sugar talk
summary: clark kent is shy, bashful, and impossibly sweet; and despite barely being friends, he splurges on extravagant gifts for you daily. so naturally, you repay him by getting his initials on the set of acrylics he paid for, sending his entire world into freefall.
clark kent x fashion writer ! reader
themes: based off of this ask! clark is basically a super sweet sugardaddy in this, he's obsessed with you and so sweet about it, love language is OBVIOUSLY gifts, you are emotionally unavailable and so girlboss. enjoy!
Nobody forced you to do it.
Nobody held your hand under that nail lamp, a gun to your head and a threat to your existence- yet you chose to, anyway.
Just like you were choosing to miss your floor entirely. Instead of staying inside the metal box to get to the 17th, your floor- the floor of fashion writing and countless wannabe Miranda Priestley’s- you hit the button that takes you to the top of The Daily Planet building instead. To where he is.
Clark Kent.
Ever so sexy, ever so enamoured with you Clark; who blushes when you call him darling and tries yet fails miserably to cover the tent in his slacks whenever you’re around. Clark, whose glasses slip down his nose in a way that practically begs you to push them up, with a slight clack of your acrylic against the frame.
Clark, who is responsible for every single luxurious coat, handbag, and scarf you own now, as well as every nail set you get done monthly. Who greets you every morning with an oat flat white and a gluten-free pastry- just how you like it- like some desperate PA who lives to please.
Truthfully, you don’t even remember when this arrangement began.
It started off as gifts; gold bags with curly ribbon and post-it notes on your desk. At first, it had been trinkets; an empty picture frame, a luxe little candle that smelled like vanilla and wealth, a little keychain that had your initials on.
Then, it turned into roses.
And that’s when your brain slips; like you can’t remember the exact date those roses transformed into Clark’s credit card being the default on your Apple pay, or when it snowballed into your loyal nail-tech refusing to let you pay because Mr Kent paid me in advance, miss. For the rest of the year. Tip included.
You let him. Obviously. Because it was nice to be taken care of every once in a while, especially by someone as attentive and caring as the man with a jar of peanut butter on his desk and post-note reminders to send money back home to his parents in Kansas. You were always so independent, so against external help- that sometimes, it was refreshing to be spoiled every now and again.
"Clark, you shouldn't have." you'd gushed one time, though the furrow in your brows showed more concern than gratitude.
He held the coat open for you to step into- all $500, faux fur (obviously) fluffy beige of it, with a handbag from some unknown designer brand you loved to match. Working in fashion meant that you could sus out a price from the first glance alone, and you knew immediately that he'd splurged quite a lot on you that week already.
And it was only a Tuesday.
The smile on Clark's face was giddy, cut by a sheepishness that always came with the fear of you not liking it.
"I wanted to."
You'd scolded him, but barely.
He already did so much for you. He even took it upon himself to brave the entirety of the fashion floor every day just to walk you to your desk; just to set your coffee and pastry down and pull your chair out like an experienced waiter waiting eagerly for a tip.
Yet Clark never asked. Nor did he impose. He just smiled, that soft, simple little smile of his that made your heart flutter and your palms sweat.
You'd thank him, genuinely. Sometimes, you'd even peck him on the cheek. The one time you hugged him, he'd short-circuited so hard he ended up knocking into the edge of your desk, sending your picture-less picture frame flying.
"Oh, darling. It's fine," you'd said absentmindedly, already logging onto your computer with a mirage of different things to do as he sighed, annoyed with himself, fingers already fumbling to pick up the pieces. "I didn't have anything in it, anyway."
Regardless, another gift bag greeted you on your desk the very next day. The same frame sat inside, only now it was brand new and still in the packaging. Still without a picture. Always.
You left it in the bag and shoved it somewhere underneath your desk, collecting dust next to some old copies and print. Out of all the gifts Clark had ever gotten you, that one probably resonated with you the least, though you were still thankful. You just didn't have anyone you cared enough about to put inside of it. You loved your friends, but pictures with them had become a rare occurrence since work had become your life.
This was all just a bit of fun- something new- you realised. You got a slight kick out of the way Clark fawned over you, how he treated you like God's gift to earth; clad in a leopard print blouse and nails so long they should be considered their own lethal weapon. He didn't have a girlfriend, that much you knew- otherwise, this would have started and ended at the first coffee he'd ever gotten you.
No; the infamous, nervoys, smoking hot Clark Kent was completely single. He also just happened to be utterly, undeniably obsessed with you.
And although you'd always been quite bad at communicating your feelings (every ex-boyfriend you'd ever had ended the relationship with a tearful goodbye and a suggestion for you to go to therapy- all while you typed away at your work laptop and made mental notes to call a few clients after the whole interaction was over) you couldn't deny that even you felt the same.
Somewhat.
Almost.
How could you not, first of all? You thrived in being alone, but you weren't bulletproof. And shots came in the form of Clark coming down to see you with your favourite lunch everyday; in him listening to every single thing you had to say, remembering important anecdotes for next time.
It felt like a machine gun, heavy duty; the way he'd hold the elevator door open for you to step in and out of, large palm steady on your lower back as he guided you down the hall to your office; your fur draped over his arm, your work bag slung over his shoulder.
Though oddly enough, he's never asked anything from you in return. Not your number. Not even your email. Never money, or anything in exchange for all the extravagent things he gets you. He even walks you home most days and has never once waited to be invited inside.
You told yourself it was fine. Maybe Clark just had a thing for it- a money kink, something that paired well with his shy, bashful persona. Or maybe, he was just waiting for a greenlight; something you had always struggled to give.
"You're killing him, doll," Rita, your second-in-command at the office once said. She'd been flicking through last season's magazine for inspiration when Clark came bumbling towards your desk; another coffee you hadn't asked for yet were in dire need of clutched in his big hand.
Figured you could do with it. Have you had lunch yet? I'll get you lunch. That place from Monday okay? Did you like that?
The coffee was the good kind, too- a cortado that came from your favourite artisan cafe down the street and left, not the black sludge from your kitchenettes at the office.
You'd smiled at him, lips still on the rim of the cup, while he swallowed and moved his satchel in front of the growing problem in his work trousers.
The second he walked off, Rita had turned to you.
"Give the poor boy a break. He wants you so bad, at least give him a little somethin'."
You'd rolled your eyes, watching as she made a foul gesture with a piston of her free hand and a comical tongue in cheek.
After waving her off, you caught sight of your own growth beginning to take place between your acrylics and your cuticles. You were in dire need of an infill, something new.
The cogs in your mind started whirring then, dangerous and risky- and you booked an appointment almost immediately for the very next day.
Which evidently, brings us to now.
You wriggle your fingers beneath the elevator light, one eyebrow lifting as you admire your new set.
It had been a simple request; stiletto French tips, a few tiny diamonds scattered across a couple of nails- and on your ring finger, two unmistakable glittering gems, glued in place to steal the show whenever they catch the light just right.
Initials. Someone's.
His.
The ride to the top of the Planet is unbearable. Your heart is in your throat, thick and pulsing, and you swear the altitude of being this high up feels otherworldly all of a sudden- even though your floor is only a few spaces below. Even though you spend half of your life in jets and planes, thinking nothing of it when you land in different fashion capitals of the world.
Your body moves before your brain has a chance to catch up and eject, and you find yourself click-clacking out of the elevator with steps so loud, and so unstoppable, that a few heads turn.
First, it's Steve. A knuckle-headed, poor excuse of a man who whistles and says, "Lost, princess?" earning a scowl from you and a kick under the table from the woman he's sitting next to.
Then, it's Cat; beautiful Cat Grant, who you've had many a conversation with about the industry you love, and the social and economic dread you both feel about fast fashion. She waves at you excitedly, but she's stuck in a conversation and makes a small gesture with her hand to just give her a minute.
But you don't dwell. You're here for one reason, and one reason only.
You find what you're looking for before anyone else can point you in the direction. A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, especially when you see the empty chair behind him.
Clark's head is ducked, a highlighter in his hand that spills across a page of small text. He's mumbling to himself, scrunching his nose every now and then to keep his glasses upright.
Before you can drink him in, he pauses. And you have no idea how- because you're practically concealed in the bustle of the bullpen- but he looks up in your exact direction.
And his eyes widen. His mouth parts.
When you start walking towards him- the tiniest smile on your face and something he can't quite make out glittering behind your eyes- he fumbles for the seat next to him, large hands dropping his highlighter so that he can stand up to greet you.
"H-Hi," he starts, and you'd be blushing too if it wasn't for the five different pairs of eyes on you both.
Out of the corner of your own gaze, you can just about make out Jimmy Olsen- Rita's one-sided Work Husband, you learnt a while back- with his eyebrows raised almost to the roof. Lois Lane watches behind a chipped mug of black coffee, shock on her usually composed features.
"Clark," you say slowly, taking a gentle seat on the chair before you. He does the same, a confusion on his face that he tries to hide with a deep clear of his throat.
"Is everything... everything okay?" he lowers his voice, blue eyes gazing into your soul so deep, your heart jumps again. For a split second, they narrow at your chest, before pulling away and locking with your own again.
"Everything’s fine," you say softly, already feeling the tension begin to melt from your shoulders. Clark exhales at that, the sound short and carefully controlled, like he’d been bracing for something much worse.
"Okay," he murmurs, nodding once, twice, as if committing the word to memory.
"Okay, that’s good. That’s really good."
You tilt your head, watching him with an affection you rarely let yourself indulge in. He looks impossibly earnest like this; sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms, tie loosened in a way that tells you he’s been at this desk for hours longer than he should’ve been.
It’s sweet. He’s sweet. And it makes your chest ache in that familiar, inconvenient way.
"I won’t take up too much of your time," you say, voice light, fingers resting casually in your lap. "I just… I was nearby."
A blatant lie, and you both know it.
Clark smiles anyway, wide and helpless, like you’ve just handed him something important instead of a flimsy excuse.
"You can take up as much time as you want," he says before he can stop himself, then flushes pink all the way up to the tips of his ears. "I mean- not that- I just-"
You hold back a laugh, your smile gentle, leaning forward a fraction. "Clark."
He stills instantly at the sound of his name on your lips, attention snapping back to you like a magnet finding its pull. His eyes flicker over your face, your coat, the line of your shoulders- lingering in places he tries very hard not to linger- before finally, finally, dropping to your hands when you lift them to gesture.
You pretend it’s nothing. A careless movement. Fingers flexing as you brush imaginary lint from your sleeve.
That’s when he sees it.
The glitter catches first, subtle and deliberate, and then his breath leaves him entirely. His gaze locks onto your nails like they’ve reached out and grabbed him, pupils blown wide behind his glasses.
Two letters, neat and unmistakable, worked into the design with the same care he uses when he picks out your coats, your fabrics, your colours.
CK.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Just stares, stunned, reverent, like you’ve carved his name into something permanent and not into a set of frenchies you'll only have for the next few weeks. A swallow bobs in his throat.
"You-" he breathes, the word barely there, like he’s afraid to say anything at all.
His eyes flick between your fingers and your face, stunned and searching.
"Is that…?"
You don’t let him finish. You lift your hand just a little higher between you, letting the letters catch the light once more, your voice low and certain when you say, "My way of saying thank you."
The smile that breaks across his face then is slow and reverent. Then, it turns bright and boyish, and you know- with a certainty that settles deep in your bones- that you’ve undone him completely.
Something shifts in him then.
You can see it, feel it- the hesitation over anything other than gifts that he’s worn like armour finally cracking.
His hand twitches on the desk, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. When he looks up at you again, there’s a softness there that makes your chest tighten.
You're hyperaware of how much time you're taking up. So, smoothly, you stand; wrapping your coat back into place as Clark rises with you. He moves quick- too eager and alert, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.
His voice is lower now, steadier, though his smile still gives him away and the way he can't tear his eyes away from your fingers makes it very, very obvious what he wants to ask.
He says your name.
Your lips curl in amusement.
"Yes, Clark?"
"Are you- um. Are you free tonight?"
You can see it in him, how much of his willpower it's taking to risk rejection. But he says it anyway, braving the chances.
And you pause, just long enough to make him nervous. But you already know your answer.
"I think I could be," you reply, eyes dancing.
Clark's grin turns radiant, broad shoulders relaxing under his strained dress shirt. "Then-" he clears his throat, "if you're not too busy- would you let me take you out? Properly. Dinner. Anywhere you want."
You tighten your coat- the $500 gift with the handbag to match sitting comfortably at home- around you, and give him a small nod. You lift your hand once more between you, the letters glinting under the newsroom lights.
"I’d like that, Clark."
He grins so wide, it's you who nearly ends up bumping into the edge of his desk.
You leave him standing there, glowing and stunned and very much probably very much in love with you.
And when the elevator doors slide shut around you once more, you catch your reflection in the mirrored walls. For the first time, the thought doesn’t scare you.
Beacuse by the time the elevator begins to move, you already know...
Soon, you’ll finally have something worth putting in that frame.
