, too scared that Anthony would be there, following after you. 

“Miss Kinsley!”

Of course, he had followed you. You kept your pace, refusing to give in and turn around. 

“Miss Kinsley!” You gasped, turning to your side to see Anthony following after you in his carriage. The many lords and ladies walking on the street gasped, staring at the couple. “Let me bring you home, please.” 

“That would be most improper, my lord.” You hissed, eyes wide. “I enjoy a nice walk.” 

“As do I.” Anthony was not giving up. “If you like, I can escort you home.” 

You glared, crossing your arms. “You are the most arrogant, outlandish, pig-headed-” 

“Are you quite finished?” He raised an eyebrow. “Mother is expecting me for luncheon.” 

You wanted to scream. Gathering your skirts in your hands, you climbed into the carriage, shutting the door behind you harshly. “I cannot stand you.” 

“Funny enough, I cannot stand you either.” He looked thoroughly entertained. “Yet here I am…” 

“Here you are.” You were now hugging yourself, knee bouncing nervously. And Anthony… he had not stopped staring at you, watching you with a fascination you had never seen before. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” His voice was soft. 

“Staring at me with such a-” You met his eyes, voice going weak. “Turn your eyes away from me if you can.” 

“That is the problem.” He leaned forward, whispering. “I do not think that’s possible.”

“Why?” You wished the carriage could go faster. “Is there something on my face that you have yet to tell me?” 

“Can I not admire you?” He smiled. “You are beautiful.” 

You gasped. “Do not say such things.” 

“It is true.” His smile had not left his face. “I am not a fool.” 

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, a small laugh leaving you before you could think.

“Do you believe me to be a fool?” When you did not answer, he smirked. “I know why you have been avoiding me, Miss Kinsley.” 

“Do tell.” 

The ever-familiar scene of your two houses came into view as the carriage slowed, Anthony’s voice confident. “You have fallen in love with me.” 

“You are wrong.” You didn’t know what you wanted to do: smack him or kiss him. “I have not fallen in love with you.” 

He laughed, holding your hand as you descended the carriage steps. “Whatever you say, my love.” 

“My love?” You rolled your eyes, smiling kindly at the servants you passed as you walked through the Bridgerton’s house. “I am not your-” Your eyes widened as Anthony led you into the parlor, the entirety of his family present. “Anthony?” 

Anthony brought you into the middle of the room, hooking his arm through yours. “I have an announcement.” 

Eloise peeked out from behind her book, grinning when she saw you. “Miss Kinsley!” 

Violet stood beside Francesca, who was currently playing the piano forte. “What is the announcement, dear?” 

“Miss Kinsley and I are to be wed.” The room erupted into chaos, all congratulating you while you stared at Anthony, frozen in shock. He leaned down, whispering in your ear. “I may have forgotten a rather important detail.” 

You laughed. “I believe you may have.” 

“Forgive me.” Lowering himself to one knee, he held your hands delicately in his, eyes desperately staring into yours. “Miss Kinsley, will you do me the honor of-” 

“Yes.” You nodded, eyes wide with tears. You leaned down, kissing his cheek. “Anthony, you must know that I’ve loved you for quite some time.” 

He stood, wrapping an arm around your waist. “You must know something as well.” 

You smiled. “And what is that?” 

“I have loved you for quite some time as well.” 

Violet was simply sobbing as she watched the two interact. “Anthony, you must give her your father’s ring.” Pulling the delicate thing off her finger, she placed it in Anthony’s palm, tears streaming down her face. “I always wished- Your mother and I wanted this for- Oh!” She sobbed again, pulling you both into a strong hug. “I am overjoyed!” 

Eloise laughed as you silently begged her for help. “I told you you were family, dear sister.” 

“They will be wondering where I am, Anthony.” You looked nervously toward the door. “Now that we are engaged, they will not allow this sort of-” 

“You are quite tense, my love.” He laughed, placing one hand on your waist, the other on your cheek. “Our wedding is in three days time, surely they will not mind-” 

“My father now believes that every time we have been alone before this was-” Your cheeks felt hot. “Was an attempt on your part to seduce me.” Anthony laughed, actually laughed at your statement. You, on the other hand, did not find this situation remotely as humorous. “It is not amusing in the slightest, Anthony.” 

“I find it amusing.” He whispered, leaning down until his nose nudged yours. “May I kiss you?” 

“You kissed me when I entered your office.” You raised an eyebrow. “Are you so desperate-” You gasped as Anthony pulled you impossibly close. 

“I have a whole lifetime to remedy, for delaying the inevitable, for keeping us apart.” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke. “Do you not enjoy it, kissing?” 

You scoffed. “I never said that-” 

“Good.” He smiled. 

“But yo-” Your eyes fluttered shut, his lips colliding against yours passionately. It seemed a whole eternity passed before either of you let go, your breath heavy as you parted. “You interrupted me.” 

“I am sorry.” 

You shrugged, kissing the corner of his mouth. “As long as you promise to interrupt me as you just did for the rest of our lives…” Your voice was warm, full of adoration for your future husband. “Then I do not mind.” 

“Well then,” He grinned, eyes falling to your lips once more. “Your wish is my command, Lady Bridgerton.” 

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