echo-ethe

[echo-ethe]

(you think) he doesn't like you back — Clark Kent

summary: you think he doesn't like you back, so you draw your love letters instead of confessing, and he finds your sketchbook one day. word count: 5.6k content warning: reader is an artist and has eczema, clark and reader are friends and roommates, trust fund reader, mention of past and current toxic relationships (not clark), reader has depression, self esteem issues. unrequited love, heartbreak, happy ending, hurt/comfort. also reader is bi (briefly mentioned). this is kind of really sad, but i promise, the ending is happy. notes: this was a request, and i meant to make it short and really sweet but instead i made it so angsty for no reason omg. i am truly so sorry anon, i still hope you enjoy it anyway. not beta read, please don't mind typos.

You think that people are too negative about having crushes. Sure, it’s heartcrushing and agonising and the yearning always threatens to bear a hole through your heart and ribcage, and it’s painful and the world feels like it’s ending every single time you see your crush smile at someone else and that there’s a rodent that took up residence inside your stomach to chew on your intestines but that’s besides the point.

The point you’re trying to make is that crushes are wonderful. Nothing in the world feels as blissful as catching the eyes of your crush and having them smile back at you first. 

Nothing can quite compare to the stolen glances and the soft accidental brush of fingers against fingers, or when there are only two seats left somewhere and you have to sit right next to him. 

Best of all, nothing could compare to the feeling you get every night fantasizing about holding his hand and falling asleep to the thought of the two of you together, happy in love. 

And you’re lucky, because your crush is your roommate and you get to see him every single day. 

And one of your favorite things to do is curl up in the couch while your roommate, Clark Kent, the tall and strong but nerdy farm boy from the middle of nowhere in Kansas, is doing the dishes. You offered, of course, but he refuses to ever let you touch water (he found out you have eczema and has been adamant ever since not to let you do anything that could cause your skin to flare up again, including but not limited to him doing the dishes for you, doing the laundry for you and other things you can’t remember right now because you’re too busy staring at the muscles of his back that were so defined they shone through his shirt), which is why you’re on the couch right now doing nothing but drawing while he’s busy being the perfect crush in the world. 

Only your pencils and your sketchbooks know about the crush you have on your roommate. When Clark asks if he can see your drawings, you always pull out a sketchbook you haven’t touched since you met him, because it’s your only sketchbook that isn’t filled to the brim with drawings of Clark Kent. If he notices how you never show him recent drawings, he doesn’t tell.

The thing is, lately you’ve only been drawing him. He was your muse, in a way. You’d been in a drawing slump for years before he replied to your Craiglist ad about a roommate and you first took a look at the adorkable gentle giant that was Clark Kent. 

The first day you guys met and you saw the shy dimple on his left cheek, your fingers itched to pick up a pencil again, and you haven’t put it down ever since, two years ago. 

“What are you drawing?” he asks while putting glasses in the drying rack. His glasses were slightly falling off his nose, and he kept failing to push them up with his wrist. You took pity on him and stood up from your nook in the couch and approached him. You used one finger on the bridge of his glasses to push them up.

“I was drawing the kitchen,” you lied, because you can’t exactly tell him you were learning the anatomy of his back and capturing the slopes and tendons of his muscles. 

He perked up. “Can I see?”

“Mhmm… only if you let me see you without your glasses,” you reply because it’s easier when it’s him who says no. He never accepts for some reason. He says he’s too insecure about his looks without them.

He instantly pouts. “You do that on purpose.”

Oops, he noticed. 

“My sketches are my glasses,” you tell him wisely. 

“That… that makes sense. You’re really smart,” he then says, completely out of the blue. Your entire body goes red. Not just your face or your ears or your neck. You can feel the blush travel all the way down to your chest.

“Says the actual reporter who’s about to win a Pulitzer prize anytime now.”

It’s his turn to flush and you wish you could use the shade of his blush to paint a portrait of him. 

“When are you gonna let me do the dishes too?”

You never thought you would ask that one day. You usually hate doing the dishes but it’s because Clark who does it for you, you feel bad and you want to help him.

“When you’re cured of eczema. And don’t try to tell me it’s getting better, because I see your hands everytime you shower.”

You didn’t know that.

You grin. “Been keeping up tabs on me, big boy?”

He splutters. “Ah, I, no, it’s… gosh darnit you, stop making fun of me.”

“I would apologize if I sincerely felt bad but unfortunately for you, I don’t.”

See? Having crushes wasn’t so bad.

Or maybe you should specify that it’s only not so bad when the object of your crush is Clark Kent. 

“Hey, do you wanna order takeout for tonight? That way you won’t have to do the dishes again. At least for tonight.”

Clark smiles, like he always does whenever you offer to do something with him. He’s always surprised that you actually enjoy spending his time, as though you haven’t fell in love with him the moment he held you all night long after a really bad date. 

“Ah, can I get a raincheck please? Tomorrow?”

“Sure,” you reply easily. “You gotta go to the office again later?”

He blushes, and smiles sweetly as if he wasn’t about to crush your heart with an elephant’s foot. “Ah, no. I, uh… I have a date tonight.”

“No way!” you say, trying to sound excited for him, because he really does look happy and excited about it. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“I’m the lucky guy, to be honest. She’s a colleague at work.”

You instantly know who he’s talking about. “Lois Lane?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” he asked with a timid smile.

You have nothing against her, really. She is breathtakingly pretty, has a smile that only rivals the moon in its beauty, and is as kind as a tree. Don’t ask why, you just think trees are the world’s kindest creatures, even if they’re not really creatures. And she’s always so sweet to you whenever she comes over. You like the way she drinks her sugar with coffee, instead of coffee with sugar the way literally anyone else did. She was— well, perfect for someone like Clark Kent. If he was the sun, she was the moon. And she was so nice to you, so pretty, you drew her, and she was so happy she hugged you and asked if she could keep the drawing. 

And most importantly, she is a Pulitzer prize winner. For all intents and purposes, she is perfect. 

And you’re such a horrible person for hating her right now. She didn’t do anything to you, so why the rodent inside your stomach chewing on your intestines like they were battery acid?

“I hope you have fun.”

“I know I will. I always have fun when I’m with her.”

And really, deep down, you’re happy for them both. You’re just even sadder for yourself, and it’s hard to feel anything positive about this right now.

So yeah, maybe people weren’t wrong about having crushes. Nothing was positive about it. 

When he’s gone and he says not to wait for him and he asks you to wish him luck (and you do), and you’re left all alone with just you and your twenty-thousand sketches of him, you feel really stupid. Really silly. Like a clown. 

It’s not like you even held some foolish hope that he would be yours one day. You just foolishly thought that he would never go out with other girls. You were just fine with being his friend, as long as he wasn’t also interested in other girls. You’re insane, you know, but it worked for you for almost two years. So in a way, he was just yours. You were the only who got to see him just as he wakes up or right before he goes to sleep. You were the only one he did the dishes for, and the only one he applied cream against your rashes whenever it got too bad. 

But now, you weren’t the only one anymore. 

In a way, it feels like a breakup. Because you were being crazy, if you’re honest with yourself. Maybe this is a good thing. 

Watching him come home the day after spending the night with his girlfriend with mussed hair and that shy smile that always betrayed what he’d been up to (he looked like he’d been caught saying a bad word but he was too satisfied to feel bad about it), was like picking up a dagger and stabbing it inside your chest every single day. 

And he sleeps over at hers a lot. And when he doesn’t, she sleeps over. And then it’s worse. Because sometimes, not always, you hear them. 

It’s been almost three months now. Your crush was a slender sharksucker that stuck to your leg and refused to let go. You were its home now and it wasn’t even paying.

“Hey, you okay?” Lois asks you with a crease of worry between her beautiful eyebrows. Clark was in the shower, and you didn’t know Lois was there when you came out to the kitchen to eat breakfast. 

“Uh… yes, totally, thanks.”

You must look really bad if she asks. Unlike her, who looked picture ready. “You, uh, you look really good. Is your skin just naturally flawless or do you use something for it?”

She lets out a delighted giggle. “No wonder Clark likes you so much. You’re so nice.”

You smile confusedly. “I wasn’t being nice, I was just saying the truth.”

“I’m flattered, but I have to confess it’s all the work of hyaluronic acid. And, between the two of us,” she whispers low, “a little bit of after glow.”

You laugh, because it’s funny but then later that day you remember what that entailed and your stomach churned.

“Whatcha drawing?” 

“Cats,” you reply. 

“Can I see?”

“Sure.”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to– wait, you said yes?”

You can’t help but laugh. You’d pavloved him into thinking you would always say no whenever he asks you if he can see a drawing. 

“Yes. Come see before I change my mind.”

He’s rushing towards you in two big strides. “This is so exciting. You never let me see your new drawings.”

Yeah well, that was because all you drew was him. But not anymore. 

“These are really good. I especially love the torti one. Could I have it?”

“Sure, I’ll draw you another and give it to you.”

“Okay,” he smiles happily. “Thank you. It’s really cute. Tortishells are Lois’ favorite cats.”

Oh. that’s fine.

You draw the cat anyway and because you love to hurt yourself, you drew Clark and her as cats too. In nice drawing paper, and even add a little bit of watercolor. It’s, ironically enough, one of your favorite work in a long time. 

They love it too. Clark makes a copy of it. 

You try to move on. You meet someone. He’s not as nice as Clark, nor as tall, or as handsome, or as kind. But he likes you. At least you think so. 

The first time he sees your hands when you’re having a flare-up, he recoils like you have the plague.

“That’s fucking gross, dude.”

Clark never swore. And he didn’t find it gross. He didn’t even care. His hands never flinched when he helped you apply cream.

“It’s just, it gets like that when it touches water. I told you.”

“Please don’t touch me until it’s gone.”

As far as distractions went, this was a really good one. It was like hurting yourself to distract yourself from a pain somewhere else. 

It hurts, yes, but you no longer hurt because Clark broke your heart. 

So you stay. 

You’re stupid, you know. But you’re in too deep. And quite frankly, this guy feels more familiar than Clark. Clark, with his true kindness and smiles, and his quiet support of your condition, was an anomaly in your life.

Josh, however, was just like any other man you’d ever met. Your brain felt safe in his unsafety. He found stability in his ghosting, the standing you up, the uncareness. 

How foolish of you to think you could have something good in your life for once. 

You see Clark less often. You’re no longer at home as much. He calls and texts but you reply less and less.

You think you’re spiraling but knowing it doesn’t do anything. If anything, it makes it even harder to stop. 

Clark once proposes to do a double date.

“You don’t draw anymore,” Clark notices. How did he? You guys barely see each other anymore. 

You hide your hands behind your back. You’re so stressed lately your body was in constant state of breaking out. And Josh didn’t help. You can’t grab a pencil anymore.

“I’m in a rut,” you say. He thinks you’re talking about being in a rut creatively.

“Jesus, it’s gotten all over your body now too. I can’t even get hard anymore. Just…”

You’re standing there naked, feeling more exposed than ever. Beneath your skin, your muscles, your bones. 

At least you were good at this, but not anymore. Even Josh didn’t want to see you anymore.

Josh leaves you behind.

You break down, you call Clark. You don’t think, you can’t even breathe. You just want to get out of your skin. 

You know Clark was supposed to be at Lois, but your mind doesn’t care about that anymore.

“Can you come home, please?” you ask him, sobbing into the phone. 

You don’t even realize he’s home only minutes after calling him. Nothing registers inside your mind except the feeling of wrongness that’s now spread all over your body, not just hands. 

It’s only when Clark enters your room, hair mussed from wind and a look of pure horror on his face that you finally realize how you must look. 

Curled up on the floor, in just your lingerie — the worst part of it all was that you were trying to be desirable, sexy, pretty and even when you make efforts your skin is all people can see and it’s all you can feel — crying and hyperventilating and scratching your skin so harshly you could feel blood all over. 

Your entire body hurts and itches and every movement you made tugs at some part of your skin and it felt like you were being torn apart.

“Oh my darling,” Clark breathes out and you can barely hear him over the sound of you breaking down.

He doesn’t ask what happened, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even recoil at the sight of your skin peeling and bleeding and aching and looking so wrong you wish you could shed it all. 

He just approaches you, touches you gently, and instead of feeling like someone’s pressing a hot iron against your skin, his hand is warm and soft and it’s like silk against your agonizing skin, and you choke on a sob as you lean towards him like moth to flame, like sunflower to the sun, like someone who’s never known softness before. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay my darling, I got you, I got you,” he says and some part of you settles down at his words but the rest of you — the majority wants to cry and scream at how unfair everything is. 

He doesn’t even judge you because you’re in lingerie, he doesn’t make fun of you for trying to make yourself pretty when it’s just not possible. A pig’s still a pig even when you put lipstick on it.

You cry harder. 

“Why can’t I ever be enough?” you ask him in between sobs but you don’t see the way his face openly breaks at your heartbreak, and he tugs you closer to him, pulling you against him, dragging you over his lap and it’s weird, he should feel wrong but he just feels like the only thing in your entire life that’s right. 

You blink once and he’s gone, and you blink again and he’s back and he’s got moisturizer, and you know that brand, it’s the one you use, with no scent and fragrance-free, except it’s not yours because yours isn’t as big and then he’s lathering some in his large hand and he warms it first before he starts gently applying it on your skin in slow circles and the softness of it all breaks you more than harshness ever could. 

“I’m sorry for ruining your date night,” you whisper brokenly. You’re apologizing but you can’t bring yourself to regret calling him. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

“You can always call me, darling. Anytime and whenever. I’ll always come for you.”

“But Lois… I don’t want…”

“Lois understands,” he says. “And this is not about her or even me. This is about you, okay? Worry only about you, and I’ll worry about the rest.”

You feel like there’s no tears left to cry inside your body but you keep surprising yourself by crying again and again, like a leaky faucet. 

“How are you not disgusted?” you ask him.

He’s still applying the thick cream in your arms and now he’s holding your left hand and he’s slowly massaging the ointment in. 

“Because there’s nothing to be disgusted at,” he replies simply. Like the truth was always this simple. He replies quickly, confidently, without hesitation. As if it’s a truth as uncontested as the color of the sky.

You want to believe him so badly. 

He’s done with both your hands. “Can I touch your chest and stomach?”

It’s where the flares are the worst. “It’s disgusting,” you tell him.

“Not to me,” he replies. 

It’s hopeless. Your crush is hopeless, because it’s not going anywhere. You knew it right there and then. 

Neither of you talk about that night. You know Clark wants to, but you don’t, so he doesn’t say anything.

Your skin condition gets considerably better after Josh leaves your life. He left it just as quietly as he got in it. He’d never been the right one. He was just the right one to distract you.

Clark starts saying home more often. At first, Lois comes by too. She’s kind. She’s gentle. She always has the right thing to say. Your heart breaks as much as it heals. 

Then, she slowly starts showing up less. Clark is always smiling when he says, she’s busy. But you know. You know you’re the reason they’re growing apart. 

You don’t know what the hell you’re doing with your life anymore. You don’t have to work because you’re a trust fund baby and you only got a roommate because you were lonely, not because you needed the money, so there’s nothing to structure your days. Nothing to keep you responsible. You don’t work, you don’t draw anymore.

You know it’s not just your unrequited crush on Clark that caused all this. But it was a catalyst. You don’t know what’s going on anymore. 

Clark still doesn’t let you touch the dishes. Still doesn’t let you clean with products that burn and dry.

He still eats takeout with you. Still enjoys your food.

He’s still with Lois, but there’s something else. You’re breaking them up, or you’re just their catalyst too. You hope it’s not you. You would never forgive yourself. 

Clark still helps you put ointment on your hands. He’s so gentle it makes you want to pick up a pencil again, just to carve against paper the softness of his touch.

Your drawings become all the words you couldn’t say. 

You draw Clark’s hands and his smile, and his gentle eyes. 

You draw yourself, made out of scars and blood and acid. 

The two of you could never work out. 

It slowly starts getting better. It starts with Clark coming back home to you to celebrate his first page in the Daily Planet.

You’re so happy for him you throw yourself at him to hug him, because he looks so happy and so bashful and so excited and you’re so proud of him. You always knew he was destined to greater things.

You guys eat out that night. 

You’re worried about Lois, he says, don’t worry. We ended things amiably. We’re still friends, we just didn’t work together. His head wasn’t in the right headspace for a relationship.

You look at him, trying to say whether he was being truthful, or if he was just trying to spare your feelings.

He laughs, and shows you his latest messages from Lois. 

Your heart settles then. You hadn’t realized just how worried you were until now. Until your heart’s been put at ease.

Deep inside, your heart roars one last time with hope. You tell it to shut up. You’re never ruining this friendship again. 

But everything else is quieter. Tamed, settled. Your skin doesn’t scream at you now, and with Clark helping you with your treatment, it’s better than it’s ever been. You still have some scars from where you scratched too hard, but you almost don’t mind it — most days. 

Clark talks you into starting therapy. So you do, because there’s nothing you can refuse Clark. You know that’s unhealthy, but that’s what therapy is here for. 

One day, Clark tells you that Lois is asking about you, and that she wonders if you take commissions. She would like to commission you for a piece she’ll use for her latest article.

It’s an honor. You say yes. 

You find that having to do something keeps your body and mind busy. 

“I have something I want to show you,” Clark says and you look up to him with bleary eyes. You’re barely awake, and he’s already looking fresh and proper for the day ahead. It’s so unfair.

“Can it wait later?”

“How long?”

You think about it. “Ten hours?” you offer reasonably.

“I’m afraid it can’t wait that long, but I’ll give you two hours. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Two hours until we have to be there or two hours until I have to start getting ready? It’s not the same thing.” 

“Two hours until you have to get ready. I know how you operate, spoiled princess, don’t worry.”

“Cheers, you speak my language.”

(You were almost late anyway despite his best efforts.)

“No,” you say, once you both get at destination.

“Yes,” he replies, smug. 

“No fucking way.”

“Yes fricking way.”

“The waitlist’s a year long!”

“I know.” he looks even more smug now. “I got tickets at work.”

“I could kiss you right now,” you say very seriously.

He got tickets at work and thought of you? Your heart’s doing things you swore you were never going to do again. 

He blushes at your fervence, but smiles anyway. “I’ll take it you’re happy?”

“Happy? I think my excitement could fuel a spaceship right now.”

Van Gogh is (one of) your favorite artist, and you’d been trying to get tickets for it for so long, but admittedly you weren’t trying too hard. You were always too worried of failing to get them so you sabotaged yourself. It was more of a chimera than anything else. And you’d only talked to Clark about it once, one year ago, and he remembered. 

“Clark, you’re the best creature that has ever existed. And the bestest friend I’ve ever had,” you tell him seriously.

He chuckles nervously. “Why do you sound like you’re about to promise me your first born?”

“Because I am.”

“No, please don’t,” he says, looking so distressed at the idea that it makes you giggle.

“Okay fine. I’ll give you the second one.”

The immersive experience was out of this world but you still think it’s Clark who makes it so special. 

During lunch hours, he buys lunch for the both of you even though the food here is overpriced, and you can more than afford to, but he insists on paying, saying he was the one who invited you here. It feels so much like a date you have to remind yourself every minute that it’s not one. 

Everything is great. Perfect, even. Even if you’re afraid of that word.

Clark Kent makes it so easy not to be afraid of hope. One look at him and you think�� no, you know everything’s gonna be okay.

Maybe having a crush isn’t so bad, after all. 

Lois starts coming over more often again, purely as a friend. Barred Clark, she’s one of the best people you’ve ever met. She sees how you look at him, and when you look at her in panic at having your best kept secret discovered, she just winks at you and puts a finger over her closed lips.

Your secret’s safe with her. You smile at her gratefully.

“You know,” she tells you. “Clark makes an amazing boyfriend.”

“Then why did you guys not work out?” 

The question’s out of your mouth before you could stop it. 

Lois laughs. “Because it turned out we were both using each other to lie to ourselves.”

At your puzzled look she adds, “I found out that good boys are nice and all, but I prefer a little edge. And an entirely different gender.”

“Oh,” you say. “Congrats?”

Lois snorted good-naturedly. “Thank you.”

You find yourself opening up too. “I found out that I liked girls too when I was thirteen.”

“Girls are the dream, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But then I met Clark.”

“And then you met Clark,” Lois repeated. “He does that, doesn’t he? He’s not even aware of it.”

“Yeah. I’ve been trying so hard to forget him but it won’t work. It’s like he’s embedded in my neurons.”

“Then maybe it’s because you’re not meant to forget him yet.”

“Don’t get my hopes up please,” you tell her laughing.

You mention off-handledly missing homemade lasagna one day and the next Clark is making you one from scratch. He even got a pasta machine out (you didn’t even realize you had one) and everything.

“This is overkill,” you tell him while dipping your finger into the bechamel sauce and licking it and then begging him to let you roll the lever.

“Clearly,” he replied dryly. 

Then, later, once the lasagna is in the oven, you look around the kitchen. “This is a mess.”

“Remind again who started the flour fight?”

Clark decided he was going to do a deep clean day so he told you to leave the apartment because of the dirt and dust and allergies.

“Are you kicking me out of my own place, the one I paid for with my hard earned pedigree?”

“Yes, yes I am. I don’t want your allergies to get worse.”

“You’re so kind it borderlines on cruel sometimes,” you tell him darkly before going out. You were thinking of going to visit the ducks. Before or after the movies. Lois said she’ll join you. Girls day, she said. 

The apartment is spotless by the time you come back and it really makes you want to start another food fight, but you don’t.

“Clark?” 

“In here!” he calls back from the living room. He sounded winded. Poor guy must have tired himself out. 

“Hey,” you greet him, taking off your shoes in the living room because it’s fun. But then you look up and you’re not having fun anymore. “What’s that?” you ask him, dreading the answer.

He has the decency to look bashful. “I was cleaning up the couch when I found it wedged between the two seats.”

Oh no. Oh no no. 

“Whatever you saw, it’s not me,” you say quickly.

“And what do you think I saw?” he asks. He looks so red and so flustered. He must have looked through the whole thing. Oh God, he saw the drawings of him shirtless after a shower. You hadn’t even needed to draw it because the sight was etched onto the back of your eyelids.

“I think you saw hallucinations. I think you ate a bad shroom today.”

“How would you even know what I ate today?” he says, comically offended. 

You shrug. Good, he’s getting distracted from the fact that he found your sketchbook where all you did was draw him, and him only. And writing embarrassing stuff like ‘oh he was so pretty today, i almost asked if i could kiss him’ or worse things like, ‘he’s so handsome!!!!! Kill me now’.

“Can I have that back, please?” you ask him, totally nonchalant and suave. He has to think you don’t care you found it, so he would lose interest.

“No, I have a few questions first,” he says with a smug grin, standing up and lifting the sketchbook high up in the air. It’s futile trying to get it, unless you tried to climb him, but that would only make everything worse. 

My blood turned to ice in my veins. “Before you ask, no, it’s fine, I’m over it, I’m over your crush, please don’t hate me.”

But instead of looking relieved, he looked… crestfallen? “That’s not what I was going to ask, but is that true? I mean, I don’t blame you for moving on, it must have been so hard for you but… is it true?”

“What were you going to ask?”

“I don’t that matters now anyway, since you said you don’t like me anymore,” he says with a gentle smile but you can see the heartbreak behind his eyes. 

Lois’ words come back to mind. 

“I… I lied,” you say. Honesty is always better, wasn’t it? “I still like you. A lot. I think I’m in love. But I don’t want it to ruin our friendship, so I tried to move on, but it didn’t work. It never did. Please don’t think this has to change anything, I won’t let it ruin what we have.”

“What if I want it to?”

Your heart falls through your stomach. 

“No,” he continues, shaking his head, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” He lowered his hand, still holding onto the sketchbook. “What I meant is, I like you too. I really like you too, and I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I almost messed everything up, didn’t I? Please tell me it’s not too late, darling.”

Nothing is never too late for you, Clark.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

Clark was never the kind of person who said things they didn’t mean, but that didn’t mean your brain knew that. “I…” 

“I love you, and I think I have ever since that first week of me living here where you tried your hardest to find out what was my breaking limit. And you never found it, because I never had any around you.”

You remember that week. You were trying to see what type of person he was, and if he was prone to anger or violence. You were testing the ground for bombs, and you never found any, because this was Clark. The human equivalent of a weighted blanket and a hug after a heartbreak. 

“I bought your groceries for a month straight after to apologize for my behavior,” you say.

“I know, and it only made me fall harder, but I was too blind to see it, and I’m sorry. I really am. For being the world’s biggest idiot. Who almost missed the chance of his life to be with the woman of his dreams. Please, tell me. Have I messed everything up?”

You didn’t even need to think to know the answer. Of course he didn’t. He never did. He wasn’t even capable of that. 

“No, of course not. I just… I spent so long thinking that I was foolish and stupid for hoping, that this just seems like a dream now.”

“It feels like a dream to me too,” he confesses. “A dream come true. Say you’ll have me, and I’ll make you the happiest girl in the world. I swear on everything that I stand for.”

You don’t reply. You get on your tiptoes instead, and kiss him.

Instantly, he leans down slightly and wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. “Wow,” you whisper against his lips. 

“Wow indeed,” he replies right back against your lips. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks in a husky voice. 

“You have two years of kisses to catch up, so you better start now.”

“I know,” he replies, sounding pained. “And I fully intent to pay you back in full.” A kiss. “With interest.” A kiss.

Your smile is swallowed by another kiss. 

Yeah, you think to yourself. Having a crush on Clark Kent is definitely the best thing ever. 

masterlist ᯓ★ directory ᯓ★ come say hi

part two

[echo-ethe]

kent family adventures (the girldad!clark kent chronicles)

ft. you and baby leia

slice of life stories of you, clark, and leia and some shenanigans (non-chronological order)

dad clark kent x female reader

(requests open for kent family adventures 💞)

i post a fic everyday at 10PM EST

NEW! taglist for kent family adventures here!

dad!clark kent giving his baby girl a bath before bed

baby’s first shots 💉 - you take your baby girl to get her shots, and let’s just say, Superman might have a weakness after all

Can You Babysit Tonight? - You decide to pull the “Can you babysit?” prank on your very devoted husband Clark — who is so confused, so offended, and maybe just a little bit dramatic about it.

“Let me see what you have.” “A knife!” “NO!” - You prank your poor husband Clark by giving your daughter a fake knife.

Sir, this is a Whole Foods - You, Clark, and baby Leia go grocery shopping �� and the second you leave them alone, your husband and daughter become the produce aisle’s hottest attraction.

Premium air and tire fluid?! - You prank Clark with the “premium air” TikTok trend — and he almost believes you (because he’s a smart man, but he’s also very trusting when it comes to you). So, you try to prank him again with the infamous tire fluid prank — and once again, poor Clark wants to believe in you, but he’s suspicious now.

Leia vs The Justice Gang (A Tale of Total Domination) 👶🦸‍♀️- The Justice Gang meets baby Leia Kent for the first time (and recruits her)

As we are, we two, we three/ As I alone can never be - Baby Leia's here! Dad Clark meets Leia for the first time (and cries). You and Clark bring newborn Leia home for the first time — and Clark is full of dad nerves, baby love, and overwhelming joy.

The TikTok Lizard 🦎 - Leia’s newfound obsession is the viral “lizard button” meme from TikTok.

Thank you for loving us like this - Healing from childbirth isn’t linear. Clark is there with you and Leia all the way. You never had to ask.

Best friends (and second cousins) 🐶 - Krypto and Leia are the best of friends.

One Year Later - Clark’s baby girl, Leia, turns one.

Burnt pancakes - Just you and Clark making out while making breakfast for dinner.

Clark Kent: Girl Dad and classically-trained Juilliard Actor - You couldn't help but think that Clark is way more into playtime than Leia is.

The cotton candy disaster - Auntie Kara pranks 5-year-old Leia by telling her to wash her cotton candy. Spoiler: it melts, and Leia never gets over it.

The longest night 🤧🤒 - Superman himself becomes Superdad and caretaker, looking after both you and your stuffy-nosed little Leia when you're sick.

Dada vs Auntie Kawa - It’s a race to get Leia to say her first word. Kara does everything she can to make sure it’s “Kara”.

Kidnapped - You and Leia get kidnapped. Clark stops at nothing to get you back. “Clark— there are people in the house. I’m in our room with Leia, and I— I don’t know what they want. I locked the door but—I love you. I love you so much. And Leia does too. Just—if anything happens, know that.”

Clark Kent is doing public service (by being shirtless) - You and Clark take Leia on daily walks full of sunshine, baby giggles, dad abs, and zero awareness from Clark that he's turning heads left and right.

Clark Kent: Certified DILF - Clark Kent gets picked up every time you leave him with Leia for five minutes, so you embarrass him by calling him a DILF. Clark embarrasses you by being a Super (Proud) Dad in front of the pediatrician.

No, you CANNOT drink the laundry detergent - Reasons why your two-year-old Leia threw a tantrum: you wouldn't let her drink laundry detergent. You wouldn't let her stick her hand in the garbage disposal. Clark wouldn't let her stick her tongue in his ear. Again.

Who Are You and What Have You Done with Daddy? 👓 - Baby Leia was so used to seeing her Daddy without glasses that when she saw him in his journalist get up, she didn’t recognize him.

All of the stars - When Clark finds out what his birth parents really wanted him to do, he is torn between honoring you and Leia as Clark, or honoring the sacrifices of Krypton as Kal-El.

I’m not babysitting, I’m parenting! - Your husband Clark gets irritated when you jokingly refer to him watching Leia as “babysitting” her. (WIP) Part 1 - Can You Babysit Tonight?

main masterlist

[echo-ethe]

we recently rewatched the Big Bang/San Lorenzo Jobs and one of my favorite things about Nate v Damien Moreau is that Moreau is always going "in a fair fight I'd crush you" and Nate keeps responding "probably, which is why I cheated like hell" and it works every time

[echo-ethe]

it’s quick, it’s easy and it’s free:  pouring river water in your socks

[echo-ethe]

Judex, Judicum, Infantem - Chapter 14

(Eventual)Reader x Matt Murdock x Frank Castle

previous chapter | next chapter | series masterlist | my masterlist

summary: Karen gives you insight on how to handle Matt and Frank. Matt finally opens up about the night he vowed to stop being Daredevil. Frank returns for good.

warnings: AFAB Reader. Pregnancy. No use of Y/N. Mention of injury and stroke and recovery.

notes: Hey. So I've been super busy lately and sadly that's going to carry into the fall. I love this series though and will update when I can, just know chapters going forward are going to be a little more spaced out. I do apologize!

w/c: 4,982

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on Tumblr to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platforms I currently post on are Tumblr and AO3. Thanks*

It was quiet in the apartment, the early hour on a Saturday leaving the city in a lazy, over-slept state that seeped into your home as well.

You just wished Frank had gotten the memo.

He left an hour ago, not before pressing a soft kiss to your hairline and the promise to return whispered in his rumbly morning baritone. You gifted him a spare key to the apartment, telling him to use it whenever he was ready to come home. In return, he gave you the number to his new burner, telling you to call if there was an emergency.

You knew missing him didn’t count as one, but it certainly felt like it. Contemplating dialing his number just to hear his voice.

His presence lingered; the spare bedding he’d folded neatly still sat on the sofa, his coffee mug washed and teetering on the drying rack beside the sink. If you tried hard enough, you were sure you still could have smelled him, all woodsy and gunpowdery scent hanging in the air.

You knew Matt certainly could and it made you jealous.

It was burned in your memory, the way the scraggy wound still remained outdented along his jugular, stitches not fully healed as he walked out the door. It didn’t seem like a few days had been enough time of rest and healing for him, especially not since he was going right back out into the thick of it. Would he be able to hold his own against whatever he was walking into? Especially since he still wasn’t back to 100%?

“You’re up early. You sleep okay?” Matt asked, hair disheveled and lips still kiss-bitten from all the fun you’d had last night as he appeared from the bedroom.

“Yeah. You?”

“Mmhm.” he confirmed, quietly making his way to you to kiss you softly and rub your bump.

He was already dressed for the day— dark jeans that you loved to watch him walk away in on the bottom, fitted navy sweater perfect for snuggling into on top. Your grin at the sight of him dimmed as you took more in. The bags under his eyes were the darkest you’d ever seen and the way he carried himself with a heaviness worried you.

You were also incredibly puzzled as you watched him packing his brief case.

“Hey counselor, I know you’ve been light on sleep lately and probably lost track, but today is Saturday.” you commented

“I know, but—”

“If you say ‘Madison case’ one more time, I swear to god, I’m gonna throw another appliance.”

“Fine, I won’t say it.” he replied, sighing as he perched his red glasses on his nose “But it is why I’m going in today. Trial starts on Monday, so we’re in crunch time.”

“Great.” you huffed, cupping your stomach and speaking gently “You hear that sweetie, Daddy is gonna leave us on a weekend to go do boring lawyer stuff.”

The guilt trip worked, Matt’s jaw ticking in remorse as he reached a hand out to you, attempting to soothe the situation. While you’d forgiven him, the both of you knew he was still on thin ice and would do pretty much anything to stay in your good graces.

“Come on, that’s not fair.” he argued

“You wanna talk fair—”

“Hey, what if you come with me, yeah?” he offered

“No offence, but I don’t want to spend my Saturday sitting at your office watching you work.”

“Bring something to do— your computer! You can get started on the registry.”

He had a point. The consequences of not thinking of the registry yet were going to catch up to you eventually, your daughter not going to delay her debut just because you were totally clueless about exactly which doodads and gadgets were necessary and which ones were just junk that were going to take up space. Additionally, you didn’t really want to handle it alone, not appreciating the implication from Matt and society in general that it should be your job.

“You and Frank aren’t gonna help with that? Gonna leave it all to me since I’m the mom?”

“No that’s not— we’ll help. I promise. Just, you can get it started.”

He took your hands in his, giving each of your knuckles a kiss in pleading. If he weren’t so damn cute when he begged, you’d have tugged them away with a huff, instead opting to let him romance you while you remained annoyed.

“You’re not making this sound like a fun day for me, Matt.”

“Kirsten said she was gonna bring in donuts.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that?”

You started with the mommy forums, lost in the Reddit subpages, reading as many articles as you could on newborn essentials. When that made your eyes go cross, you switched to Pinterest, hoping picking some kind of theme for the nursery would help you find some direction. But you were overwhelmed by the overly decorated, impractical show pieces from magazines and poorly rendered ai images that made your brain go to mush. Then you decided picking a nursery theme wasn’t going to happen before finding a new apartment where all of you could fit, so you ended up on a real estate website, beyond infuriated at the New York rental market. After two hours, you still hadn’t added a single thing to the list.

You were grateful to whoever at the office decided they needed stylish sofas in the main space (you suspected it was Kirtsen’s suggestion) as you shut your laptop with a sigh and collapsed back into the soft cushions. It was a quiet day in the posh office of Murdock and Associates. Only the essential crew for the trial on hand to prep for Monday meant you could find a quiet corner to try and focus.

It was a welcome sight when Karen made her way over to you, two mugs in hand, reaching over to hand you one.

“Don’t worry mama, it’s decaf.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

You and Karen had become fast friends since Matt introduced you, so you were happy to have her company as she sat beside you, fiddling with the shiny diamond on her left hand as she sipped her coffee.

“So,” she spoke softly, keeping the conversation between just the two of you “Matt asked me to write up wills for the two of you. Which didn’t surprise me, it’s a pretty common thing we do for clients especially when they have children.”

Well, you knew where this conversation was headed. You had hoped Matt could have at least spared you the awkwardness and told his friends, especially since you knew Karen and Frank were also acquainted.

“But what did surprise me,” she continued “was that he asked me to put Frank Castle down as the guardian of your child. You wanna tell me about that?”

“Matt didn’t tell you.”

She confirmed with a shake of her head.

“Before Matt and I started seeing each other, and actually a little bit at the beginning, I was also sleeping with Frank.”

Karen seemed amused, knowing look painted across her face with a raise of her eyebrow and a smirk. She was a smart woman, there was no doubting that and you had to assume she’d come to the conclusion on her own anyway even without you confirming it.

“You don’t know who the father is.”

“Nope.”

“How are they both handling that?”

“Better than you’d expect, honestly.”

Tapping her thumb against the side of her cup, she gave you a curious look up and down, like she was itching to know more. She was too kind to push the subject though, letting you give her as much information about it as you were comfortable with.

You gave her the basic overview; Frank’s reluctance to move forward with you, trying to move on with Matt, Frank’s disappearance before you could tell him, as well as his dramatic return.

“Jesus, I texted him to let him know when I was back from California. He didn’t say anything about any of this.”

“In fairness, he just found out about the baby. But he didn’t mention me?”

“No” she noticed the way your face dropped “but don’t be too offended. Frank usually doesn’t mention much. I’m lucky if I get a text back confirming he’s alive every six months or so.”

With Karen having some kind of history with both of them, you decided this would be a good opportunity to get some outside perspective, wondering how much Karen would let you pick her brain before she had to get back to work.

“You’ve known them both for a long time?” you asked

“Matt and Frank? Yeah.”

“They can both really be such assholes sometimes.”

Letting out a scoff of amusement, Karen enthusiastically nodded her head in agreement.

“Yeah, they can.”

“Okay but really,” you kept your voice low, knowing Matt was probably distracted enough on his headphones but not wanting him to overhear just in case. “I’m having a hard time, I don’t know how to phrase this, I guess figuring out Matt’s deal.”

“Matt’s a complicated person.” Karen replied, sympathetic look on her face knowing that you were putting up with his shit now just as much as she and Foggy had through the years.

“Believe me, I’m aware.” you agreed “He’s doing this thing— he claims he’s okay with Frank being around and co-parenting with him. And I believe him. But then he just gets distant seemingly out of nowhere. Like he’s mad at me for it? I mean, I know this has to be hard on him; the whole having Frank around as a third wheel when we’ve built a life together. But then the next moment, he’s all sweet and perfect and I’m just getting whiplash from it.”

Karen sighed, smoothing out her skirt as she leaned in closer to you, keeping her voice low.

“The thing with Matt is — everyone in his life has abandoned him; his mom, his dad, his mentor. He just assumes you will too. And if you try to show him you won’t, he just pushes you away anyway to self fulfill his own idea. He’ll sabotage things just to give you a reason to leave. And it sounds to me like Frank showing back up is the perfect excuse.”

“I’m trying my hardest to show him that I won’t.”

“I know, but with Matt you’ve just got to keep doing it. I mean, for as long as I’ve known him and tried to show him I would be there for him, he still did the same thing to me last year when Foggy…” she paused, seeming to try and reign in her emotions “when we weren’t sure he was gonna make it. Pushed me all the way across the country.”

“Yeah, why did you come back?”

“Foggy begged me to. I did it for him.”

Karen had returned from a year in San Francisco just a few months ago. After whatever happened with Foggy (which Matt still wouldn’t tell you anything about), you knew she’d left and only recently come back. It made sense, now that Foggy was now more recovered and back to working at the firm. But Matt had been vague on why she’d left in the first place, only saying the fiance she brought back with her seemed nice and the business was lucky to have her back.

“And you and Matt?” you asked, concerned for the state of their friendship

“We’re working on it.”

The strain in her voice indicated she was still angry with him about whatever transpired, keeping her lips in a pursed line as she continued.

“But I will say, he’s been a lot lighter these days. I think you and the baby have made him soft.”

“I would say that’s a good thing but maybe not for a lawyer or a vigilante.”

“No, it’s a good thing, believe me. It’s nice to see.” she replied “And what about Frank? How has he been?”

Letting out a sigh, you leaned back into the sofa once more, tucking your hands under your bump.

“Fine. I mean he’s still… Frank. Few words and even fewer emotions.”

“He doesn’t open up much to you either, huh?”

“Nope.”

“He will eventually, in his own way.”

“How do you mean?”

Karen let out a dry chuckle, hint of amusement dancing behind her eyes as she explained.

“You ever see those videos online of those dogs who get brought into a shelter. And the dog is terrified of everything and snarls at anyone who comes near it? But then someone goes in their crate with them and just sits. Totally ignores the dog and stays on the opposite side. Then after a few days the dog gets a little closer, then a few days after that the dog sits beside them, then a few days later finally lets someone pet them?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Frank. You’ve gotta go at his pace. Just be there and it’ll happen, I promise.”

There was some comfort in that information, that Frank could be coaxed out of the shadows with just the element of time. And it was an appropriate comparison to equate Frank with a rescue pitbull— all scary looking on the outside but softer than a marshmallow once you cracked his shell. You made a mental note to cross reference her advice with Curtis next time you saw him, since he seemed to be the only person left in Frank’s life from before he lost his family, curious to know if Frank had always been this way.

“How’s my favorite goddaughter? She still cooking in there?” a voice from behind you asked, causing you and Karen to both turn.

Franklin Nelson had entered the room, also needing a break from the boring lawyer work. He limped over to sit beside the two of you, balancing his cane on the arm of the couch before reaching over and taking Karen’s cup, sipping it with a grin.

“Hey, get your own!” Karen chided

“But this one tastes perfect!” Foggy teased

His left arm hung by his side and it was hard not to notice the droop in the left side of his face as he grinned at Karen while she rolled her eyes at him. The remnants of injuries from the incident that Matt wouldn’t speak of, that pushed Karen to leave, on display in the way he moved.

“Your goddaughter is good, though she is giving me crazy acid reflux and making me get up in the middle of the night to pee.” you responded

“And you? How are you mama?”

“Fine.” you replied “Trying to figure out this registry stuff. I have no idea where to even start and it feels like I’m quickly running out of time before she gets here.”

“What do you have so far?”

“Other than the stuff you dropped off Karen, nada.”

“Wait, really?!” Karen interjected “You haven’t even gone to look at those cute baby clothes I see in all the shop windows all the time?”

“I honestly haven’t had the time.”

Karen stood, firmly planting the heels of her pumps on the floor with a determined look on her face as she reached her hand out to you.

“Foggy— You, Matt, and Kirsten can handle the rest of the opening statement prep. We’re going shopping.”

Karen shopped exactly like she investigated; unflinching and digging for more even when one would think there wasn’t more to be found. The half day excursion resulting in quite a few things for the baby, plenty of inspiration for the nursery and the registry, and a few more cute maternity items for yourself.

Matt was hunched over his laptop on the couch when you returned home, still working while also shoveling rice in his mouth from the Chinese takeout container in his hand. He set down his dinner and pulled out his headphones, greeting you with a sweet smile as you settled to stand between his thighs and bent down to kiss him and he rubbed at your bump. The typical greetings were exchanged— the how are yous and how was your days. As his hand moved downward to pinch at the back of your thigh, you had to swat him away with a squeal. To which he only responded to with an even larger grin, patting the seat beside him instead and offering you your own favorite takeout order as you nestled into the sofa.

“Thanks, I’m starving.” you replied, hungrily munching at the delicious dish as soon as Matt handed you utensils “Karen and I grabbed something earlier but we spent so much time shopping and gabbing, I feel like I barely ate.”

“You gab about me any?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” you teased, earning another chuckle from your boyfriend

“I would actually.”

“We did. Mostly she told me all about how you guys met and how you cheat at pool.”

Matt feigned offense, scoffing dramatically as his mouth hung open, making you nearly choke on your food from the snorting laugh you let out. As comfortable as it was to banter with Matt after a long day, you knew what you were about to say would absolutely kill the vibe. But now that Karen had given you the facts, it was time to push Matt into telling his side of the story.

“She also told me about Ben Pointdexter.”

As expected, the playful air whooshed out of the room, Matt’s posture stiffening as his cheery demeanor evaporated into something more haunted. The unsureness of how to reply caught in Matt’s throat, resigning to taking another bite of his dinner in hopes of avoiding this particular topic as you continued.

“The thing I don’t understand is,” you pushed “He doesn’t know you’re Daredevil, so theoretically the only score he came back to settle had nothing to do with your vigilante life. Just Foggy getting caught in the crossfire of the target on Karen. But you said that night was why you gave it up.”

Matt ran a hesitant tongue along his teeth, chewing on his response as if he was preparing a carefully crafted statement for a jury.

“That night— I heard Foggy die. His heart stopped while he was bleeding out on the sidewalk. And they didn’t get it restarted until he got into the ambulance. For at least, god it couldn’t have even been ten minutes, but to me it felt like an eternity. I thought he was dead.”

You listened to his retelling intently, reaching out a comforting hand to grasp his as his voice trembled. Hearing a person you loved so much lose their life had to be one of the worst things anyone could experience.

“And in that moment,” he continued “the moment I heard him die, I gave in to the darkness. I used to think I was immune to it, that I could rise above it. But when I thought I lost him, I tried to kill Pointdexter. I threw him off the roof.”

The knot in your stomach formed instantly, shocked by Matt’s confession. Not killing was so essential to who he was, to how he viewed himself and the world around him. To go that far, to make that choice in a moment rage and fear, it must have been so difficult for him to reconcile with afterwards. You were just glad he hadn’t succeeded and that you got this version of Matt before you now and not whatever the other outcome would have turned him into.

“And Daredevil?” you asked hesitantly

“The truth is, ever since that night, I didn't know who I was anymore. I felt like I lost the privilege to be him and despite the good that I was doing, I was causing damage.”

It made sense, Matt who was so eager to let go of the things in life that fulfilled him only out of the motivation that he believed he didn’t deserve them. Who believed giving up a part of his life that defined him was his penance for keeping the people he loved alive. Always the voluntary masochist.

“Also, Foggy never loved that side of me. Even after they restarted his heart and got him to the hospital, we didn’t know if he was going to make it. He was in a coma for almost three months, had two strokes while he was under. He’s got lifelong damage and I just wanted to be who he always wanted. Like I could bargain with God to give up the mask and the purpose that saved my life in order to spare his.”

His reasoning was a tangle of trauma and fear and self punitiveness, all pouring out in his rambling words and the tears that flowed down his face. All you could offer in comfort was an arm around him and a kiss to his shoulder, a fruitless attempt to chase away his agony.

“I just worry, if I keep going,” he continued “is that what’s best for our family? Will I just be putting the two of you in danger? If that darkness comes back, if I… I’m already struggling to come to terms with the things I’ve done and how our daughter will view me because of them. I can’t give her another reason to see me that way.”

“I think if that’s something Frank can reconcile with, you can too.” you countered

“Has he?”

“I think if he hadn’t at least started, he wouldn’t have agreed to stay.”

His head shook, weary hand dragging down his face and across his mouth in contemplation.

“Some examples of fathers she’s going to have.” he sighed

“Two men who see the hurt in the world and try and fight it? I’d say that’s pretty admirable, Matt.”

“That’s not the whole of it though and you know—”

You cut him off, taking his chin in your hands and making sure he was facing you.

“Do you want your daughter to know all of you? To know the light and the dark and not just see a hollow version of you because you’re sacrificing an entire side of yourself for some what if that may never come to fruition?”

“I don’t want her to think—”

“Your dad was involved with the mob Matt. He had you drinking at the age of 9, he got himself killed and left you out of stupid pride and you still love him to this day, right?”

The mention of his father stuck a nerve, backing down from his endlessly thought out retorts into something sarcastic.

“You’d have made a hell of a lawyer, sweetheart.”

You stroked at his stubble, hoping that he could hear the sincerity in your words as you pressed your forehead against his.

“She will love you Matt. She will see what I see, what Foggy sees, what Karen sees. No matter what.”

Resigning to your guarantee, Matt pressed his lips to yours, knowing what he needed to do.

“You’re okay with it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper

“With you being Daredevil?”

Matt nodded.

“I’m okay with you using your abilities to help people. And the danger that comes with it? I guess I’ll have to get used to it.”

For the next two weeks, Frank texted you every single day. A simple “Good morning” usually followed by asking how you were and asking how the baby was. You kept your replies short, knowing that any response that warranted a longer conversation would distract him from whatever he was out there doing which would, in theory, keep him away for longer.

You did however let him know that your 20 week appointment was coming up and invited him to join since he hadn’t yet seen your baby on the ultrasound machine. He texted back at record speed promising to be there.

Matt maintained his schedule of working long hours as the Madison case’s time in court dragged on. He also disappeared a few nights a week, slipping out the balcony in head to toe crimson, searching for leads about Muse.

After a good day in court, some strategy Kirsten had cooked up worked perfectly into catching a witness in a lie, the gang all headed to Josie’s to celebrate the victory, yourself included. The trial wasn’t over but it seemed to be a tipping point towards getting your boyfriend back home semi-regularly and you wanted to join Matt and Co. in socializing.

The discomforts of being pregnant were now becoming unignoreable, as your halfway point was approaching fast, giving you the perfect excuse to recuse yourself from the festivities early and head home and allowing Matt time with his coworkers to celebrate.

Frank Castle was a contradiction of appearances as he sat on your sofa sipping a mug of what you assumed was black coffee.

While the wound on his neck had faded into a pinkish scar like the many others littering his body, there were fresh new injuries visible, most notably the blooming bruise running along his jaw. Which you could see because he had shaved since you last saw him, barely there five o’clock shadow now the thing framing his angular chin and the smile that lit up across his face as he watched you step into the apartment. His hair was cropped into a tapered fade and lightly styled, but his clothes remained signature Frank; a practical black henley, dark jeans, and the worn combat boots you were surprised hadn’t fused together with his feet at this point.

Despite how tired he looked, his attitude was easy going, leaning into the back of the couch as he gave you an up and down while you walked toward him.

“You came back.”

Seeing him sitting there immediately eased the tiny voice that still lived in the back of your head and convinced you that he would not return like he promised. But if there was one thing you knew about Frank for sure, it was that he was always a man of his word.

“Well, you make a good cup of coffee, guess I just couldn’t stay away.”

He didn’t hesitate to stand and open his arms, pulling you into a hug with a soft “hey sweetheart” murmured into your shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him and squeezed him like you were trying to pop him.

“You back for good?”

“As long as you want me.” he replied, mouth cocking into a lopsided smirk

“Damn right I do.”

Peering down the hall into the spare room, you saw his black duffle sat on the bed that had been purchased and waiting for him in his time away; your small attempt at forcing Frank to have something in his life that was comfortable.

“Is that all you have?” you asked

“Pretty much. Kept most of my supplies in my safe houses just in case. Stuffed a glock under the nightstand in case of emergency. Figured Altar Boy wouldn’t appreciate me bringing too many of ‘em in here.”

“No, guess he wouldn’t.”

The tiredness you were feeling at the bar seemed to melt away as you sat beside him, his absence causing an invisible weight in your soul that you didn’t realize you were carrying until he arrived and you felt it disappear.

“Where’s Red?”

“He had a big day in court. He and the crew are out, but I needed to come home and rest.”

“You two good now?”

“Yeah, we’re figuring it out.”

“Good.”

Licking at his lips, Frank turned his face away from yours, afraid you’d clock the crestfallen way he grimaced. It almost looked like jealousy, which was not an emotion you thought Frank felt.

“Look sweetheart, I don’t want to cross any lines here, but I gotta say, it’s killin’ me. Watchin’ the two of you. I know I left and I don’t have any right. But…”

“I know, but I’m with Matt now, Frank. I’m sorry if this is going to be hard for you to be around but if I’m honest it’s not like I was able to just flip a switch off the day you left. It’s hard for me too.”

“Ain’t got room for me?”

Sometimes when Frank’s beady eyes met yours, you felt like you didn’t need to say anything, that he could just see into your soul and read your mind. And right now, it felt like he could see the war waging inside you, torn apart by how deeply you cared for both men. You’d already witnessed Matt’s little green jealousy monster come out in hints and whispers at the mere mention of Frank. You didn’t want to cross any lines that would result in causing that kind of hurt to Matt, especially not after what Karen told you.

“I don’t want to hurt either of you.” you replied

“I’m a big boy sweetheart, I’ll manage.”

“Always the good little soldier, Frank.”

The two of you caught up as the night wore on, him only giving you a brief recap of the job he had to finish and you showcasing the many baby items Karen and you had purchased. At some point, sleep was an inevitable conclusion and you ended up propped against his shoulder, mouth slightly ajar as you faded into the haze.

Frank reveled in the closeness and put a protective arm around your shoulder, content to let you use him as a pillow for as long as you needed.

Despite how tipsy Matt was when he walked in the door, his senses still honed in on the happenings in his home. He listened to Frank’s heart beat in a content rhythm with yours, breathing calm and attention squarely focused on you, hand rested protectively on your stomach.

In that moment, Matt was sure of one thing.

Frank was in love with you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tag list:@xxdrixx @a-leg-without-fear @echo-ethe @capswife @xoxabs88xox @allmyn1ghts @laaadygisbooornex3 @ninacotte @uncertified-doc @moth-murdock @danzer8705 @endofthelinegang @buckyssugarchick @hellskitchenswhore @pixviee @themikkapika @bisexualbith @labellapeaky @theoraekenslover @sexyvixen7 @tanyaherondale @marysucks-blog @0callme-mimi @aesthetic0cherryblossom @lokifae42 @plutosbearr @kneelforloki @uselessnewt @its-in-the-woods @rapturousfrog

[echo-ethe]

as someone who's favourite Shakespeare play is Hamlet Fate of Ophelia means a lot to me

[echo-ethe]

Your Cape

Part 2 of My Cape

Pairing: Superman x fem!reader

Summary: Weeks after meeting Superman, you finally have a reason to call the number he left in his cape. When you find out that he's been thinking about you as much as you think of him, it's clear that the cape on your back is no longer his.

Warnings/Word Count: fluff, mention/depiction of scars, soft!Superman who overthinks, r's hair can be tuck behind her ear, slowburn?, Gary, 2.5k+ words

Masterlist | DC Masterlist | Request Info

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

Looking up from your phone, you squint at the newest addition to your new apartment.

“It’s a TV,” you say.

“It’s a brand-new TV,” Inny argues. “And it was free.”

“Not exactly free if someone provides it as incentive to not sue him.”

Inny waves her arm at you, then plops onto the couch beside you and turns the new device on. Your former landlord had apparently known that the building wouldn’t withstand a tremor, so the settlement money you’d given you a down payment on a safer, newer apartment, and you’d had some left over. When you found out that you’d also been paying nearly $100 a month in unnecessary and unethical fees, you threatened to take him back to court. The television was simply a gift – a way to cover up his good deed of giving back the money he’d stolen.

Though your new apartment is lovely, you’ve been thinking about Superman more than decorating your room or unpacking your boxes. The dryer – now in your unit, which is perhaps your favorite upgrade – chimes when the load in it finishes, and you excuse yourself from Inny’s side to retrieve your laundry.

“Did it work?” Inny calls. "Sun Re-Brighter is the best thing to come out of Coast City since the human specimen that is Arsenal."

Spreading Superman’s cape open, you smile to yourself. The cape had been nearly impossible to wash before Inny recommended you try the product intended for use on vibrant clothes that have been faded by the sun. “It did,” you reply, clutching the cape to your chest. “Thanks, Inny!”

“I aim to please. Ooh, Superman is on the news! Quick, come tell me if he’s as handsome in person."

You chuckle, walk to your room, place the folded cape in your bottom dresser drawer, then jump over the back of the couch to join Inny. The on-screen picture is crisp and clear, but it doesn’t do Superman justice.

Lying in bed with the cape wrapped around you, you stare up at the ceiling. Unconsciously, you recite the number on the tag of the other red cape in your room. Leaning up slightly, you realize that the cape isn’t hidden well. It’s longer than the robe you draped over it, so both items are visible on the back of your door.

With a sigh, you collapse back onto your pillow. Superman told you to call him if you needed anything. Despite how much you want to call him, you don’t need anything. He’s been dealing with enough threats recently that you don’t want to distract him by calling him just to say… what would you say? Thanks for saving me? I can’t stop thinking about you? I found a way to clean the cape, and I’ve been carrying it around in my apartment because, for some reason, it makes me feel safe, warm, and wanted?

Closing your eyes, you tug the cape closer to your chin and try to sleep. Visions of Superman invade your mind, and a smile grows as you fall asleep.

“Perhaps her phone died,” Gary offers, turning his head to the right as Superman paces across the Fortress of Solitude.

“For a month?” Clark argues, turning on the ball of his foot to walk the other way. “I just… I thought there was something between us, I thought she’d call.”

“Interesting,” Gary hums. “If I were invested in your emotional health, I would offer more than empty sympathies. As it stands, all I can say is sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Clark mumbles. “What could it be? Did I imagine the connection? Is she scared or still hurt? Did she even make it home that day? I can hear her heartbeat, I know she’s alive, but-”

“You are spiraling, Superman.”

Clark sighs, slowing as he returns to his starting place. Maybe he should stop by your favorite coffee place in the morning. It’s only twelve blocks out of his way.

“Twenty-four round trip,” Gary corrects.

“I’ve got to start thinking inside my head,” Clark grumbles as he flies out of the fortress and across the seemingly never-ending icy landscape beyond it.

Superman lands beside you, a smile on his face as he points to a constellation in the distance. Then, a door opens, and- wait, a door?

Blinking groggily, you push up onto your elbow and look toward your door. The silhouette of a person is blurry, but you know it’s Inny. Burrowing back into your blankets, you grumble against your pillow.

“You liar!” Inny exclaims before she jumps on your bed.

You narrowly escape having your legs crushed first thing in the morning, drawing your knees towards your chest before she lands beside you.

“What?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at her.

Inny pulls a pillow from your side and slaps it against your hip. “Superman gave you his cape!” she squeals. “And you’re sleeping with it like a lovesick Army wife who doesn’t know if or when her lover will return.”

“Inny,” you groan, rolling over again. “I’m sleeping here.”

“No, no, no, tell me everything.”

“Superman put it around my shoulders because there were a bunch of cameras,” you say, offering half of the story. “I tried to give it back, he said I could keep it. It’s comfortable, so I started using it like a blanket. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” she agrees, lying beside you. “You’ll invite me to the wedding, right?”

“You’re neurotic.”

“But I’ll look bomb in a bridesmaid’s dress. Which reminds me why I’m here – can I borrow the skirt you wore to dinner with my parents?”

“Knock yourself out, Inny. And then get out, please.”

“You’re the best. See you and your cute little comfort cape later.”

She closes the door, and you’re relieved she didn’t notice the other cape. If you weren’t so attached to the cape and its owner, you might care about Inny’s teasing. As you try to sleep, your thoughts drift to Superman’s rooftop smile and his phone number.

On the opposite side of Metropolis, an unearthly creature endangers a park. The Justice Gang arrives and engages it in battle, looking completely unaffected by your previous meeting. Inny passes you the TV remote and wishes you goodnight, then goes to her room and closes the door. As the fight continues, you turn off the TV and sigh. Superman’s cape is beneath your head, a makeshift pillow that can’t lull you to sleep as you begin to worry.

Knowing that you won’t be able to sleep for a while, you stand, pull the cape around you, and open the window in the living room. Standing on the fire escape, you take a deep breath and look around the city, taking in all the lights as you notice the sirens echoing in the distance.

Looking up toward the stars and attempting to find your favorite constellation, you’re distracted by a light blinking two storeys above you. Your brows pinch, but your curiosity gets the better of you. After checking that the window behind you is unlocked so you can get back in, you begin ascending the steps toward the light. It’s probably a plane or some miles-high satellite, you tell yourself.

When you reach the roof, you squat to better see the source of light. Immediately, you know what you need to do. As you dial the number you memorized weeks ago, you wonder for the first time if it’s really his number or if it was some kind of joke. Either way, you press the call icon and raise your phone to your ear.

“Structure?” Clark asks, looking down at the lights of Paris as he flies through the stratosphere.

“It’s solid,” Mr. Terrific answers through a developmental telepathy communicator. “We can’t find a weak spot on this thing.”

Clark knows where the danger is, can hear your steady heartbeat miles from the fight. It’s the only reason he stays calm enough not to blast through the sound barrier and engage this creature within a second.

“Superman?” another voice says in Clark’s ear.

“Give me a second, Terrific,” Clark requests.

“Oh, yeah, sure, take a call,” Mr. Terrific agrees sarcastically. “Not like we’re fighting an invincible monster while you’re having a baguette.”

“It’d be churros con chocolate now,” Clark quips. “Gary, what’s up?”

“There’s a call for you, sir,” Gary explains. “A woman – your woman, I believe – said she found LuthorCorp tech. I quote, ‘Similar to the remote from before.’”

“She called?” Clark clarifies.

“Yes.”

“Is she still on the line?”

“No. She seemed a bit put off by my robotic voice but told me everything when I promised to pass the message along.”

“Thanks, Gary.”

Superman causes a smoke circle to appear in the sky over Spain, speeding through the air to reach you. All the time he’s spent in the Fortress of Solitude recently, and he’s in another country when you finally call. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. You do.

Squinting, you try to make out any buttons or discernible features on the device tucked into the narrow space between the bricks and the fire escape. A breeze blows the cape backward, and you stand instinctively.

“Superman,” you breathe out, smiling at the sight of him. You extend your arm toward the fire escape, prepared to tell him what you found and how you found it.

Before you speak, however, Superman steps forward and takes your wrist in his hand. His touch is gentle, respectful. Turning your arm slowly, he looks at the scar running across your elbow. The wound hadn’t required stitches, wasn’t deep enough to do severe damage, but the jaggedness of the cut had caused it to scar.

“Are you alright?” Superman asks softly.

You nod, then realize he’s looking at your arm and not your face, so you whisper, “Yeah.”

With your wrist in one hand, Superman lifts his other arm. His fingers trail against your forearm, the pads of his fingers tracing around the scar as he looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize. Then, he lowers his hands slowly, drawing his blue eyes up to your face.

“I found a device kind of like the remote I saw in the fight before,” you say, pointing toward the stairs. “I didn’t touch it, but I saw the LuthorCorp logo on the side.”

Superman walks past you, his cape billowing out when he lowers to retrieve the black box. He flips it in his hands, then frowns.

“I can help if you want,” you offer. “I don’t know if I could tell you how to use it or anything, but…”

You trail off, worried  your rambling will distract him or make you look too eager. As if you haven’t dreamed about him during the weeks since you first met.

“I appreciate that,” Superman replies genuinely. “But I need you to stay here.”

“I-“

“I need you to stay safe,” he amends. “For a hero like yourself, it may be tough sitting this one out, I know, but I’d prefer knowing you’re okay.”

Your lips part as you nod. You’ve never considered yourself to be a hero, but something about the way Superman says it makes you believe it. And if he needs to know you’re okay, you’ll stay here and let him focus.

Superman nods, thanks you again, and then, unknown to you, listens to your heartbeat as he flies away. It slows after he’s out of sight, and Clark’s smile when he punches the creature isn’t because he likes fighting, but because he knows he has an effect on you, too.

Pulling the edge of the cape between your hands, you relish the feeling of the woven fabric on your fingers. You haven’t checked your phone to see if Superman joined the Justice Gang or if the fight is still going, but you wait regardless.

“I’m glad you’re still here.”

You stand, releasing the cape as you stand and flex your fingers. “I am,” you reply quietly.

“I…” Superman stops, his head tipping toward his shoulder. You smile at him, and the tops of his ears turn pink as he steps toward you. Without as much space between you, Superman continues, “I’m sorry for not answering your call.”

Shrugging, you say, “I didn’t expect you to drop everything for me. You said to call if I needed anything, and I tried to respect that. Although, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to call before.”

Superman’s brows furrow as you speak, his eyes locked on yours as he listens to every word you say. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he responds.

It’s your turn to look confused as you inquire, “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you had to need something when you called. You- you could have called whenever you wanted to.”  You don’t get a chance to speak before he murmurs, “I wanted you to.”

“Oh,” you blurt out. “I’m sorry.”

Superman smiles again, looking at his cape wrapped around your body. He takes another step toward you and pinches the edge of the fabric between his fingers, his body heat sending a shiver down your spine. Blinking like he’s just realized what he’s done, he releases the fabric and clears his throat.

“Could I call again then?” you ask, looking up at him now that he’s closer.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice a little higher than before. “Whenever you want.”

“Thanks for coming,” you say, hoping he’ll stay longer.

“Thanks for calling. Next time, I’ll answer, not the- uh- the machine. And maybe then, if it’s a day that Metropolis decides to be quiet, we could try a new rooftop.” You laugh, the sound a bit too loud for the hour. No one could blame you, though, not when Superman just made your rooftop meetings sound like some sort of date, a tradition held between the two of you alone.

“Goodnight,” Superman says, nodding as he steps back.

“Wait!” you call, matching his step. He pauses, still smiling as he heeds your command. “You… Uh, do you want your cape back?”

You reach for the cape where it’s draped over your shoulder, but Superman wraps his fingers around your wrist to stop you.

“Keep it,” he whispers, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. “What, you couldn’t clean the first one? Feel guilty and want to return this one?” he jokes.

This is the first one, you think. Yet you deflect, “Something like that. Let’s just say it’s not your cape anymore.”

Superman releases your wrist, drags the back of his pointer finger along your cheekbone to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, then nods. “Consider it yours,” he offers. “Anything you need �� or want, cape or other – call me.”

“I will,” you promise.

He disappears into the sky, a red and blue blur more beautiful than any shooting star. When you return to your apartment, Inny is back on the couch, smiling as she points at the television.

“Superman thanks heroic Metropolis citizen for helping him,” Inny reads. “Five dollars says that heroic citizen is now wearing his cape and has a dopey smile on her face from talking to him on the roof.”

“You don’t have five dollars,” you argue, turning your back to her as you lock the window. “And if you did, it would be mine.”

You walk toward your room, and Inny pushes up onto her knees, hanging over the back of the couch to call after you. “You’re denying you just saw him?”

“No,” you answer, winking as you push your door open. “But I’m wearing my cape.”

[echo-ethe]

Front Page & Drumrolls

Clark kent x reader

In which your boyfriend gets first page for something that isn't superman

You were napping face-down on the couch, blissfully half-buried in throw pillows, wearing nothing but his old Metropolis U hoodie and your favorite sleep shorts. One leg was slung off the cushion. The TV hummed quietly in the background with reruns of a cooking show neither of you had been watching.

Clark had come home five minutes ago.

And he’d tried. Really tried not to wake you.

But you were right there. Looking too comfortable. Too you.

So naturally, he used your butt as a bongo.

tap-tap-tap. tap-tap-TAP.

Your sleepy groan muffled into the couch. “...Clark,” you mumbled, barely coherent. “Are you… drumrolling on me right now?”

“I am,” he said proudly, still tapping a rhythm against you. “Because I have incredible, amazing, career-defining news.”

You didn’t move. “You finally cleaned out the bottom of the fridge?”

“Nope,” he replied with a grin you could hear.

“You remembered to pick up the dry cleaning?”

“Try again.”

“…You got a raise?”

He leaned down, breath warm against your ear. “I got front page.”

Your head shot up so fast your hair turned into instant bedhead. “Wait—what?!”

Clark looked like someone had lit a sparkler in his chest. “Front. Page. Kent. Byline. Boom.”

You shrieked, twisting around to tackle him in a half-hug, half-scramble of sleepy limbs and oversized hoodie. “Oh my god, babe! That’s amazing! That’s—ugh—I’m so proud of you!”

He caught you easily, arms around your waist as you half-flopped into his lap. “Perry bumped me up last minute,” he said, laughing into your hair. “Said my piece had more heart. Said it reminded him why he hired me. Also said I owe him lunch.”

You kissed his cheek, then his jaw. “I’ll buy you lunch. You deserve it. My brilliant, wonderful, front-page journalist of a boyfriend.”

He melted a little, holding you closer.

“Was it a Superman thing?” you asked gently, searching his face. “Or was it…”

He shook his head, and there was something bright and proud and a little boyish in his smile. “No cape involved. It was about the housing protests in Parkside. Just… real people. Real voices. Perry said it was the kind of story that sticks to your ribs.”

Your eyes stung a little. You kissed him again, softer this time. “That’s so much better.”

“I know, right?” He looked like he was still trying to believe it. “I actually get front page for me. For something that isn’t ‘Kent interviews Superman for the fifth time this year.’” He chuckled. “He told me to stop hiding behind the hero. Said I had something to say.”

“You do,” you said fiercely, resting your forehead against his. “God, Clark—you’ve always had something to say.”

He smiled like you’d just handed him the Pulitzer. “Should I get it framed?”

“I already know where it’s going,” you said, raising a finger. “Right above the kitchen table. So I can make everyone read it before they’re allowed to eat.”

He snorted. “That’s definitely your chaos talking.”

You smirked. “I love your chaos too.”

He leaned into another kiss, wrapping both arms around you now, pulling you against him until your back arched and you melted into the hoodie and the couch and him.

When you finally broke for air, he murmured into your shoulder, “So… you’re not mad about the drumroll wake-up call?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You literally smacked a beat into my butt like it was your personal snare drum.”

“It was a celebratory drumroll,” he argued, nuzzling into your neck.

“It better be a one-time thing.”

Clark raised a brow, smug. “That sounded like a challenge.”

You gave him your best fake glare, but it didn’t last. He was already leaning in again.

Honestly? You’d let him drumroll on you for the rest of your life if it meant getting to wake up like this.

---

Clark had gone out for an “emergency grocery run.” You’d strongly suggested he grab the good ice cream as a celebration treat. What he didn’t know was that the second the door clicked shut, you moved like someone lit a match under your feet.

Because your boyfriend just made front page at the Daily Planet.

And that deserved more than a high five and a kiss between paper bags.

You practically glided around the apartment, too energized to stay still. At some point, you noticed the kitchen lights flickering—and realized, with a small laugh, that you were glowing just a little.

“Calm,” you muttered, cracking open the fridge. “We are calm. We are simply cooking for a man who reports the truth, saves the world, and somehow still looks at us like we’re the best thing he’s ever seen.”

You checked your bracelet, making sure it caught just enough light to stay subtle—no neighborhood-wide blackouts tonight—and got to work.

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was a soft golden glow of candles. Pasta bubbled on the stove. Garlic bread warmed in the oven. You even tossed a salad, which felt unnecessarily domestic, but strangely satisfying.

You changed into something cozy but intentional—his favorite sweater on you, of course—and were just adjusting the wine glasses when the front door opened.

Clark stepped in with two bags and a breeze of city air, smiling. “You would not believe the line for cookie dough—”

He stopped.

His eyes took everything in. The flicker of candles. Two plates already filled. Music humming low. You, standing there in soft light like a scene from a dream.

“Hey,” you said casually, one hand on your hip. “Thought we should celebrate properly.”

He blinked. “Did you… cook?”

“I’ve been known to use heat for more than explosions,” you said, smiling. “Sometimes I use it for romance.”

His jaw dropped just slightly. “You even made garlic bread?”

“I bought garlic bread and warmed it up. Let’s not rewrite history.”

He set the bags down and crossed the room in two strides, pulling you into his arms and pressing a kiss to your hair.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispered.

You grinned into his chest. “So I’ve been told.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss you, slow and full of something warm and reverent.

“You know you didn’t have to do all this,” he murmured.

“I know. But I wanted to. I’m proud of you. And I’m yours. Which means celebrating your wins is now my full-time job.”

He looked at you like you were the article he'd always wanted to write but never found the words for.

“Front page,” he said, almost to himself. “Still feels unreal.”

You bumped your nose gently against his. “Babe, you’ve always been front page to me.”

Dinner passed in laughter, clinking glasses, and stories he hadn’t even told Perry yet. Clark kept reaching across the table to touch your hand, like he needed the reminder you were real. You teased him for how wide he was smiling—he said it hurt his face in the best way.

Later, with dishes done and candles flickering low, the city hummed softly beyond the windows. Clark offered to clean up (three times), but you waved him off with a kiss and a firm, “Go sit and let yourself be celebrated.”

So he tried. For all of two minutes.

Then he wandered back into the kitchen, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes fixed on you like you were the whole skyline.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Are you watching me dry plates?”

He didn’t even pretend to look away. “Maybe.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Shut up and pick a song.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“So we can dance.”

Clark blinked. “You want to dance? In the kitchen?”

You walked over, flipped on your little speaker, and scrolled to your slow-dance playlist. A soft, honey-warm tune filled the room, curling around the candlelight like smoke.

Clark stepped forward and held out his hand like it was something sacred. You placed yours in his without hesitation.

One arm slid around your waist. The other clasped your fingers. And then you were swaying, cheek to chest, barefoot on the cool tile, wrapped in the kind of quiet that made time slow down.

After a minute, he whispered, “You know… this might be my favorite award I’ve ever gotten.”

You looked up. “Award?”

He smiled. “Front page is great. But this? Dancing in the kitchen with you? That’s the real prize.”

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and soft, like you were answering a question he hadn’t asked out loud.

“I love you, Kent.”

He rested his forehead against yours. “Love you too. Even when you steal all the warm blankets.”

You laughed, tucking your face into his shoulder. The music played on, low and golden, as your bracelet glowed faintly against the small of his back.

No headlines. No heroics.

Just the two of you, wrapped around each other, dancing like the rest of the world could wait.

And for now—it could.

You stayed that way for a while. Just moving. Just breathing.

Your head rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart—strong, sure, and entirely yours. His hand trailed up your spine and settled between your shoulder blades, like he could hold the moment there forever.

Then, in a voice barely louder than a breath, he said, “I would love to stay like this forever with you.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. Something about the way he said it—so simple, so certain—made your chest ache in the best possible way.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“You mean that?”

He nodded, eyes soft but unwavering. “If this was it—just you, and me, and music in the kitchen—I’d be okay. No front pages, no saving the world. Just… us.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your thumb brushed his cheek like you were tracing the shape of forever on his skin.

“Then we’ll stay like this a little longer,” you whispered. “And let the world wait.”

So you did.

Two hearts, one rhythm, swaying in a circle of candlelight and quiet joy.

And in that small, golden world you’d built together, everything felt exactly as it should.

----

@animegamerfox

[echo-ethe]

I wanna feel what love is

Summary : You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader

Warnings : mutual pining, jealousy (brief flirtation), sunshine x quiet introvert, playlist flirting, he’s loud for both of you

Words : 5K

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

There was a certain stillness to the sim bay when you were in it—not silent, exactly, but quieter in a way that wasn't just about decibels. It was the kind of quiet that made people talk softer when they walked by you, as if your presence created a ripple of calm in the mechanical hum of monitors and diagnostic lights. You weren’t unfriendly. Just focused. Precise. A whisper in a world of voices raised too loud too often.

Bradley Bradshaw was not quiet, he was everything but quiet.

He was energy and swagger and sun-soaked charm, tall and golden, never without something to say. Usually something funny, sometimes something stupid, but always with that boyish confidence that made people laugh even when they didn’t want to.

And for some reason, lately, he kept orbiting around you.

Today, it was coffee.

You barely registered the footsteps until he was standing beside your desk, one hand curled around a cup, the other sliding the second one in front of you with practiced ease, like he’d done this before, like he’d made this part of his day.

“Hazelnut,” he said, voice low but cheerful, like you two were already in on some inside joke as he offered you the sweetest smile. “With oat milk. Thought I’d take a gamble, you look like an oat milk kind of girl.”

You paused mid-keystroke. Your eyes flicked up to his face—those soft brown eyes, wide and too curious for their own good—then down to the coffee. ‘Oat milk kind of girl’, what the hell does that mean ? Anyway, you took it without hesitation, your hand wrapping around the warm cup like it was familiar, though it wasn’t. At least not yet.

A quiet breath left your lips. “Thanks.” You murmured, voice just above the whir of the nearby fan: soft, clipped, barely there.

Then, you turned back to the screen, like the moment had never happened at all. Bradley stood there a beat too long, blinking once, then scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish kind of grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…Cool.” He said to no one in particular, and walked off. Glancing back once to see if you looked at him again.

You didn’t.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

By the time lunch rolled around, the mess hall was its usual mess of uniformed pilots, engineers, and stray conversations about upcoming tests and simulations. Bradley slouched into a seat beside Phoenix and Bob, stealing a chip off Bob’s tray like it belonged to him.

“She never talks,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, watching you across the room as you sat alone, quietly eating, headphones on. You were scrolling something on your tablet—a manual, probably, or flight logs. You looked like you’d be anywhere else if you could, and still, you glowed in your own strange, distant way. Like a lighthouse in fog.

Phoenix didn’t even blink. “Whisper ? That’s her whole thing.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but she literally never talks. I’ve said good morning to her for like four days straight and got exactly two words in return. One of them was ‘thanks.’ The other was ‘hmm.’”

“She doesn’t waste words,” Bob offered gently. “I like that about her.”

“Yeah, but how does she communicate ? Like, with other humans ? Does she just telepathically vibe what she wants across the room ?”

Phoenix smirked. “You’re not mad she’s quiet, you’re mad she’s not talking to you.”

Bradley opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He glanced across the cafeteria again. You were sipping the coffee he brought. Slowly. Still the only one you’d had all day. He watched the way you bit your lip, thinking intensely. How your hair fell back when you let it go, slightly hiding your face. But suddenly, a question popped in his head. “Why do we even call her whisper ?” He said still looking at you, not really waiting for an answer, more to make a statement.

“We talked once,” started Bob, cutting the brunet off from his observation. Rooster turned his head quickly, interested in what the blond had just told him. “Said she was a former pilot. Real good one too.”

His interest peaked, “Former pilot ? I thought she was a ground systems tech.”

“Well she is now.” The blond said. “But she used to fly, so people still use her call sign. Top of her class, sharp as a tack. Then she switched to ground—said she liked the quiet shadows better than the spotlight in the cockpit.”

Rooster took a slow sip of his glass of water, thinking about what his friend had just told him. “Guess I’ve got a mission then.”

Nat raised an eyebrow, “What kind of mission ?”

“To get her talking.” He answers, grinning like a kid who just found a new puzzle. 

Bob laughed. “Good luck with that one.”

But that didn’t discourage Bradley, not even a little.

The sim bay had the kind of buzz that never quite went away—humming computers, faint whirring fans, a voice or two in the background reviewing telemetry. It was comfortable in a mechanical sort of way, and you liked it that way: your space, your rhythm, your quiet corner of the world. You were back at your console, headphones on, lips parted ever so slightly in focus as you adjusted a variable in the flight response program.

Bradley Bradshaw, on the other hand, existed in full color. He lingered in the doorway, pretending to look for someone, but mostly watching you work. He moved like someone born in the sun, all wide smiles and long limbs, always cracking a joke or throwing a casual wink in someone’s direction. So, when his boots thudded up beside your desk for the second time that day, coffee in hand again, you felt him coming before you even saw him. You slipped one of your headphones off as he stopped beside your desk, and he couldn’t help but smiled at the anticipation.

“You always drink coffee after lunch,” he said, setting the cup beside your keyboard like it was already tradition. “But I figured I’d switch it up. This one has vanilla instead of hazelnut. Dangerous, I know.” He chuckled for a bit.

You paused, glanced at him, and took the cup with both hands like it might vanish if you didn’t. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word barely above a breath.

He smiled like it was a full sentence. And then, to your surprise, he didn’t leave. He leaned against the edge of your console, arms crossed. “So… do you always have your headphones in, or is that just to avoid me ?”

You blinked, looked at him—not startled, just unreadable. Then: a quiet, short answer.

“No.”

His brows lifted. “Oh ? So it’s not personal.”

“No.”

Another beat passed. He was clearly trying to decide if that was good or bad.

“What do you listen to ?”

“…Music.”

That made him grin. “Wow. The mystery deepens.”

You looked back at your monitor. You weren’t trying to be cold, you just didn’t know what to do with all that energy, all that focus pointed at you like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

Still, he stayed.

“What kind of music ?” he asked, voice dipping into something gentler.

You hesitated. “…Instrumental.”

“No lyrics ?”

You shook your head.

“Okay. So you like stuff that doesn’t talk much. That makes sense.”

There was a tiny flicker at the corner of your lips. Not quite a smile. But almost. Bradley caught it like it was gold dust.

“Are you from around here ?” he tried again, as casually as he could.

You shrugged. “Sort of.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You glanced at him. “It is.”

He chuckled, arms dropping as he leaned a little closer to your screen, trying to read what you were working on. “You calibrating the response latency on Phoenix’s sim log ?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna explain it to me like I’m five ?”

“No.”

He laughed—this full, warm thing that drew glances from two other pilots on their way out. You didn’t laugh with him, but you did nod, slow and almost amused as you went back to work. And that was something. Bradley stared at you for another second. Then, without a word, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since morning and pulled a black Sharpie from his back pocket.

He scribbled something near the rim, just above the sleeve, and set it gently back beside you. You didn’t look up. But you didn’t tell him to go, either. He turned and left with a smirk playing at his lips.

Once you were sure he was gone, you reached out, fingers curling around the cup like it was something private. You turned it, just slightly. In dark, careful handwriting, it said:

‘Don’t worry, 

I talk enough for both of us.’

You stared at it for a second. Just long enough for the smallest smile to touch your lips—the kind you’d never let him see.

Not yet.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was buzzing, already alive by the time you stepped through the doors. Half-empty beer bottles, familiar voices crashing over each other like waves, Phoenix’s laughter echoed from the pool table and a Springsteen song rumbled from the jukebox. Bradley was already there, leaning back at the bar, flashing that easy, sun-warmed smile at anyone who passed. As usual, he was dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt with a simple white T-shirt, his aviator pair on the tip of his nose, and his stupid moustache making him looking good as ever.

You hovered at the threshold longer than you meant to—long enough to wonder why you came, short enough that no one noticed—then slipped in quietly, the familiar hum of chatter wrapping around you like a cocoon. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. You weren’t afraid of noise, just tired of being swallowed by it. But tonight, something pulled you in. Maybe it was the ache of loneliness that crept in when the hangar emptied you. Or maybe it was just the memory of Rooster’s smile earlier that morning, when he handed you coffee just to hear your thank-you. 

“Watch this.” Bradley said to Phoenix, next to him, as he saw you cross the room.

“You're gonna make a fool of yourself.” She laughed as he stood up, walking with a determined step towards you.

You found your usual corner near the window, sliding onto a stool with your drink and earphones already tucked in your jacket pocket. Not quite ready to drown out the noise, but ready to keep some space from it. You hadn’t even settled on a stool before a shadow fell beside you.

“There she is,” Bradley drawled, smooth and pleased, sidling up beside you with his usual beer in hand. “Didn’t think this place was your scene.”

You glanced at him sideways, eyes unreadable, and shrugged. “Got bored.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning one arm on the table next to you, his attention all yours. “You in a bar full of pilots ? That’s not boredom. That’s anthropology.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe I’m observing.”

He grinned wide, taking that as a win. “See ? She does talk.” He says loud enough so Nat could hear it.

You didn’t reply. Just looked at him with wide eyes and sipped your drink, letting the silence settle again.

Bradley seemed content to fill it. “You always just… listen ?” He asked, watching over the rim of his bottle.

You gave a small shrug. “Someone has to.”

His eyes softened, “I like your voice.” He said unbothered by your silence. 

That pulled something from you—the tiniest exhale of laugh, gone before fully formed. But he caught it, and his grin widened even more when he saw your cheeks getting slightly red. “There it is,” he said, mock-dramatic. “A sound. We’ve got confirmation of life.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it.

Across the room, near the jukebox, Fanboy nudged Payback and nodded toward you both.

“Ten bucks says he won’t get her to say more than four words tonight,” Fanboy said.

Payback chuckled. “I’ll take that bet. Bradshaw’s relentless.”

Back at the corner, Bradley didn’t care. Didn’t even notice. He was too focused on you—on the way your fingers traced the rim of your glass, the way you listened like it mattered. Then, he seemed to be slowing down, leaning against the edge of your space like he might stay there all night.

“You ever drink anything stronger than water ?” He asked, nudging his empty bottle toward your glass.

“I had whiskey last week.” You murmured.

Bradley arched an eyebrow. “One whiskey ?”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “Two.”

He laughed, the sound full and bright, startling in the close space between you. You turned slightly toward him, just enough to give him your attention—not more, not yet.

“I think people forget you have a voice,” he said, his tone quieter now, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I mean, I see you every day. Running diagnostics, fixing our busted egos in the sims, headphones always on. But nobody really talks to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, fingers tapping the base of your glass.

“Why’d you stop flying ?” He asked suddenly, not unkindly. Just… curious.

You glanced away for a beat, surprised he knew that, then shrugged. “Liked control more.”

Bradley’s smile softened, fading into something more thoughtful. “You ever miss it ?”

You paused. Then, so quiet he almost missed it: “Sometimes.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just looked at you, like he wanted to remember the sound of your voice exactly as it was. Then someone brushed past you on the way to the bar, a blonde woman in a sundress, tall and glowing, with a spark in her eye and a laugh that cut clean through the room. Confident in a way that glittered, she moved like she already knew who would be watching her, and her eyes locked onto Bradley.

You caught the way his eyes settled on her. Not just a glance, but a long, lingering stare, the kind that said he was interested, curious, maybe even impressed. His usual playful charm softened into something quieter, more focused, like he was seeing something worth leaning into, and for a moment, it was like you weren’t even in the room.

Anyway, he stayed with you a little longer. 

And unconsciously, you gave him more than usual tonight—a full five minutes of quiet conversation, soft answers barely audible beneath the noise, a trace of a smile when he teased you about something you just said. It was the most you’d spoken to him outside the sim bay, and for a moment, it felt like something shifted. Like maybe he saw you a little more clearly now.

Then your glass emptied. You stood slowly, nodding toward the bartender on the far end. “Be right back.” You took his empty bottle in your hand, without asking him. 

He thanked you and straightened, stretching his arms back just enough for the fabric of his shirt to pull across his broad shoulders. The movement was effortless, the kind of thing he didn’t even know he was doing. “Don’t disappear on me.” He called, half-laughing, as you stepped away, weaving through shoulders and laughter. You didn’t answer, just slipped into the crowd, quiet as ever. 

You didn’t see the blonde until you were halfway to the bar, but he saw her. She brushed past you with the kind of scent you couldn’t name but somehow noticed. And by the time you looked back, his eyes were already on her. Focused. That warm, open grin of his softened into something more curious, the kind of look he gave to things he wanted to figure out—the same look he gave you earlier that morning. When she glanced over and smile, he smiled back like it was instinct. The blonde placed a hand on his forearm, light and lingering, nails painted in a summer pink. And he didn’t move an inch away. 

He tilted his head, smiling down at her like they’d known each other longer than thirty seconds. That familiar warmth in his eyes—the one he gave you—was now entirely hers. Your grip on his bottle tightened and you turned back toward the bar, but not for the bartender anymore. Instead you set the bottle and your glass gently on a vacant corner. 

“Doesn’t need his beer anymore.” You muttered under your breath. 

“Ditching the golden boy already ?” Phoenix’s voice came from beside you, light but knowing. 

You didn’t flinch, just gave her a small shrug, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the jukebox. “He’s got company.” You said quietly. 

She followed your gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but you caught the way she exhaled slowly, like she wanted to say something. Instead, she offered a soft nudge to your shoulder. “Come shoot a round with me. Before Bradshaw says something stupid dumb and ruins both your nights.”

You nodded once, grateful, and let her steer you away—away from the laughter from the blonde, from the part of you that had started to hope he’s look for you first.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The next few days passed in a blur of drills and simulator runs, but something was off. Bradley felt it before he even saw it. A shift in the air, subtle and sharp. The way people say you can sense a storm rolling on, not by the thunder, but by how still the birds go. 

You were still there in the sim bay every morning, like clockwork. Still perched at your console with your headphones draped around your neck, fingers flying over diagnostic keys. Still responding to reports, confirming flight data, calling out corrections with crisp professionalism. 

But you weren’t there. Not like before. 

You didn’t glance over when he leaned on the edge of your desk with his usual swagger, coffee cup in hand, teasing tone ready. You’d just take the cup without eye contact, said a flat, “Thanks”, and go back to the screen like he hadn’t just offered you the sun. 

No smile. No soft voice. No quiet moment like before. Bradley stood there a second longer, watching you scroll through diagnostics. The first time, he brushed it off. Maybe you were tired or busy. The second time, it tugged a little. But the third ? It started to sting. 

“Rough morning ?” he asked that day, testing the waters. He watched you from just a few feet away, trying to catch your expression through the edge of your hair. But you didn’t even blink. Didn’t even lift your head. Just muttered, “No”, and continued typing. 

Bradley lingered awkwardly for a few seconds longer, waiting—for a smile, a glance, anything. But you never looked up. He left the coffee on the corner of your console and walked away like a door had closed behind him.

And it stuck with him. It gnawed at him all day. During simulator drills, debriefs, even lunch where he barely touched his food, through endless conversations with teammates where he found himself half-listening, distracted by the feeling of something slipping out of reach. By the time evening rolled around, he couldn’t shake it. He found Phoenix on the flight deck catwalk, where the sky was bruising purple, and the air still carried salt and heat.

“What did I do ?” He asked impatient.

She didn’t looked away from the horizon, “To who ?”

He looked at her like it was obvious and sighed, “Whisper.”

Now she looked at him, one brow lifted. “You mean besides not shutting up around her ?”

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “No, I mean lately. She’s been…” He exhaled hard. “Different. Cold.”

Phoenix tilted her head, giving him a long, pointed look. Then she asked, “You really don’t get it ?”

His expression didn’t change, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Get what ?”

“She saw you Bradshaw.”

He blinked, “Saw me what ?”

Phoenix pushed off the railing, folding her arms. “You flirted with some random at the Hard Deck right after spending all night talking her out of her shell. And she saw you. Every second of it.”

Bradley’s mouth opened slightly. “What ? No, I wasn’t— I just talked to her for a second—”

“Bradley,” Phoenix’s voice dropped, serious now. “She was holding your damn beer to get you a new one. She wanted to come back to you.”

He stopped. Actually stopped. Like the weight of those words landed straight on his chest. “I didn’t…” He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He muttered.

She softened a little but didn’t let him off the hook. “Didn’t have to.” She waited a beat, then said more gently, “She’s quiet, not stupid. You think that kind of girl opens up to just anyone ?”

He didn’t answer. Because he was thinking about the bar now. About the way your eyes had briefly flicked toward him when the blonde leaned in. About how your expression had shuttered before he could even recognize the look behind it. 

Phoenix watched him closely, then nudged his shoulder. “So. Fix it. Or at least don’t make it worse.”

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

Two days went by.

Long enough for Bradley to feel every inch of it—in the clipped responses, in the polite nods, in the way you passed him in the corridor like he was another file to be sorted and ignored. 

And it was driving him insane.

Because you weren’t the kind of person to shut people out impulsively. You were calculated, quiet, deliberate in everything you did. And this coldness wasn’t sudden. It was chosen. Thought through.

Which meant it hurt.

He spent hours turning it over in his head, reliving that night at the Hard Deck, the way you’d said ‘Be right back’ like it meant something, like you were truly planning on coming back to him and not just disappear as he thought you would. And how he’d let himself be pulled into a meaningless moment with a girl he didn’t even remember the name of. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Not until Phoenix spelled it out for him in painfully clear words.

So now he sat with that. The guilt, the frustration, the quiet hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt someone who barely let people close to begin with. And he wanted to fix it. But with you, big gestures didn’t work. He knew that. You didn’t want spectacle, you wanted sincerity. Something simple. Something honest.

So that morning, before anyone else was in the sim bay, he left a flash drive on your console. No note. No explanation. Just slid it onto the edge of your desk beside your water bottle and walked away without a word.

You noticed it the moment you sat down.

A plain silver drive, no label. But when you hovered over the files on your screen an hour later, curiosity finally won over.

“Songs You Should Smile To — A Rooster Original”

You stared at the name for a long moment, your finger paused above the track list. You didn’t open it right away. Didn’t smile, either. Just… paused. Then clicked. The first song was soft, warm around the edges. The kind of sound that lingered like late sunshine on concrete. It played in your headphones for exactly thirty-eight seconds before you stopped it. Then closed the window. Then unplugged the drive.

You slipped it into your pocket like it was something fragile.

Later that day, while the rest of the pilots were out on deck, Bradley circled back into the sim bay. You were alone at your station, typing quietly, brows drawn together as you reviewed a diagnostic thread. He lingered by the edge of the console—not leaning in like usual, not crowding your space—just there. Treading softly.

“Hey,” he said gently, scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you, uh… open it?”

You didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “Yeah.”

That was it.

A single syllable, flat as an ocean on a windless day. You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t even glance his way.

Bradley hesitated, thumb rubbing the edge of his palm. “Cool,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just figured… you might need a better soundtrack. Y’know. For… stuff.”

No reply. No warmth. Nothing to hold on to. You didn’t ignore him, but you didn’t give him anything, either. And that was somehow worse. He lingered for a second longer, then gave a small nod and turned away. Chest tight, mouth pressed into a thin line.

But he didn’t see the way your fingers curled slightly as he walked off. The way your eyes flicked toward the flash drive, still safe in your pocket. Or even the way you waited until the door hissed shut behind him before reaching for your headphones again.

You started the playlist over. From the beginning this time.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««

The Hard Deck was loud that night. Louder than usual. Full of laughter, clinking bottles, half-sung choruses to half-remembered songs. Bradley was already two beers in when he dropped onto a stool by the bar, half-listening to Hangman brag about something no one cared about and trying not to look toward the door every few minutes like some hopeful idiot.

You hadn’t showed up yet. 

He told himself he wasn’t looking. That he didn’t care. That it was just a normal night, and he was just enjoying the bar like everyone else. 

But then he heard it.

The song.

Soft drums, rising gently above the noise, his heart stuttered.

“I want to know what love is” by the Foreigner.

It wasn’t one of the Hard Deck bangers, not on Penny’s usual rotation. It was his song. The first track on the playlist he gave you. One that made him grin when it came on during drives, made him think of wind in his hair and summers that never quite ended. It wasn’t loud enough to cut through pool games or Payback’s booming laugh across the room. But loud enough for him to hear it.

He blinked, turning toward the jukebox automatically.

And there you were.

Alone, standing quietly with one hand still resting lightly against the machine, like you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to touch it. Head bowed just a little, listening. You looked soft in the amber glow of the neon bar lights. 

Playing his song.

Bradley was on his feet before he could stop himself. He crossed the floor slowly, weaving through the crowd as his pulse ticking somewhere behind his ribs, watching you with a quiet disbelief. You didn’t turn until he was almost beside you. Then, finally, your eyes lifted to meet his. There was something unreadable in your expression: something brave.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.

“I liked this one.” You said simply, your voice barely louder than the song. 

Just that.

No buildup. No grand declaration. But your voice was warmer than it had been in days, and your eyes held a softness he hadn’t seen since before that night at the bar. And Bradley melted. A breath escaped his chest like relief and hope all tangled into one. “Yeah ?” He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I thought you might.”

You gave a tiny nod, barely there. “Had it on repeat all night.”

He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that stretched across his face like a sunrise. His heart clenched in his chest, and for once, he couldn’t find a smooth comeback. Just stood there, quiet in front of the quietest person he knew, feeling every word like it had weight. 

 “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For that night. I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to…”

“I know.” Your eyes didn’t leave his.

And then—finally—you smiled. Bradley exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since that night. You looked at him for a long time, longer than you ever had before. The jukebox kept playing as the music wrapped around you both like velvet.

Bradley laughed under his breath, “There it is.”

The jukebox’s glow flickered softly across your face, casting colors that shimmered like stained glass: red across your jaw, blue across your lashes. You were looking at him like he’d said something sacred. Like he hadn’t messed it all up.

Bradley’s throat tightened. His hands ached to move—to reach for you, to tuck that strand of hair behind your ear, to do something—but he didn’t. He didn’t move. Didn’t trust himself not to screw it up by rushing. So he stood there, holding his breath, watching you like he’d watch a sunrise he was afraid to blink through.

And you… you just looked at him for a moment longer. Eyes calm, unreadable, but soft. Then slowly—so slowly he almost thought he imagined it—your hand reached up. Fingers brushed lightly against the collar of his shirt, then steadied there, like an anchor. You leaned in, hesitant, but sure, eyes locked on his, not breaking even once. Bradley’s breath caught. His lips parted just slightly. He still didn’t move.

But you did.

You kissed him.

Not tentative. Not shy. Not loud, but louder than anything you’d ever said before. It was soft, but certain, the kind of kiss that said everything you never did. And Bradley melted into it. When he finally kissed you back—deeper, more grounded, hand slipping gently around your waist—it felt like exhaling after months of holding his breath. Like gravity stopped pulling and just let him float.

And in the background, Kelly Hansen sang on : 

I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me…

[echo-ethe]

Emergency Contact

Clark Kent/Superman x fem!reader

Clark Kent has an emergency contact. Superman is an emergency contact. They're both a little dramatic.

2.2k+ words, fluff, banter, canon typical danger/violence/injuries, hurt/comfort, no spoilers, doesn't reference the ptv song but I highly recommend it!

Masterlist | DC Masterlist | Request Info

Clark Kent isn’t normal. Despite having admitted that Superman is an alien, when the cape is off and the glasses are on, Clark is just another guy. Yet, the nuances of human nature still confuse him at times.

Like thirty seconds ago, when a ceiling tile fell, broke against his head, and his coworkers just stared at him in silent, wide-eyed horror. It hadn’t hurt; it had barely managed to startle him out of his hunched position at his desk. It certainly hadn’t done any damage. But the fact stood: it should have.

So, with that in mind, Clark slows his heartbeat, drops his chin against his chest, and slides from his chair. He hears the rustling of fabric and heavy footsteps as the people around him rush to lend some kind of aid, bites his tongue to avoid smiling when Jimmy yells at the 911 dispatcher, and remains completely relaxed, lax in Lois’s hands as she checks his vitals.

“No ambulance,” Clark mumbles after counting to fifteen in his mind. He squeezes his eyes closed behind his glasses but doesn’t move otherwise. “I’m okay.”

“You just broke a ceiling tile with your head,” Lois argues. “Head trauma does not constitute being fine.”

Clark grunts as he pushes himself up, shaking his arms in short, tremor-like movements to keep up appearances.

“We’re getting you looked at, Kent,” Perry agrees.

“No, I insist,” Clark says. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. White. I can get back to work after I clean up my desk.”

“Absolutely not,” Lois interjects.

“You’re refusing to go to the hospital?” Perry checks.

Clark nods as he stands, keeping his hands against his knees. Lois hovers beside him as Jimmy continues speaking to the dispatcher. Cat and Steve have joined the group as well, lingering beside Lois’s desk.

“Then I can’t force you,” Perry decides. “But take half an hour or so, get your bearings, have some water. We’ll clean this up for you.”

“I appreciate that,” Clark replies. He nods, straightens his glasses, and wipes the dust from his jacket, then moves toward the break room.

“Perry!” Lois snaps, spinning on her heel. “Are you crazy? He has head trauma; he can’t go back to work!”

“I know,” Perry answers. “But I can’t force him to go to the hospital either. I’m not getting sued, Lane. What I am going to do is call his emergency contact and let them decide what he’s going to do.”

“Oh, yeah, get mama Kent in on this,” Steve interjects, using a pretentious fake accent.

“Is Clark alright?” Cat wonders, elbowing below Steve’s ribs.

“He seems okay,” Lois assures her while Perry walks to his office. “I’ll go check on him again in a minute. We should clean his desk.”

Steve begins to argue, but when Cat and Lois pause to glare at him, he offers to find a broom.

The ice in your drink has long melted, but you raise the straw to your mouth mindlessly as you flip a page in the report you were asked to proofread. Working from home today seemed like fun when you were first told, but it’s gotten boring quickly. You’d much rather be on your couch or listening to music as you type, not concentrating entirely on spelling and grammar in a document created for an audience that does not include you.

As you underline an unclear phrase with your red pencil, your phone rings, breaking through your concentration like a lighthouse leading you in from the stormy sea.

“Hello,” you greet, wiping the condensation from your cup off your hand on your pants.

“Hi,” the man on the other end says before he asks to speak to you. “My name is Perry White, from the Daily Planet. I’m calling about Clark.”

With a soft gasp, you tighten your fingers around your phone. “Is he okay?” you inquire.

“We believe so. He had a slight accident; he was hit in the head and is refusing medical attention. Because you’re his emergency contact, I’m required to inform you and give you the opportunity to choose his - or my - course of action here.”

Turning in your seat, you have to remind yourself who you’re talking about. Of course, Clark is okay. Unless he was struck with a block of Kryptonite, he’s got no reason to go to the hospital, where he’d have to explain his lack of bruising or headache to medical professionals.

“Is he conscious?” you ask.

“Yes,” Mr. White replies. “He’s drinking water and is coherent.”

“I’ll be down there in ten minutes,” you decide. “Thanks for the call.”

“Of course. I’ll have a visitor’s badge waiting at the front desk for you.”

You end the call, mark your place in the report, and gather your things. Clark can be dramatic at times, but you understand why he’s trying to mitigate the damage or reaction to this specific incident. If you can play a part to help him, there’s no reason you shouldn’t. You’ll have to thank him for the opportunity to take a break from staring at words that lost meaning an hour and a half ago, you think as you unlock your car. Then, you wonder, Since when am I Clark’s emergency contact? The ring on your finger should answer that.

The secretary at the Daily Planet seems nice, but you didn’t say much beside thanking her for your visitor’s badge. In the elevator, you tap your fingers on your leg and wonder what you’re going to walk into. Stepping out on the floor you were directed to, you look around quickly. There are people at their desks, walking quickly towards printers, and a small crowd lingering around a singular computer monitor. Then, you see two women and a clearly displeased man cleaning a broken ceiling tile off a desk. A desk bearing Clark Kent’s nameplate.

“Uh, excuse me,” you call as you approach them. “I’m looking for Clark Kent; could you tell me where he is?”

The woman in the purple sweater freezes when she sees you, her eyes widening slightly, while the other woman stutters, looking for words.

“Why are you looking for Clark?” the man with them asks, chuckling.

“He’s my fiancé,” you reply. “I got a call he was hurt.”

“Fiance?!” another man exclaims, leaning back in his chair until it begins to tip. He rights himself quickly before asking, “You’re engaged to Clark?”

“Yes,” you reply, wrapping your fingers around the strap of your bag. “Is he alright?”

A third man approaches, an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth as he says your name. When you nod, he waves for you to follow him, then leads you to the break room.

“Thanks,” he mumbles before he leaves you alone.

Stepping inside, you quickly realize that Clark is alone in the small room. When the door closes behind you, you smile and tip your head toward your shoulder.

“Clark get a boo-boo?” you ask playfully, pushing your bottom lip out.

“I could sue,” he points out, smiling lazily as he looks up at you.

“Yeah, but without proof that anything bad happened to you, might be tough to win. Think you could get to a red sun planet, concuss yourself, and come back for an X-ray?”

“You’re not being very understanding,” Clark muses. “I was traumatized.”

“Oh, right,” you agree, walking closer to him. Standing between his knees, you push Clark’s hair off his forehead. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he whispers. “But I didn’t think it’d be wise to show that.”

“You know what else wouldn’t be wise? Staying and going back to work. Most people would take the day, even if it didn’t hurt them.”

“That’s taking advantage of my boss, though.”

You sigh, bending at your waist to look into Clark’s eyes. “People tend to look out for themselves, first, Supes,” you remind him. “Just this once, do what anyone else would do. That’s my advice right now.”

Clark nods, holding your left hand in his, toying with your engagement ring as he glances toward the door.

“Help me up?” Clark requests, blinking slowly, a smirk on his face because he knows you will.

With your arm around his waist, you lead Clark to the elevator. He keeps his eyes half-lidded, waving pathetically as the doors close. You continue the act until you’re a block away, then close your eyes against Clark's chest as he flies you home.

Though he’s glad he’s not actually injured, Clark thinks it’s good to know he’s got an emergency contact he can count on. You, however, are too entertained by Clark's acting abilities and too busy coming up with a way to tease him about how dramatic he is to go back to work. Clark pulls you onto the couch and considers the whole ordeal a win-win.

Your mid-afternoon run to the grocery store had a singular purpose: pick up ingredients for dinner. Now, looking around the nearly empty warehouse you’ve been trapped in, you’re thinking it would have been easier to order a pizza.

Metal clangs in the distance before heavy footsteps near you. Straightening your back, you pull against the restraints holding you against an oversized motorcycle parked in the center of the building.

“Let’s try this again,” the alien who abducted you off the street begins. He has some sort of blaster hanging from his right hand, and your posture grows more rigid at the sight of it. “Where is Superman?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you answer.

Behind your back, you press the button on the side of your watch. Then, when your abductor moves his fingers toward the trigger, you pinch your eyes closed and wait.

Halfway around the world from Metropolis, Superman is flying miles above a city. It had been evacuated for a tsunami strengthening off the coast, but he’d assured the governor he’d scan for any other life forms before the storm hits.

While he listens for heartbeats or any other sign of life, however, Clark’s watch buzzes. The city beneath him silences as he listens for something else. Back home, your heart races in fear. You’re in trouble, and you’re calling Superman for help. With a sonic boom, Superman leaves his post in the sky and follows your heart – and, by extension, his own – home.

A strong gust of wind presses you against the bike as blaster fires. Superman stands between you and the alien, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set, and anger burning in his eyes.

“Lobo,” he greets lowly.

A name as stupid as he looks, you think.

“Superman,” Lobo replies. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“What’s the bounty this time?” your fiancé asks. “Better yet, who’s paying for my head?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know, Blue.”

“You’re right, I don’t have the time or the patience for this conversation, Lobo.” Clark drops his arms and takes a single intimidating step toward Lobo. “So, I’m going to give you one chance. Leave Earth.”

“Ooh, scary,” Lobo taunts, lifting his hands. “Better idea for you. We see if you’re faster than a bomb. That bike your girl is tied to? I’ve done some modifications. If you can’t set her free in less than one second, you might not have anything on Earth worth saving. How’s that for a payoff deal, pal?”

“Fine,” Clark replies. “Play it your way.”

You don’t even register your time in Clark’s arms before he’s blocking debris with his body, his broad back keeping you safe as the explosion rings off the metal walls around you. Lobo yells when he stands from behind a barrel, and Superman flies straight toward him. He clutches Lobo’s lapel, then disappears from Metropolis. Standing in the corner of the warehouse, you press your hand to your heart and attempt to calm your breathing.

“Ma’am?” Superman asks when he returns. “Are you alright?”

You raise your hand to ask for a second, but nod. Clark tucks his hands behind his back, beneath his cape, and watches you.

“What’d you do to him?” you ask after a moment.

“Gave him a few good reasons to go home,” Clark answers simply.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Superman steps forward, his chest inches from you as he smiles. “I’m here to serve.”

“Really?” you whisper softly, raising one hand to trace the S on his chest. “And how do you plan to do that tonight?”

“Depends,” he replies, leaning closer to you. “Anything particular you had in mind?”

“Maybe. But first, a question.”

“Sure,” Clark agrees with a laugh.

“Are you that intense with everyone when you're in the suit? Because I’ve never seen you like that.”

Clark’s jaw tightens quickly, his arms flexing as he presses his fingers into his hands. “He would have killed you,” Clark explains quietly. “Lobo has no decency left. I need him – and anyone else who may see a bounty on me and figure out who you are – to know there are clear limits. You stay safe. That’s the number one goal.”

“And you’ll be here to make sure that’s the case?”

Clark’s breath fans against your lips as he promises, “Every time.”

His words are followed by his hands meeting your waist and a cool metal wall against your back. Clark shows you that his emotions may be because of you, but he’ll only ever feel one thing for you: love, with its many subsets of devotion, admiration, affection... and the greater things that make Clark blush, and make Superman bold.

[echo-ethe]

𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙢 ❀

gregory house x reader alt. this might be the only chance he gets

╰ fluff

cw. lowercase intended, house being house, implied driving under the influence, reader likes tulips, bambi!reader might turn it into a series :3

it was dark, the lights dimmed down in the lab while you finished getting the last of your things ready. being on house’s team wasn’t easy— not for foreman, not for chase, not for cameron, and certainly not for you. honestly, it wasn’t easy for anyone.

but there was something about him. his aura, his attitude, that scruffy, sardonic charm. who wouldn’t find it attractive? he had his problems, sure. his issues. but who didn’t?

“you know you don’t get paid overtime, bambi?”

his deep voice sliced through the silence— and your spiraling thoughts. you turned to face him. he was leaning against the doorframe, cane firm in hand as usual. in the low lighting, his five-o’clock shadow was more defined, and the plum-colored bags under his eyes looked heavier than ever.

“i know. just getting ready to leave,” you smiled softly. it would be a lie to say you weren’t tired— of course you were. you were a doctor, after all.

“plus… you’re here too,” you added with a shrug, raising a brow as you slung your bag over your shoulder.

“i’m everywhere,” he grinned, that sly smirk tugging at his lips— the smirk that made you roll your eyes. not out of annoyance, though. more like… fondness.

“do you ever go out and have fun?” you asked, stepping away from the lab counters and toward him, where he still lounged in the doorway like some morally ambiguous gargoyle.

“is the holy trinity fun?”

the question made you tilt your head, brows furrowing in confusion. it wasn’t unusual for house to speak in what you could only describe as… grump-coded riddles. at this point, you didn’t even need to ask what he meant—he always answered himself anyway.

“whiskey. vicodin. hookers.”

you stared at him flatly. “that is… certainly not fun.”

you huffed, somewhere between judgment and resignation.

“and what could be fun for you, bambi? knitting? scrapbooking?”

well, now you were definitely not going to admit that both of those sounded… actually kind of fun. very you-coded, tragically.

“no,” you shot back, lifting your chin a little. “i mean going out for coffee or dinner like a normal human being in society?”

“wilson and dinner sounds like a free therapy session where i’m the therapist,” house chuckled. it was a quiet laugh— rare, and more sincere than his usual brand of sarcasm-laced scoffing.

“well, maybe you should go with someone else.”

he quirked both brows, hiding a flicker of surprise behind a small, bitter laugh.

“you telling me you want to go to dinner, bambi?”

“what are you— behind on charity work? go donate to kids in africa—”

well, that certainly wasn’t kind. but then again… it was house. it could be worse. it was always capable of being worse.

“i’m not doing any charity work, house.” you pursed your lips, already tired of his verbal gymnastics.

“sure you aren’t, kid. you want fun? go to a frat house.”

“…i don’t like parties,” you replied simply, voice even.

“look— i’ve been through this with cameron, with— whatever. stop playing fix-it-felix—”

“i’m not trying to fix you. i don’t want to fix you.”

you cut him off, your voice sharper than you expected. your lips pulled into a frown, but it wasn’t anger, not really. it was closer to… disappointment. maybe even pity. and that made you feel worse.

but then— shockingly— house went quiet. no sarcastic clapback, no snide remark, no dramatic eye-roll.

just… silence.

“look— i think the only person who can fix you is you,” you said gently. “i’m just saying… you should be with someone who supports that. not necessarily me,” you added, voice softening with a quiet sigh.

“nobody’s perfect, greg. and nothing’s ever linear. it really just depends on how much you’re willing to devote to yourself.”

his lips parted slightly. then again. and again. but no sound came out.

for once in a blue moon, gregory house looked— stunned.

“if you ever want to try— coffee, or anything— you know where to find me.”

you offered a soft smile, your eyes blinking slow in that warm, quietly reassuring way that had always seemed to bother him more than it should’ve.

and with that, you slipped past him, your shoulder brushing his just enough to ground the moment in reality.

“goodnight, house.”

now, house was hard to knock out of his grumpy, emotionally-walled-up equilibrium. but after an hour of sitting in his office, your words echoing in his brain like a really bad schizophrenic episode— he just couldn’t take it.

even after a glass of whiskey.

even after two vicodins.

even after almost hiring a hooker.

still, he couldn’t shut you out.

that’s how he found himself at your desk, tearing through your things with a desperation so feral it was borderline animalistic. papers flying. trinkets crashing against the wall. receipts scattering like snow. what was he even trying to find?

he didn’t know.

not really.

his mind was spiraling. his hands were frantic. he just needed something. something solid, something that proved this wasn’t just another moment of almost-caring that would fade with the drugs.

and then— sitting there in your squeaky, worn-out office chair— it hit him.

harder than a car. harder than a truck. harder than a train. hell, even harder than a plane crash.

the realization.

sad.

frightening.

gut-twisting.

this might be the only chance he has.

“tulips. i need tulips,” he panted— reeking of whiskey, helmet still on, pain in his thigh nearly unbearable.

“sorry, sir, we’ve been closed for an—”

“i’ll pay double.” he cut her off, popping a stray vicodin that had been marinating in the bottom of his jean pocket.

“sir—”

he hobbled inside anyway, ignoring the closed sign on the window and the dimmed lights. honestly, he was lucky someone was even here at this hour— some poor woman, probably the owner, who looked both alarmed and unsure whether to call security or social services.

his hand dug into his back pocket as he shifted, wincing, trying to dig deeper. finally, he pulled out a crumpled ten, a fifty, and six slightly ripped ones, like a man trying to bribe the universe.

“this— this, and… half a vicodin—” he almost pleaded.

sure, he was tipsy. sure, he probably smelled like a drunk homeless man with a death wish.

but he was trying. in the worst way he knew how.

the woman behind the counter— visibly exhausted, mascara smudged like battle paint— rubbed a hand down her face with a long-suffering sigh. she didn’t need this. if she wanted him out fast, she’d have to serve him. otherwise, she’d either be stuck babysitting him all night or calling the cops, and honestly, she wasn’t in the mood to fill out paperwork.

“how many?”

“i don’t know— one?!” he furrowed his brows. god. when was the last time he’d bought flowers? it had to be before the leg. before everything.

“is it for a girlfriend?”

“no— yes— whatever. it’s not for me—”

and that was all she needed. no more questions. she quietly began wrapping up eight tulips in soft brown paper, tying it off with a light ribbon like it meant something.

and to house… it did.

“just— take it for free, okay?”

her voice was tired, but not unkind. maybe she saw the look in his eyes. maybe she’d seen it before.

his rough hand closed around the delicate bouquet— a contrast so sharp it almost hurt to look at. crinkled ribbon against calloused fingers. petals brushing knuckles scarred by years of pushing people away.

he stuffed most of the loose bills back into his back pocket, not bothering to count them, then turned on his heel and rushed out into the night again.

the knock on your apartment door was probably loud enough to wake up the whole fourth floor.

house stood there, debating every decision that had led to this moment. he thought about turning back. about sobering up. about thinking it through.

but he knew himself too well.

if he left now, he’d go home. he’d spiral. he’d convince himself you deserved someone better— someone younger, someone whole. someone without a cane, a chronic addiction to pain meds, and the emotional stability of a sleep-deprived bear with a god complex.

but before he could chicken out, the light birch door creaked open.

you stood there— sleeping mask pushed up on your forehead, hair frizzy, eyes still puffy and blinking against the living room light. you rubbed at them lazily, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

“house?..” you mumbled, confused and soft, your body swaying slightly in the doorway.

“you forgot a file,” he blurted.

which, in hindsight, was probably the stupidest lie he could’ve come up with—and stupid was so not his brand.

he had intended to use the file you left on your desk as an excuse to come by, but somewhere in his whirlwind of tulip-seeking chaos and internal panic… he’d forgotten it. completely.

“oh…” you murmured, still half-asleep, not yet awake enough to question it.

before the silence could stretch or the lie could unravel in your sleepy haze, the slightly soggy bouquet of tulips was suddenly shoved in front of your face.

“found them. keep them. or throw them away. not like i care,” he grumbled, eyes darting anywhere but your face.

your hands slowly reached out to take the tulips, fingers brushing the paper. you blinked a few times, trying to decipher if this was just a very vivid dream—or if gregory house was actually standing outside your apartment door at precisely 3:24 a.m.

“��f’me?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“—anyway, bye.”

he grunted, already turning around, limping down the hallway with the grace of a man who’d just thrown emotional dynamite and was now fleeing the scene.

you stood there in stunned silence, door half-closed, tulips clutched to your chest like they might vanish.

and then—another knock. fast. urgent. familiar.

you reopened the door.

there he was again.

helmet slightly askew. breathing uneven. eyes avoiding yours like they might burn.

“…i’m not good at this,” he said, voice low. raw. nothing like the man who’d just shoved flowers in your face and bolted.

[echo-ethe]

Warm hands, soft hearts

Johnny Storm x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Johnny Storm brings his soft girlfriend to meet the Fantastic Four. She charms everyone with her warmth and handmade gifts, and by the end of the night, Johnny realizes he’s completely in love.

Word count: 3,012

Notes: Fantastic 4 only came out on Friday and yet I’ve seen it twice already 🧍🏻‍♀️

The Baxter Building was unusually quiet, which meant either something was about to explode, or Johnny Storm was nervous.

And today? It was definitely the latter.

Johnny paced the living room for the third time, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. He’d cleaned the entire penthouse suite—twice. He’d even folded the throw blankets, fluffed the couch pillows, and for some reason, baked cookies with Ben. (Ben had eaten half of them before they even cooled.)

This wasn’t like him. He didn’t do nerves. He didn’t do “bring a girl home to meet the team.” But you weren’t just any girl.

You were his first real relationship.

And he was in way deeper than he’d planned.

He glanced at the elevator, checking the time on his phone for the millionth time. You should’ve been here by now.

“Pacing again?” came a voice from the hallway.

Sue Storm, barefoot and sipping tea, leaned against the doorframe with a knowing smile. “Johnny, she’s not going to break up with you if she sees you folding towels wrong.”

“I don’t fold towels wrong,” Johnny muttered, then added, “Do I?”

Sue walked over and smoothed his shirt collar. “You look fine. The place looks fine. And more importantly—if she makes you this nervous, it means she’s probably perfect.”

“She is,” Johnny said softly, surprising even himself with how sure he sounded.

Meanwhile… in the elevator

You clutched the small basket you’d made with homemade cookies and little knitted keychains shaped like the Fantastic Four logo. It was silly, maybe even too much, but crafting helped calm your nerves, and you wanted to make a good impression. You knew this wasn’t just “meeting the roommates.” This was meeting the team. His team.

Johnny Storm had a reputation. You knew that going in. But the Johnny you had gotten to know over the past five months? He was goofy. He was gentle with you, always asking if you were warm enough, always tucking your hands into his when you were cold. He liked when you wore your oversized sweaters and had once told you that cuddling with you felt “like being wrapped in the best parts of Sunday morning.”

He was, to your surprise, completely obsessed with you.

And now… you were about to meet the family.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal a spacious modern suite that smelled faintly of cinnamon, firewood, and cleaning spray. Johnny was waiting right at the threshold.

“You made it!” he said, breaking into that sunny grin that never failed to melt you.

“I come bearing soft goods and baked goods,” you said, lifting the basket.

He laughed, took it from your hands, then pulled you into a warm hug. You melted into his chest instantly, letting his heat soak into your skin. You’d always joked he was your human space heater—and today, it felt like home.

“You’re good,” he murmured into your ear. “They’re gonna love you.”

First Contact: Sue Storm

Johnny led you into the main living space where a tall blonde woman was curled up on a massive armchair, sipping tea and reading something on a tablet.

She looked up and smiled.

“You must be the girl who knits things,” she said, standing up and walking over. “I’m Sue. It’s really nice to finally meet you.”

You smiled shyly. “It’s really nice to meet you, too. Johnny talks about you all the time.”

Sue raised an eyebrow at her brother. “Oh really? All good things, I hope.”

Johnny made a strangled sound. “Only great things,” you said smoothly, shooting him a teasing look.

“I heard you make blankets?” Sue asked. “Because I’m perpetually cold in this building.”

“Oh! I brought you one!” You reached into the basket and pulled out a pale blue, cloud-soft throw. “It’s made of bamboo yarn—it’s breathable but still warm.”

Sue gasped. “This is beautiful. You didn’t have to—wow, this is so soft. You’re going to be in trouble. I love handmade things.”

Johnny gave you a secret proud look that made your stomach flutter.

“She’s amazing, right?” he said.

You flushed, ducking your head as Sue winked.

“I like her already,” she said.

Round Two: Reed Richards

You were not expecting Reed Richards to appear out of nowhere, but there he was, stepping out of a sliding door that looked suspiciously like a lab entrance. He had goggles on his forehead and a streak of oil down his cheek.

“Oh, Johnny’s girlfriend!” he said, eyes lighting up behind thick glasses. “Wonderful. Hello. Sorry, I’m trying to deconstruct Galactus’s energy pulse signature.”

“That sounds… intense,” you said with a nervous smile.

“Do you knit?” he asked, immediately distracted by the basket.

Johnny groaned. “Reed, don’t ask her to scan her yarn for cosmic radiation. Again.”

“Just once!” Reed protested. “That one scarf you gave Johnny registered a unique thermal signature.”

“Because it’s made of alpaca,” you offered helpfully.

Reed blinked. “Fascinating.”

You smiled at him. He was a little awkward, but kind. You handed him a little Fantastic Four keychain you’d made—his even had a tiny lab coat.

“Oh, this is extraordinary,” he said. “I don’t usually understand social cues, but I believe this is a gift.”

“You got it.”

Reed smiled softly. “I like her.”

Johnny smirked. “Two for two.”

The Final Boss: Ben Grimm

You were pouring tea when the elevator groaned and opened again. Heavy footsteps echoed as a towering figure entered the room.

“Oh boy,” Johnny murmured under his breath. “Here we go.”

Ben Grimm, a.k.a. The Thing, filled the doorway like a boulder. He wore a sweatshirt that said “NY Mets” stretched over his rocky shoulders and carried a grocery bag like it weighed nothing.

“Johnny,” he said in his gravelly voice. “She here?”

You straightened, heart hammering.

Ben looked you up and down, his stone brow furrowing.

“So… this is the girl?” he said slowly.

Johnny stepped beside you. “Ben, this is my girlfriend. The real one.”

You took a deep breath and walked forward, extending a hand. “Hi, I’m (Y/N). It’s really nice to meet you.”

Ben looked at your hand for a beat, then slowly took it in his massive stone palm. You expected cold, rough, intimidating.

It was warm.

“Nice grip,” he said, nodding. “You’re not scared of me.”

“Not even a little,” you said with a soft smile. “Johnny said you like lemon bars. I made some.”

Ben blinked. “You baked?”

“Yep. And I brought you a coaster,” you added, holding up a crocheted coaster shaped like a rock. “So you can put your drinks down without scratching the tables.”

There was a long pause.

Then Ben let out a booming laugh. “Johnny, you better hold on to her.”

“Don’t plan on letting go,” Johnny said quietly, watching you like you hung the moon.

Dinner was loud and chaotic in the best way. Reed asked you about yarn physics. Sue insisted on taking photos. Ben told embarrassing stories about Johnny’s early days of catching fire at the worst possible moments.

And Johnny? He never stopped looking at you.

He sat beside you, hand always touching yours—sometimes tangled in your fingers, sometimes resting on your thigh. His eyes softened every time you laughed, every time you talked. He looked at you like the whole world existed in your smile.

Later, when the dishes were done and the others had retreated, Johnny took you out onto the rooftop terrace.

The city twinkled below, and the breeze ruffled your cardigan.

“Cold?” he asked, already tugging off his hoodie.

“I’m okay,” you said, leaning into his warmth when he wrapped it around you anyway.

He kissed your forehead, then held you close.

“You were perfect tonight,” he murmured. “I mean it. They love you.”

“You were right,” you said softly. “They’re kind. They’re… a real family.”

He nodded, then pulled back to look at you seriously.

“I know I used to be… a bit of a disaster. Okay, a lot of a disaster.”

“You were just looking for something that felt like home,” you said. “And now?”

“Now I’ve found it,” he said. “With you.”

Your heart squeezed.

“Johnny…”

He took your hands in his.

“I’ve never brought anyone home before. Not like this. Not because I needed them to see you. Because you’re it for me. You’re the real deal. You make me want to be better.”

You looked up at him, tears prickling your eyes.

“Johnny Storm, are you getting soft on me?” you teased gently.

“Only for you,” he whispered. “Always for you.”

And then he kissed you—slow, warm, and full of something neither of you had dared to name until now.

Love.

[echo-ethe]

charm on!

johnny storm x fem!reader

word count. 2.4k

summary. undertaking an internship as reed’s lab assistant, johnny is baffled as to why he hasn’t been introduced to you sooner.

notes. no spoilers for fantastic four: first steps, fluff in general, banter and some flirting, johnny’s down bad, reader plays hard to get, reed and herbie make appearances.

images found on pinterest & divider by saradika

“How’s it coming along?”

The smooth baritone of Reed’s voice ended the long-running silence, prompting you to glance away from the workbench. It was a temporary relief from the disarray of various mechanical tools and entanglement of wires, a sight that gradually tired your eyes during every lab session.

“Good,” you replied, despite the weariness seeping in. 

After all, working under the smartest man alive was an incredibly rare feat—and you didn’t tirelessly prove your intellectual capabilities to earn such a position for nothing. You held onto the honour of this job, and for the love of pursuing greater, unprecedented things in the name of science.

“Charges are all set,” you continued, noticing more equations and formulas had now cramped the blackboard, “I just need to recouple these wires and we’re good to go.”

With his set position of having his hands on his hips, Reed gave a firm nod. “I had Ben help to buy a dozen more eggs, so it’ll be alright if we break a few.” Then, a small smile appeared on his own exhausted features. “Nice job.”

You beamed, your chest swelling with pride. You had learned that Reed Richards was never really one for conversations in the lab—always opting to keep them short and functional—but there was always a kindness when he spoke, and you conducted your work in agreeable silence knowing your employer was a pleasant man.

Just as you were about to swivel in your chair, he spoke again.

“By the way, Sue’s been asking if you’d like to join us for Sunday dinner.”

You perked up then, raising your eyebrows. You hadn’t met the others yet—knowing the Baxter Building was also the Fantastic Four’s place of residence, you never wanted to intrude on the privacy of America’s most beloved superheroes. From the very beginning, you were trusted to take the elevator without an escort, and Reed had kindly offered you access to the kitchen if you wanted more coffee. Yet, you only stayed on the floor of the lab throughout the day, and Herbie, the household’s robot companion, was instead out to fetch more coffee upon your earlier request.

You gave a tentative shrug. “I really appreciate the invitation, but I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You won’t be.” Reed’s words came without hesitation, affirmed by his soft smile. “In fact, she seems really excited to meet you.”

Your heart did a flip beneath your ribcage. Sue Storm was excited to meet you, of all people? If anything, you had been dying to meet the remarkable woman yourself—but only under the appropriate circumstances, of course.

Attempting to keep it cool, there was a pause before you let out a quiet sigh. “Well, I’ll have to see—I dedicate a large portion of the weekends developing prototypes of my own.”

“Oh? I hope that’s not my work ethic rubbing off on you,” Reed replied, his lips quirking upwards, as if to tease. “I’m certain you can make room for us. It’s not every day you get to have dinner with cosmically enhanced beings.”

“World-renowned, cosmically enhanced beings,” you added with amusement, now enjoying the extended conversation. Turning back to the messy workbench, you readjusted your gloves and safety glasses, picking up your tools once more. “You’re right. Although, you still seem pretty human to me.”

A soft chuckle sounded from behind. You got back to work, though not without some warm exchanges interspersed as Reed asked about your own scientific endeavours, pausing to scan some research papers every now and then, the chalk knocking against the blackboard.

Soon enough, the familiar whirs and whizzes returned to the lab. Herbie carried a tray in his hands, whirling over to where you sat. You took your replenished mug, and in gratitude scratched his metallic head, to which he made a gleeful noise.

A few moments passed. Eyebrows screwed tight in concentration, you had moved on to handling a delicate set of wires. Then, across the room, you heard the robotic chatter, followed by a hint of irritation to Reed’s voice.

“Who’s coming to see me?”

The elevator pinged.

“Reed!”

You nearly jumped out of your seat. The electrical circuit threatened to crackle.

Annoyance flashed through Reed’s tone. “Not now, Johnny—”

The man only breezed past the workbench. “I’m bored out of my mind. Have you received any transmissions as of—” He halted in his tracks, body stiffening as he whipped his head around.

You met his eyes.

Johnny Storm.

A name that involuntarily crossed your mind sometimes—perhaps too often. It wasn’t your fault that the ridiculous billboard stared through the window of your apartment, one of the first things you’d see when you awoke, and the daily, unsolicited gossip that floated through your local bakery. At the supermarket, it was hard to miss his face, along with the rest of the quartet—plastered onto cereal boxes too high in sugar to be considered nutritious. Even as you made your way home in the evenings, you’d see children scampering around the streets, action figures of him soaring through the air, while mothers yelled from the windows to return for dinner.

In truth, Johnny Storm was a name abound in every corner, even if you weren’t looking. And now that he was up front, one thing was for sure—

You could see why the ladies went crazy for him. He was just as attractive as they raved about.

Bummer. If only he wasn’t so much of a womaniser, from what you had also gathered. 

Something must’ve been running through his head as well. But the moment failed to last when white hot sparks sputtered in your peripheral vision. You snapped back to attention, muttering an expletive as you quickly tended to the live wires before anything catastrophic could happen.

It was as if you had almost forgotten. This was why you never allowed such distractions.

“—No, and I would tell you if I did,” Reed answered then, a little curt.

From the corner of your eye, you could see Johnny making his way towards the blackboard, with a newfound eagerness in his strides. Reed was nudged by the shoulder, and there was an awkward scuffle of movement as the two inched further back in the lab. Despite their voices growing hushed, it was still audible for your ears.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Who—who’s that?”

“She’s my lab assistant,” Reed answered plainly, attempting to move when Johnny blocked him.

“Lab assistant?” The latter's tone was incredulous. “Since when did you have a lab assistant?”

“About two weeks ago. She’s serving her internship—”

“Two weeks?”

There was a weary sigh following the dramatic exclamation. “Look, Johnny—we’re running tests here. So unless it’s important—”

“And you’ve never thought of telling me this?”

“Well, I didn’t realise there was a need to,” Reed deadpanned. “You barely work in the lab. Would it make much of a difference?”

Johnny slapped a hand across his own chest, as though offended. “Uh—huge difference, man.” 

“Besides, I knew you’d act like this.”

“Act like what?”

Reed’s frown deepened. “You know what I mean. Don’t distract my assistant.”

Johnny huffed out a laugh. “Oh, c’mon. You both have probably been working for hours. I doubt you even gave her breaks. Can’t spare a moment?”

He gave a firm pat on Reed’s shoulder then. Soon, you heard a set of footsteps approaching. When you looked up, the initial surprise on his face was now rewritten with a smirk tugging on his boyish features—a signature look meant to charm.

A part of you didn’t want to let it work so easily.

From the back of the lab, Reed had pinched the space between his eyebrows. He had Herbie reorganise a stack of research papers, and eventually he returned to the blackboard, rolling up his sleeves.

“Hey.”

A hint of mischief twinkled in Johnny’s eyes.

“Hi,” you replied, safely setting down your equipment.

He sat himself atop what little space was left on the workbench, casually moving bits and pieces aside, his lips twitching upwards. “I’m Johnny—” A hand waved vaguely in the air. “But I’m guessing you’ve already heard of me.”

You offered nothing more than a perfunctory smile. “Yes, I have.”

He must’ve sensed your guardedness then, because his smirk faltered a little. 

Nevertheless, it didn’t seem to entirely discourage him. “So,” he continued, “you must be really special. I’ve never known Reed to be the collaborative type—or at least, he gets all antsy when I touch his equipment.”

“I thought you barely work in the lab?”

His lips parted, telling of the conversation you weren’t exactly supposed to hear. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. Well, every once in a while there’s a few deep space transmissions we intercept. I like to analyse those.”

You simply hummed in acknowledgement, turning your attention back to the prototype, nimble hands picking up where you left off.

You could feel Johnny’s intent gaze, as if he had wanted something more out of the exchange. Then, he crossed his arms, deliberately leaning closer. You immediately felt a small rise in heat kissing your skin.

He peered low, as if trying to meet your eyes. “What, uh, have you been working on for Reed?”

You continued maneuvering the wires with steadfast focus. “Bridge teleportation.” Then, falling into a familiar rhythm of smooth explanation, “It’s still early. We’re experimenting with eggs—currently at two metres. I’m just rewiring the baseplates so we can increase the distance.”

“Cool.” You could hear the smile in Johnny’s voice. “Really cool.” His fingers drummed against the workbench. There was a beat before he spoke again. “Hey, how long’s your internship for?”

You only answered after a moment. “Six months, give or take.”

“Oh, sweet.” Johnny suddenly cleared his throat, as if trying to conceal his excitement. “I mean, that’s plenty of time if you wanna, y’know—” He shrugged then, a mediocre attempt at nonchalance. “Hang out or something.”

Hang out.

Johnny Storm wanted to hang out.

You could’ve laughed then. He wasn’t exactly subtle with his advances. If anything, you were flattered—and dare say maybe a little interested—but it was a frivolous prospect, and nothing but a huge distraction from your work. You had no doubt Johnny was an admirable superhero, and had appreciation for all the times he helped to save the city, but he also had a complicated reputation for toying with hearts. You didn’t want to somehow end up being hurt.

“I don’t know.” You leaned back against your seat, taking off your safety glasses and situating them on top of your head. “I’m pretty busy, so—”

He cut in, ever determined. “You don’t get bored? Being stuck here, doing this all day?”

“As a matter of fact,” you replied coolly, gesturing vaguely at the workbench, “I like what I do.” 

Johnny paused for a beat, though the corners of his mouth were still curled, a smile fixed at his features. He dropped his head, huffing out a laugh. “Okay, I see what this is—” He snuck a glance at Reed, who was too busy scribbling on the blackboard to notice. Then, in a slightly softer voice, “Did he warn you about me or something?”

You levelled with his tone. “No, you’re never really mentioned.” 

Johnny flattened his expression, half-amused. Of course, Reed wouldn’t.

You sucked in a breath then, deciding for a moment of honesty. “Besides, the papers, the press—a lot’s already been… said.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shot him a deadpan look. Surely, he knew.

“Womanising tendencies. Likes to flirt—”

“Oh, please.” He was quick to roll his eyes, but a playfulness still remained. “I like a lot more than that.”

“Really?” you questioned, a slight teasing edge now making its way into your voice. “Like what?”

His answer was quick-fire. “Rock ballads, automobiles—” Then, eyeing you with a smirk, “Intelligent women.”

You scoffed lightly. It was as if he was expecting you to swoon then, what with his smug expression. Though, a heat had crept up your cheeks. “Hm. They aren’t wrong either—you are quite charming.”

“Oh, good. I thought I lost it for a second.”

You returned an eyeroll, to which Johnny only grinned. It was only until a moment passed that you realised what had just happened—you had been flirting. It was harmless, you knew, but you couldn’t help but suddenly feel insecure at the idea.

“I expect that also means you’ve broken a lot of hearts.”

“Well—” Johnny shifted in his position, a little caught off guard by the change in tone. “Trust me, it goes both ways.” His lips pressed into a line.

He fiddled with his fingers, and for once, a silence fell upon you two.

You took it as a sign to call Reed over to let him know you were done. But just as you stood from your chair, feeling a slight ache in your back muscles from having sat too long, Johnny moved as well.

“Hey, um—” His voice was tentative, and this time you felt a lack of preparation to his words. “Look, I’m sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression. You seem really cool, and I’d really just like to get to know you—as a person.”

Warmness involuntarily seeped into your heart. A sincerity reflected in Johnny’s blue eyes, and the way they softened—you had a feeling you were going to be in trouble sooner or later, knowing his gaze alone was capable of forming a crack on the walls you’ve built.

The word came easily. “Okay.”

His smile reappeared immediately. Relief flooded his chest. “Awesome.” Playfully, Johnny added, “That doofus has been keeping you to himself for too long.”

A soft chuckle escaped you in response.

“You two done flirting?”

As if on cue, Reed’s unamused voice cut through the air. His gaze had swept over his writings, before he turned to face you both, hands squared on his hips. 

Johnny couldn’t suppress his usual smirk. “You practically allowed it to happen.”

Reed furrowed his eyebrows. “I was hoping it’d stop on its own.” Judging by his tired expression, he must’ve tolerated his brother-in-law’s antics one too many times. He let out an exasperated sigh. “If you would excuse us, Johnny, we’ve got work to do.”

Then, Reed moved to the other end of the room, Herbie excitedly trailing behind, the pair gathering a few things in preparation.

Left alone for a brief moment, Johnny swayed lightly from side to side, his hands behind his back. “So,” he started, meeting your gaze as a mischief resurfaced in his eyes, “I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

You were already in so much trouble.

A voice called out, urging him to leave once more.

Johnny elicited a sharp exhale, rolling his eyes. But just before he headed towards the elevator doors, he threw you a wink, and a promising statement. “If you ever get sick of Reed, I’m just three floors above.”

author’s notes. i love the new movie’s take on johnny storm, his character is so endearing! i know he’s usually depicted as a womaniser but i love that the movie shows so much more to him. i think it’ll be really interesting to write reader as someone who initially misunderstands him and is more hesitant, and i might have a few ideas and cute scenarios to potentially progress the story! thank you for reading as always 🫶🏻

[echo-ethe]

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your priorities friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant for to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[echo-ethe]

My Wife

Gregory House x Fem!Reader

Summary- One month after coming back from rehab the people of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital finally meet the real reason House has gotten better. Surprisingly, it's a woman, a much younger woman, a younger woman who is his new wife. (2,202 Words)

Notes- Don't blame me. This old man is hot.

Warnings- Age Gap (Not specified), One time use of Y/N, Jealous Cuddy

They really didn't understand. Yes, he went to rehab. Yes, he was off Vicodin, but how did he do that? How is he maintaining it? Why was he able to function? They knew they should have faith, but they just didn't understand.

Not to mention the secret phone calls Chase and Taub have noticed. The private lunches Wilson wasn't invited to. The lack of comments on Cuddy or Thirteen's bodies. The crooked smile Foreman sees him throw at his phone screen from a mysterious texter. The pressed shirts he sometimes wears. Every little detail added up, but not one of them could figure out the answer to this equation.

Wilson was the only one to think it was someone, but even he didn't maintain that thought for too long.

It took a whole month of their prying eyes until House finally invited you to the hospital. You understood his apprehension. You cared about him, so if you were to remain a secret for his sake you would. That isn't to say you were ecstatic to finally be welcomed in to see him work.

You can't help but laugh as every doctor and nurse who passes by the two of you walking side by side stares. It makes sense, you in your nice dress and big smile walking next to the hospital grump. Well, maybe more of the hospital bully.

"Are they all this nosy?" You laugh.

House grins. "Pretty much."

"Fantastic."

The two of you make your way up to his office chatting idly. You both agree on which burger place you should go tonight once your introduction inevitably ends in a dramatic interrogation. You laugh as he mimics the faces he thinks his friends will make. Though, you know he'll never admit he sees them as friends.

His team stares as you walk into the secluded part of his office. You smile to yourself as they stare at House who holds the door open for you.

"Show off."

"Just putting on a show for the audience." He says loudly, and you know they heard him through the thin glass.

You roll your eyes. You walk around the office, but take special interest in his messy desk. Organized chaos, is how you'd describe it. You toss the oversize tennis ball up only for him to catch it. Sitting in his chair you start stealing stuff from the desk at random as he attempts to steal it all back just as quickly.

"Will you quit it." He jokes. "You're acting like an unruly child."

"Says the man who can't share." You grin up at him. You stand up while he scoffs dramatically. You bite your lower lip with a grin. "Forgive me. I'm curious by nature."

His free hand falls to your hip, and you adjust his collar. "Careful, I'm starting to think you're flirting with me."

"Oh, thank God." You sigh. "I thought you were too stupid to notice for a second there."

Ignoring the multitude of eyes you can see observing obsessively from the other side of the glass, you lean up to kiss your husband. He hums into your mouth, and you pull away.

"I think. Your team might need their leader." You say, patting him on the arm.

"Damn." He turns to look at them. "I thought if I distracted you long enough you'd forget and we could put on a real show." He widens his eyes dramatically as he speaks.

You spare him a laugh before pushing him towards the glass door. "C'mon, I'm excited to meet your kids."

He rolls his eyes and opens the door. "Just cause we're married doesn't mean you get any custody, your far too young to be an evil step mom."

"Well, that's what makes me so good at it. Marry the older man just to torment his kids and get in his will." You tease.

"Damn!" He slams his cane on the floor. "You're telling me I fell for this again? What do you mean you don't love me for me?"

You laugh as he bats his eyes at you, and you shove him lightly. "Shut up."

"Make me."

Shaking your head, you watch as he walks further into the room of stunned individuals. Half of the room stutters to get a proper question out while the other half continue to stare in shock.

"Yes, yes," House silences them. "I know my wife is unbelievably hot, and you don't know why I settled for her." You laugh at his comment. "But let's all be professional here and talk about the case. Got it?"

One man, you think it's Foreman, speaks up. Something about muscular dystrophy. Honestly, you're not listening because you're busy trying not to laugh at the two men staring at you with fear. You zone back in for a minute to hear House insult the group and send them off.

They all look back as they leave, even watching through the window as they go down the hall.

"You're so mean." You pout at him. "They don't need an evil step mother when they already have you."

He laughs, that soft genuine one that you only get when alone. You lean against the arm of his chair as he flips through the file with disinterest. With a gentle hand you run your fingers through his hair. He hums and pulls you to sit on his good leg.

"Such a good boy." You coo jokingly.

"Rwoof!" He barks, and you laugh. Tossing away the file he pretends to growl and starts biting at you.

"Stop!" You giggle. "Bad House!" You swat at his hands that grab you.

"You're right, you are bad." He purrs.

"I was talking about you." You reply with your noses almost touching.

"Please, forgive me Mrs. House."

"Still can't believe you convinced me to take your idiotic last name." You shake your head. "A damn building."

"Shut up." He grins.

You hum. "Make me."

~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~

"There's no way she's actually with him." Foreman claims.

"Some actresses are desperate." Taub agrees.

"Enough to kiss him?" Chase argues.

"Did you see the way she looked at him?" Cameron interjects. "She loves him."

The group shake their heads in disbelief.

"But a wife? Maybe they're dating and just messing with us."

Cameron rolls her eyes. "Or~ He skipped town and got married because he actually loves her."

"I can believe he fell for her, but there is no way a woman like that fell for a man like him?" Taub says.

"He's right. She's like half his age."

"I'm going to assume you aren't talking about House. And if you are, I'm going to hope that this is some sick joke." Wilson says walking up on the group.

~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~

You know you shouldn't keep him from going to the clinic, but you also know you can only get away with bossing him around so much before he retaliates. His smile is so special to you. You remember the first day you met. You remember how you made it your personal goal to make him smile genuinely. At the point in time you only wanted his friendship; you couldn't be happier for how it turned out. You love him more and more everyday.

"I can tell by the way you're staring you're being sappy again." He lolls his head to look at you.

You smile. "I can't help it. My husband is just so goddamn handsome." You lean over his chair and drape your arms around his shoulders. "So beautiful. A genius among men. And so?" You hum, kissing his neck. "Well, perfect."

"Stop flirting so hard!" He waves you off. "I already married you. You don't have to try so hard."

Despite his actions and words, House smiles softly at you. The blush creeping up his neck is ever so obvious to you. This moment feels blissful.

At least, until the door bursts open.

"What kind of prank is this?"

"Ahh! Wilson, you caught me! I got married on a New York strip just to mess with you!" House's sarcasm makes you laugh.

You stand up moving your hands to rest on the back of his chair. House looks up at you like you betrayed him by moving away.

"I'm Y/n. By the way, it's nice to finally meet you, Dr. Wilson."

The man looks at you shocked. "He isn't paying you for this?"

"No." You smile and shake your head. "I am surprisingly here of my own free will. And I had to beg him to let me come-"

"You have to do more than beg." You swat at House's shoulder as he laughs.

"To the hospital." You finish saying a bit louder. "I've been wanting to meet all of you, but as you know he's as stubborn as an ass."

"Coulda just said a mule." House fake pouts.

"But it wouldn't be as accurate to your true self." You tease.

"You-" Wilson stutters. "You're really with him?"

"Yes." You and House say in annoyed unison.

"Well I'll be damned..."

You grin. "With that kinda mouth you will be."

He looks at you shocked while House smiles. Wilson sits at the table looking shocked and insulted.

"If it helps his case any. The secret wedding in another state was my idea. Believe it or not he wanted you to officiate it." You say.

"Really?" He asks.

"No!" You and House speak together again.

"We wanted to actually get married quickly and decided to have a ceremony later on." House explains.

"You," Wilson points to him. "Want a ceremony?"

"No, God no! She wants a ceremony."

"Not a big one! Just some friends. I only have a handful of people I want there myself. But, it would be nice to wear a white dress and walk down an aisle." You defend. You think for a moment before tacking on. "You can still officiate it if you want."

"No he can't! Who would be my best man?" House argues.

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry I thought you still had a boy crush on Chase. Figured he could step in. Besides, he looked so excited when I said it."

"You can't-"

"Really, I'm just glad he's happy." Wilson interrupts, holding his hands up in defeat.

You lean back down re-resting on his shoulders. "Me too."

"Don't." House points between the two of you. "Start."

You kiss his cheek. "You love it when I dote on you, don't lie."

He doesn't respond with words, but he does give you your own peck. You look up to see Wilson conflicted with emotions.

"You know if you're jealous, I'm very open to sharing." You tease.

House looks at you incredulously. "Yeah! I'm not!"

~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~

The rumors travel quickly. It's no surprise how quickly Cuddy hears. She doesn't believe it at first. House walking around with a pretty girl on his arm is absurd! She had to be a patient. She had to be a prank. She had to be using him, or he's using her.

She has to believe these things. She does believe them until she sees you in his office. Perched in House's lap, laughing and joking with Wilson like you're old friends. You look at your supposed partner like he makes the world spin. He doesn't smile much, he rolls his eyes, but his eyes brighten when he looks at her. Not that he looks away often, he's practically staring at you.

A part of her burns at the image in front of her. A part of her feels betrayed and insulted. Why do you get to have the good part of House? What was so special about you outside of your younger age? What do you have that she doesn't?

She wants to stay angry. She wants to stay jealous. Cuddy wants to punch all three of you. But, she can't. Not when she knows she couldn't help him. Not the way you have. You saved him, and she hates that it wasn't her.

Looking one more time she sighs then walks away.

~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~💉~~~~

You don't want to be shady, but you couldn't help but smile to yourself watching the woman walk away through the glass. House told you everything about Cuddy. He told you everything about all of them. You know how he felt towards her, their long standing will they?/won't they? thing they had. You didn't want to be a bitch, but you're glad she regrets abandoning him the way she did.

"Stop smiling to yourself. Thought you said you're okay with sharing?" House teases.

"Any other woman. Sure." You tell him, leaving a chaste kiss to his lips.

Wilson looks behind him confused. "What- Who are you talking about?"

"Don't worry about it pretty boy." House tells him.

"Oh, so he's pretty, but I'm not?" You cross your arms as you joke. "I see how it is."

"That is not- You listen here-"

"No thanks, I think I've heard enough. You clearly like Wilson more." You claim.

"She's caught on House." Wilson leans in, pretending to whisper. "At least she hasn't figured out that we're going to kill her for the money."

[echo-ethe]

٠ ࣪⭑ mastermind

‎pairing: clark kent x bombshell!reader (3.0K words)

summary: as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup

warnings & content: bombshell!reader, female reader, not technically bimbo reader but others assume so, clark is whipped from the start and somehow becomes more whipped, reader double majored in stats and journalism go smart girls go!

If there were two people who talked the most at the Daily Planet, it would be Cat Grant and yourself.

The two main gossip columnists. You were both brutal. Once, Jimmy was assigned a story with you. He requested to never work with you in the gossip column again after just six hours. Perry agreed. He also never assigned you anything but gossip because the one time he did? You wrote a slam piece on both baseball teams you were assigned to write about. 

Perry realized very early on you were a gossip column writer only. And he was okay with that.

Cat and you were always stunning the offices and newsrooms. Hair, makeup, and pretty outfits every single day, even if you were sick or it was storming out. You always looked good. That was the fun part about the job, and you took it seriously. The fashion, the presence, the image. It wasn’t just for the sake of being seen. It was armor. Lipstick was war paint, heels were your battle cry, and your notes app was a finely-honed blade.

Between you and Cat, there wasn’t a single scandal that went unnoticed or unpublished. You had sources no one else could reach, contacts who owed you favors, and a sixth sense for when something was about to blow up. You weren’t just gossip columnists, you were watchdogs in stilettos.

And Clark? He wasn’t sure what to make of you at first. He’d never met someone who could talk circles around Cat Grant and casually bring up alien migration patterns over lunch. He also didn’t understand how someone could write a piece titled Lex Luthor: Lots of Money, but Hard to Appease? and still manage to interview senators by the end of the week.

You were loud. Smart. A little too clever. But no one could deny it. Every time you walked into the room, the story followed.

And eventually, so did Clark.

“Clark, you gotta hear this, man,” Jimmy’s chair wheeled over beside Clark’s desk. “She’s talking nonsense. Like.. smart nonsense.”

Clark glanced up, already a little wary. “What is it this time?”

Jimmy pointed, discreet but desperate, toward the far end of the bullpen where you and Cat Grant were deep in conversation. “She’s doing something really weird. I walked past her desk and heard numbers. Equations. Graphs. Clark, she’s talking about Superman like he’s a physics dissertation.”

Clark blinked, turning just slightly in his chair to get a better look. You were standing near the coffee station, one hand wrapped around a pink mug that read Panic Then Write, the other animatedly gesturing as you explained something to Cat, who, for her part, looked like she was either being converted into a new religion or trying really hard to figure out whatever you were saying to her.

“—and that’s exactly why his maximum velocity during vertical ascension contradicts the standard gravitational drag equation,” you said brightly. Your hands waved in the air, manicured nails glistening in the light. “Like, there’s no way his flight path over the city last Friday didn’t involve some level of gravitational lensing. Did you see the air pressure ripple? I mean, it wasn’t visible, obviously, but the birds dipped midair. I have a theory, I’m working on it.”

Cat blinked. “You’re telling me you can tell how fast Superman was going based on bird migration patterns?”

“Oh, totally. Well, that and minor wind displacement across a five-block radius. Also, the security cam footage from Ninth and Fulton glitched at the exact time he crossed into frame. It’s like an energy signature thing. I track it in my spreadsheets.” You said it like it was the most simple thing in the world, like anyone else could be doing it.

“Spreadsheets,” Cat repeated, like she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or afraid.

Clark stared. So did Jimmy. 

“She has spreadsheets,” Jimmy whispered, horrified. It was like every assumption he had previously assumed about you was being thrown out the window.

Clark tried very, very hard not to smile. “About Superman.”

“She’s obsessed, man! She said his cape flutters at a different rate depending on the altitude! She compared it to solar panel kinetics! Who does that?” Jimmy’s exclamation nearly gathered your attention. Jimmy just gave you a small, hesitant nod, making you shrug and continue with your conversation.

“Apparently she does,” Clark murmured, voice a little too fond. He watched your face brighten again as you began explaining something else to Cat.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You’re into this, aren’t you? You like that she’s a walking Super-statistics manual.”

“I admire her dedication to research,” Clark said simply. Sure, it was the dedication, but this was the first time Clark was actually seeing a whole new side to you.

You were always gorgeous. It was probably the first thing Clark noticed about you. But he knew you had passion, riveting storytelling abilities, incredible grammar and punctuation. Clark knew you were always on time and always listened to people intently whenever they spoke to you. He knew you loved every single color of the rainbow, always greeted everyone in the morning, and made time during your busy day to gossip with Cat. Clark learned a lot about you very quickly.

So, learning you were actually a genius was something he really liked. Really liked. More than your pretty eyes, bright smile, and endearing voice. Especially because you zeroed in on him. Superman. 

“She’s got a color-coded chart titled Flight Patterns vs. Rescue Probability Ratios,” Jimmy hissed, hands flailing around the air. “I saw it with my very own eyes!”

Clark smiled. “That’s actually.. not a bad idea.”

Jimmy groaned. “Oh my god. It’s worse than I thought. We’re gonna find you one day married and buried under pie charts.” No, Clark’s crush was not a secret.

Across the room, you caught Clark’s eye—mid-sentence, mid-rant, mid-explaining the temperature fluctuation when Superman breaks the sound barrier—and grinned at him like you knew he was listening.

Clark gave a small wave.

You waved back.

Clark had always been such a sweetie since day one. He brought you coffee, even if he just went over to the machine to get it for you. Sickeningly sweet, just the way you liked it. You weren’t stupid in any way, shape, or form, so you knew Clark was whipped. Just like how everyone else knew.

He held doors open without making a show of it, remembered how you liked your pens (gel, fine point, purple ink), and always pretended not to notice when you’d start your day with gossip but end it quoting Nietzsche over lunch. He complimented your writing like it was easy—like it was fact. He would even sometimes split his lunch with you if you even briefly commented on how his looked better than yours.

And yeah, sure, he looked like the kind of guy who should be on the cover of GQ: Farmer Edition, all broad shoulders and soft flannels. But he didn’t use that to his advantage. If anything, he blushed too easily and said excuse me even when you bumped into him.

Clark just always had your attention. You loved his silly little jokes, how he would ask you for help with his article even though he really just wanted your opinion, and you especially loved how he looked at you with his bright blue eyes.

And Clark was always there when some new intern or Steve insulted you. You were a total bombshell, yes, but that didn’t mean you were stupid. Clark knew you weren’t stupid, you knew you weren’t stupid, even Steve knew—but he just liked to push your buttons.

Once, Steve had muttered something under his breath about how your lipstick probably took more time than your research. You didn’t even flinch. You were used to it. But before you could reply with something scathing and Pulitzer-worthy, Clark looked up from his desk and said, calm as ever, “She’s written more front pages this quarter than you have in your career, Steve.” Just like that. No raised voice. No dramatics. Steve blinked. Went back to pretending he was important.

You had just smiled sweetly, twirled your pen between perfectly manicured fingers, and softly said, “Thanks, Clark,” like your heart wasn’t thudding in your chest.

He always had your back. When people underestimated you because of the heels or the tight skirts or the fact that you said like and wore rhinestone barrettes, he never did. Not once. And maybe that’s what made your heart twist a little, more than the compliments or the coffee or even the soft way he said your name. The fact that he saw you. No filters, no assumptions. Just you.

Maybe he was your soft spot.

Maybe.

This last fight had been rough for Clark. Millions worth of property damage and a lot of angry people. In his defense, he didn’t mean for the fight to get so out of hand, but to be fair, no one else was fighting that thing. So really, was he fully to blame? Where was The Justice Gang when you needed them?

Talk shows were already speculating if Superman had lost it. The morning news ran slow-motion clips of the destruction on a loop, conveniently skipping the part where he dragged a dozen civilians out of the blast zone with one arm. The word reckless was being thrown around like candy. The city was hard to please. Save them with minimal damage, they’re happy. Save them with anything more, they’re not so happy anymore.

The newsroom was all different conversations about whether Superman was in the right or not. Of course, most of the people Clark surrounded himself were mainly on his side, but they did have opinions.

“I’m just saying, did he need to take down a whole building?” Jimmy asked.

Lois sighed, flipping through her notes without looking up. “It was already empty. Evacuated ten minutes before the hit. Clark wrote that in his piece.”

“Yeah, I know, I read the piece,” Jimmy said, hands up. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

Steve Lombard chimed in from a few desks down, clearly not playing devil’s advocate. “Maybe if he was smarter about it, we wouldn’t be looking at a six-block reconstruction. Just saying.”

“Maybe if you were smarter about it, we wouldn’t still be running that disastrous opinion column you call journalism.”

Clark looked up to see you walk in. Blue blouse, red skirt, red nails, blue headband. You were fully decked out in Superman’s—his—colors. Clark felt his brain glitch in real time. It felt like a system error and complete crash was actively happening as you walked up to the group, grabbing your chair to swivel up and join the conversation.

Lois looked up from her notepad, one perfectly arched brow raised. “What’s with the patriotism?”

You gave a dazzling smile as you sat, crossing your legs with practiced flair. “Just.. showing a little solidarity.”

“With Superman?” Steve asked, incredulous.

“Obviously with Superman,” you shot back. “You think I’m wearing red and blue for the Meteors?” Clark’s brain continued its slow descent into chaos. You looked like every dream he’d never admitted having. Bright, bold, stunning and fiercely on his side. And you looked really good in blue.

Jimmy leaned in, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You do realize you're basically baiting everyone who’s mad about the damage, right?”

“Good,” you said sweetly, reaching for the coffee Lois had just set down for herself. You took a sip like it was yours. It was the sweetest, maybe even sweeter than yours with all the sugar she dumped into it. “They can be mad and wrong. Multitasking is real.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “You all act like he’s flawless.”

You gave him a look. “Nobody’s flawless, Steve. But Superman was the only one fighting that thing. It’s easy to criticize from behind a keyboard when you’re not the one getting thrown into buildings.”

Clark’s chest warmed. You weren’t just defending him—you were wearing your defense like a battle flag. You turned slightly, catching Clark’s eye. “And for the record, he saved a lot more than he destroyed.” Clark tried to form a response, but his mouth had completely forgotten how to function.

Lois smirked, clearly clocking the interaction. “Alright, Wonder Woman 2.0, let’s hear it. What’s your angle today?”

You leaned back in your chair, legs still crossed, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Same angle as always, Lois. The truth. It’s not about perfection—it’s about intention. Superman cares. That’s more than I can say for some of the people complaining about the cleanup from their luxury apartments uptown.”

Clark looked down at his screen, a dopey grin tugging at his lips. He felt his heart beating a whole new pattern. It might as well have been spelling your name in morse code.

Then, you reached into your bag, pulled out your tablet, and tapped the screen a few times. “By the way,” you added casually, “I ran a breakdown of structural losses versus casualty prevention. Want to guess how many lives he saved by demolishing that building?”

Steve groaned. “Please don’t say spreadsheets.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely saying spreadsheets,” you grinned, flipping the screen around. “I cross-referenced city evacuation timelines, mapped the creature’s path, and ran predictive models based on its movement patterns. Taking out that building redirected the debris zone by a 42.7% margin. It shielded half the block.”

Lois raised her brows. “You’re telling me Superman used a ten-story office complex as a wall?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, “he thought fast, acted faster, and made the smartest call in an impossible situation. And anyone who can’t see that is probably mad he did more damage to their ego than their rent-controlled apartment.”

“Remind me again of how you know all of this?” Steve sighed like it was a chore to listen to your rambles.

You shrugged, “Double majored in Statistics and Journalism. Thought it may come into hand at some point in my career. Though, I did always hope I would just do gossip.”

“I actually did not know this,” Jimmy raised a hand as he interrupted. “I just thought you were some kind of natural genius.”

“Yeah, no. She has never brought this up,” Lois nodded in agreement, also quite perplexed.

Steve just stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “But you.. only write gossip? Why not do an actual column that people read?”

You ignored the comment. Cat punched his shoulder anyways. “Because gossip moves markets, sweetie. You think LuthorCorp’s stocks tanked last month because of their quarterly report? No. It was because I leaked that Luthor skipped the mayor’s fundraiser and was seen at an off-books dinner with a mystery guest. Which, for the record, was his own clone.”

Slowly, Jimmy leaned over to Clark, not taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, man. You were so right for getting a crush on her,” he whispered, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I—that doesn’t—”

“You’re wrapped around her finger. You’ve got dibs,” Jimmy whispered back, patting Clark’s shoulder, and swiveling back to his desk.

Clark opened and closed his mouth like a Windows error message. “I don’t—dibs isn’t—Jimmy, that’s not how—” He turned halfway in his chair, gesturing vaguely, but Jimmy had already slipped on his headphones and was pretending to work while very obviously still listening.

Clark sighed, dragging a hand over his face, just as you glanced over from your seat, your pen poised dramatically between your fingers. “Something wrong, Clark?” you asked, head tilted, expression effortlessly sweet and soft, the way you always looked at him.

“Oh, no, no,” Clark shook his head. “Just, uh.. amazed. At you..your calculations.”

You blinked, then smiled, soft and warm like sunlight through a window. “Really? You think they’re okay?”

Clark let out a short, almost breathless laugh. “Okay? They’re incredible. I mean, I didn’t even notice half the things you picked up on. The migration patterns? The glitch timing? That’s.. genius.”

You blushed, glancing down at your notes like you needed to double-check them now. “I just.. like looking closely at things, I guess. Patterns make me feel like the world makes more sense.”

He nodded slowly, watching you. You were a goddess walking among men. Which said a lot, coming from the man that was compared to gods. “You make things make more sense.”

You looked up again, surprised, and your smile grew just a little more shy. “Thank you, Clark. Really. That means a lot coming from you.” There was a quiet moment between you—just long enough for the newsroom to blur around the edges—and then you added, voice even softer, “You’ve always been kind to me. Even before I ever proved I was more than the gossip girl. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you for that.”

Clark’s heart thudded. “You never needed to.”

“I still want to,” you said. “So.. thank you.”

And he swore, right then, that if he wasn’t already hopelessly gone for you, that would’ve been the exact moment he fell.

Lois turned to Jimmy. “Is she whipped for him too?”

“I think we just found her soft spot,” Jimmy muttered, in literal disbelief that, nerd, Clark Kent, somehow was pulling bombshell, you. The unobtainable girl in the newsroom. The one every guy had a secret, small crush on. He exhaled. “You know what? Good for them. I mean, it's confusing and a little terrifying, but good for them.”

Lois smiled knowingly. “Give it a week. One of them’s gonna crack.”

Watching them closely, Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “My money’s on Clark.”

“Please,” Lois scoffed, waving Jimmy off with her hand. “That girl’s gonna fold like a lawn chair the second he says something too soft with those stupid eyes.”

They both turned back to their work, though neither one stopped listening. Not when you giggled. Not when Clark looked at you like you hung the stars. And definitely not when the entire bullpen slowly started to realize:

The gossip columnist and the golden boy were both very off the market.

[echo-ethe]

A/N: So I had this idea of Clark with a girl who just has the mouth of a sailor…this is what I came up with lol I hope you enjoy <3 I'm also writing a fic or headcanon (Maybe both in one post like I did for Frank Castle) about Clark being with a girl who has anger problems so be on the look out for that soon!

Gosh, I Love You

Warnings: Reader is described as a female in some parts, also mentioned to be wearing a leather jacket. Lot of cursing coming from the reader but other than that it's pretty fluffy.

Clark Kent isn’t naive. Well... maybe just a little.

He knows the world’s a rough place. He’s seen the worst of it. Lived through it. He knows people yell and curse and punch holes in walls sometimes. But it still doesn’t prepare him for you—storming into the apartment on a Tuesday night, tossing your bag onto the couch with a fury and growling, “I swear to God, Clark, if one more incompetent dipshit emails me a corrupted file I will eat my computer.”

Clark freezes mid-sip of tea. “…Eat it?”

You kick off your shoes and stomp into the kitchen, still ranting. “In its entirety. Plastic, screen, charger, cords. I’ll fucking swallow the hard drive like a vitamin pill, babe, I’m not even joking right now.”

Clark sets his tea down carefully. “Well… please don’t. That seems… uh… dangerous?”

You whip open the fridge and glare into it like it personally offended you. “No cheese? Are you shitting me?”

“I—”

“I had a full day of assholes, one brain-dead team lead, a micro-managing project manager who probably still wets the bed, and now there’s no cheese?!”

Clark is bewildered. And deeply, utterly smitten.

“Would… Would you like me to fly out and get some?” he offers gently.

You blink. Then your shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” you say, rubbing your face. “I didn’t mean to unload on you. You’re not the person I want to strangle.”

He smiles and walks over, pulling you gently into his arms. You melt into his chest, and he rests his chin on your head. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, warm and solid. “Unload all you want. You’re a storm, sweetheart. I don’t mind getting rained on.”

You look up at him and kiss his chin.

“You’re too soft for me, Smallville.”

“You curse enough for both of us.”

“I really do.”

So saying that...He has so much patience for your rants. Traffic pissed you off? Someone interrupted you at work? You tripped over the cat and nearly died? He’ll sit back, arms folded over his chest, letting you vent while sprinkling in the occasional, “Yeah?” or “They really said that?” just to encourage the chaos.

✦

You call him things like “goddamn angel,” “sweet-ass alien,” and “big fucking softie” on a regular basis. Clark pretends to sigh like he’s scandalized, but his ears always go pink.

✦

When you got out he finds it hilarious when people assume his girlfriend either needs his protection or is someone who matches his "image". You’ll be standing together--Clark in his glasses and cardigan, you in a leather jacket with your arms crossed--and someone tries to pick a fight.

“Back the fuck up.”

The guy looks at Clark like surely the six foot something guy will intervene. But Clark just says calmly, “That was her asking you nicely.”

And you know that look in his eyes means if the guy doesn’t leave, he’s going to be very politely launched into orbit.

✦

Clark’s friends notice. It’s impossible not to.

At dinner with Lois and Jimmy one night, you casually tell a story about your boss:

“—and then this fucker looks me dead in the eye and says ‘circle back,’ like that’s a real phrase and not just some sort of corporate brain rot.”

Clark almost chokes on his water.

Lois snorts wine out her nose. “Oh my God, I love her.”

Jimmy leans over to Clark. “Does she, uh… always talk like that?”

Clark, pink in the ears, just nods. “She sure does.”

He says it like a man proud of his sailor-mouthed firecracker of a girlfriend, even if he still flinches when you yell at inanimate objects.

✦

The first time he swears, you think the world is ending.

You’re arguing. It wasn't anything serious—just heat-of-the-moment frustration after a long day and missed dinner plans.

“I’m not mad you missed dinner,” you say. “I’m mad that you didn’t tell me. You just vanished. Again.”

Clark runs a hand through his hair, pacing the living room. “I didn't have time to tell you; I was halfway across the world dealing with—”

“I don’t care! I get what you do, Clark, I respect it. But I need some sort of communication!”

And that’s when he snaps—voice low, controlled, frayed:

“Fuck, I’m trying, okay?”

The room goes dead silent.

You blink. “Did you just…”

Clark looks horrified. “I—I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “You cursed.”

He backpedals instantly. “I’m sorry. That was wrong. That’s not what I—”

You cross the room, grab his face, and kiss him so hard his head spins and he’s breathless when you pull back.

“…You’re not mad?”

“I’m turned on, Kent.”

Clark.exe has stopped functioning.

✦

Your swearing gets worse when you’re injured. One day, after a clumsy fall during a hike (that Clark told you was going to rain), you come limping in, drenched and bleeding.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Clark! My ankle is fucked, my socks are wet, and there was a slug in my damn boot!”

He’s at your side in less than a second. “Let me see—oh gosh, sweetheart—”

“Don’t ‘gosh’ me, you warned me, and I didn’t listen and now there’s slug juice in my sock and I want to die.”

“You’re not dying,” he says, gently cradling your foot. “But I am taking you to the couch, wrapping you in blankets, and making you soup.”

You grumble. He lifts you effortlessly.

“Swear all you want,” he murmurs, carrying you bridal-style. “It's still gonna happen regardless.”

✦

When he’s gone for a few days, saving the world, and you leave him voicemails like:

“Hope you’re okay, love you...really miss you, also the new neighbor parallel parks like a some dickless goat, just wanted to give a heads up babe.”

He listens to them all on repeat. Smiling like a fool, missing home with the knowledge that he is absolutely whipped.

✦

You never tone it down. And he never asks you to.

Because Clark Kent is sweet. Gentle. Kind. But he’s also steel. He doesn’t need softness around him—he needs realness. He needs the fire, the passion.

He needs you—even if half your vocabulary would be bleeped on national television.

Because you’ve got the dirtiest mouth he’s ever heard...But the kindest heart he’s ever known.

And when you curl up in his lap after a long day, muttering sleepily, “Today was a shitshow but you’re my favorite part,”—

Clark just smiles as his heart swells, kisses your temple, and says, “Golly. I love you too.”

✦

He does, however, gently edit your vocabulary in front of Ma and Pa Kent. It’s not that they’d be mad, but more that he can feel your panic when you let a “shit” slip at dinner. So, he covers for you smoothly. “She said ‘shoot,’ Ma. You just misheard her.”

"No, I did not” Martha mutters. She’s smiling though.

I hope you enjoyed <3 I'm wanting to start a Clark taglist so let me know if you'd like to be added! If you did enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, and reblogging it means the world to me!