#if anyone does have questions. ask (please)

[reignpage]

In which the men are obsessed with your ass and the different ways they express it

Satoru smashes his face in between your cheeks at random times of the day. Around the corridor, when no one’s looking, he’ll shove you against the wall, kneel, and mumble, 'I'm home.' When questioned, he explains he likes everything about it – how warm you are there, how soft, and most importantly, how much you hate it. If he takes a long and loud inhale, it’s usually just to piss you off. Over time, however, it’s grown to be one of the very few things that calms him down. His stupid family can be overbearing, but if you’re there and arching your ass out for him, then all is well. 

Suguru gropes your ass in front of other people, always just out of sight, always with a pleasant smile and a nod, indicating he’s giving them his full attention. But little do they know, his fingers are digging deep into your flesh, even through jeans, staking his claim. He likes to remind you he’s always thinking about you, he likes the secrecy, the silent ‘fuck you’ to the ass-kissers he runs into, no pun intended. Maybe, just maybe, he also likes the way you get all breathy, all nervous, and skittish, half wanting to tell him off and half leaning into his touch. 

Choso bites. Something about your ass, with the recoil, the ripples, the tiger stripe-like marks, makes his mouth water. He can’t help but eye them from behind or when you’re innocently walking up the stairs. Even at night, half-asleep, he often wakes up with drool pooling on your bare flesh, teeth marks visible on your poor skin. Of course, he apologises, but he never stops. Definitely don’t ask him about the locked album on his phone. It totally doesn’t contain hundreds and hundreds of upskirt pictures. 

Toji slaps and smacks with no care in the world. He does it in the middle of the street, in front of his friends, as a hello, as a goodbye, as a ‘calm down,’ and even as an apology. There’s no shame or decorum in his actions. Especially not when other bastards let their eyes wander too long. He’ll slap your ass whilst staring them down. Might give it a peck too, if it was particularly hard. And he won’t ever admit this, but he also likes to lay a good one on you, just so he has a reason to rub apologetic circles on the warm skin. 

Kento pats your ass as a calming gesture. It helps you sleep. He might tap your ass to let you know he’s behind and needs to get by, or to show you he’s listening to your rants. Though it started as a means to soothe you, eventually, it grows to be a habit, a tic, a reflex. Often, he blinks and realises his hand had a mind of its own and had wandered over to a cheek without his knowing. You never seem to mind, thankfully. Actually, you seem to like it, especially when it means you have a reason to do it back to him, but harder and in more embarrassing situations.

Sukuna punishes with spanks that he makes you count. You think you can just run around his estate, doing as you please? Although he’s given you more liberties and privileges than anyone else has ever had, you should still know your place. No one talks back to him. No one mocks him. No one defies him. They’re lessons you learn, and you learn well, when he has you bent over his lap, ass bare and marked up for everyone to see. It helps that it teaches his repulsive cockroach-like servants that, if he can make you squeal and cry and not bat an eye, he won’t hesitate to smite them where they stand.

[honeybunnyale]

Can I request accidental pregnancy after a one night stand with Superman but reader want nothing to do with him and wants to raise the child on her own but she works at the planet so Clark is trying everything he can to help her <3

Clark's Baby Daddy Chronicles l C.K.

w.c: 8.3k 

t.w.: Smut, P in V, Oral f receiving, sub/dom headspaces mentioned, brief Daddy kink, Pregnancy, lots of fluff, lots of angst, lots of silliness, Reader does not like Superheroes, Clark is just a sweet man trying to take care of his babies, lil grumpy x sunshine vibe, descriptions of pregnancy and discomfort that comes with it

a/n: Thank you so much for the request! I loved this! <3 Please read all warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only!

Summary: Clark ensures he could be part of the baby's life and yours. 

Month Four: Nausea

You hated being coddled. A group dinner was turned into a love fest, just for you. 

It was suffocating being around people who had baby fever, especially when they weren’t dealing with pregnancy themselves. You depart from the table, gaining the courage to order some food. You hear a metal chair scrape irritatingly across the ground. 

You knew exactly who had followed behind you. 

You stand in line with your hands in your pockets, you briefly think about how you needed new trousers, they were getting a little tight on your stomach. You loosen your belt, allowing more room for the soft swell. 

The atmosphere was mellow, lights dim and verging on yellow in the trendy new spot near the Daily Planet building. Fake plants collecting dust were scattered around the restaurant. 

Clark’s arm bumps against yours as the server takes their sweet time taking orders. You check the time on your watch, they had a whole speech, the line was unnecessarily long. You catch his eye, lingering over your hands lightly cradling your stomach, thumbs hanging on to your belt loops. 

You put them down to your sides self consciously.  

The options were rather limited, gourmet deep dish, gourmet chicken tenders, gourmet burgers, gourmet deli sandwiches. You settle for a chicken Caesar salad, Clark butts in with his own order of a double cheeseburger with fries before the cashier could ask if you wanted anything else. 

The total was given, and Clark pressed his card against the screen before you could even reach into your pocket for your wallet. 

Your arms are crossed lazily as you balance yourself against the counter near the pickup area. Clark has his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground beside you. He told you to wait at the table with the rest of your coworkers, but you refused. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say lowly. He gives you a tight-lipped smile. He waves a dismissive hand. 

“Pfft. No big deal.” 

His cheeks were rosy with a light blush as he avoided your gaze. You sigh, you didn’t really want the pity or extra attention. 

Much less from him. He was the most annoying coddler of them all. 

He takes the tray of food back to the table, walking a step behind you. Everyone turns to see you walk over. You hold back a snort as Lois awkwardly pulls back a chair for you. 

Everyone eats and chats, sometimes the conversation is directed to you, asking indirect questions about your pregnancy. 

How are you feeling? Seeing anyone? Have you set up a registry? 

You were four months along, you were just barely showing underneath your loose clothes. But months before, everyone figured out your gestational status. 

Maybe it was because you were more irritable. You think it was because of the way you stormed out of an editor meeting mid way through to puke your guts out in the bathroom nearby. 

Clark had always been the most attentive. He even confirmed it in front of everyone. Steve invited the newsroom out for drinks, you agreed. 

Clark narrowed his eyes at you, everyone gathered near the entrance to the Planet, dividing up and waiting for Ubers. Lois was nudging your shoulder, challenging you to a drinking game. 

“Aren’t you pregnant?” Clark blurts out. 

You were about to tell Lois that you weren’t going to drink, hoping she would catch the hint as you pressed a hand to your stomach. You froze in place, blinking as everyone turned to you. 

The casual drinks turned into a celebration. Everyone wishing the new mother a healthy pregnancy. You’d smiled through grit teeth as everyone made a ruckus at the bar and toasted to you. 

Clark would never forget your glare. You didn’t speak to him directly for a week. Your dry emails scalded him. 

The conversation is focused on something else now, you pick at the pieces of parmesan cheese left in your bowl. It was really good. Your lips are downturned in a small frown. You should have gotten something more filling. Your stomach growls lightly, imperceptibly. 

Clark shifts the tray of his fries in your direction, his attention directed at the conversation as Jimmy tells a story of a date he recently went on, his hand flinging every which way as he dramatizes the woman. 

You cautiously take some of his fries, dipping them into the ketchup he had poured out on the tray. 

Clark glances in your direction, sending you a soft smile, mouthing a ‘you ok?’ from across the table. You nod and his eyes twinkle. His smile widens for a second. 

Your cheeks sting from the heat rising within them. 

…

Month Five: Development

Whenever you look through the maternity section, your brain shuts off. You leave the site or leave the store entirely. 

They were just so boring. You liked your style, you thought your bump looked cute when you wore a tank top and cargo pants. But a lot of your usual attire didn’t fit anymore. 

You think the baby’s a big one, judging by the look on your doctor's face, when she told you the growth was super healthy for 19 weeks. 

The adjective makes you gag. Superman gives you a super baby. You sigh, your folder landing on your desk a little too forcefully as you scoot the chair out from under the desk. 

You sit down and unzip your fly, finally allowing yourself to take a deep breath, the soft swell of your belly starting to rest against your lap. Your shirts ride up and your pants were held on by a hair tie you borrowed from someone when you just couldn’t zip up your jeans again. 

A cup lands on your desk, a smoothie cup. You sigh. Clark says it’s a good source of nutrients, all natural sugars and all of that other healthy bs. They were also extremely good, no matter how hard you try to find anything negative to say. 

Clark was behaving like a mother hen, but most of the time you couldn't be bothered to push him and his attention away.

He waits by your desk as you take a sip, as he usually does to ensure your satisfaction. 

You wince lightly. It tasted greener than usual. You smack your lips as you try to decipher if it was spinach or kale.

He extends a hand towards the smoothie, fingers bending repeatedly in a ‘gimme’ motion.

“I could get you another one,” he says softly, humorously. 

You hold the cup tightly, pulling it closer to your chest. Gosh you were so cute. He knew how sensitive you were with smells and tastes now. 

He changed his cologne after he gave you a side hug goodbye one night and you flinched. 

It was right after taking you home, like he does most days. 

It was strange how he stays as late as you now. He must be busier than usual. Certainly not waiting for you to pack up so he could offer you a ride or anything. 

“I’ll deal,” you mumble, taking the straw and taking another sip. He lifts his hand in a sign of surrender, and he makes his way to his desk a couple of cubicles away.

You could see him in his cubicle because of his broad shoulders. Your hands twirl the straw absentmindedly, watching him clumsily organize his workspace.

You lean back against your chair, rolling it back to see his face more clearly over the desk shields. 

He could feel your stare, the way you analyze him. He misses being able to tease you about your cold gaze.

He could hear you gulp. He could tell you liked this flavor. Some weird name like caterpillar fruit salad or something. 

“Thank you.” 

He lifts his head, glancing around the room. He almost wants to point at his chest to see if you were speaking to him. 

You snort. His face turns red as he watches your lips spread into an amused smile. 

You lift the cup, tapping against the side.

“Thank you, Clark.” 

He smiles bashfully. Ducking his head as he waves you off. He sits down and you smile to yourself as you scoot closer to your keyboard.

A hand meets your shoulder, you jump. Your hands are pressed to your chest. 

“When are you going to take that white boy home?” 

You’re appalled. You make a sharp noise from the back of your throat, utterly appalled. Catherine Grant looks at you with a craze you haven’t seen before. 

You pull her in closer, into the cubicle space. She moves your papers and sits on your desk, bending down to hear your whisper. 

“It’s not like that.” 

She scoffs. She looks at your desk, finding one of Clark’s notes on an article draft you were working on, he quite literally drew a smiley face and heart on a post-it. She scoffs again.

Cat was smart as a whip. She knew everything about everything. You couldn’t disagree with her more in this regard. 

“It’s not,” you affirm. She gives you a look. The man was already clingy, helpful, and kind, sure. But if you would have asked him to jump off a cliff, he’d do it with a running start. 

“He’s just nice. I’m literally pregnant."

She bites her fingernail, shaking her head. 

“Pregnant and single,” she corrects.

She shimmies in her seat, wiggling her brows. 

“Milky tits, a fat ass, c’mon. That would not stop a straight man with half a brain.” 

Unfortunately, most men had even less than a third of a brain. You cross your arms. She stands at your glare, making her way back to her desk.

“I hear wedding bells in your future, babe,” she whispers harshly right next to your ear. 

She passes by Clark’s desk and makes a motion of eating from a plate with a fork behind his back. 

…

The newsroom was nearly empty, but you could hear typing ahead of you. You slowly peek to the side from your desk, Clark was ever so diligent at his desk. 

The glow of the computer monitor reflects off of his glasses. You slowly inch away from the edge and refocus on your work. 

He wonders when you’d start to pack the hell up and actually go home. He didn’t even think his fingers were capable of cramping up. But they did from being on the keyboard for so long.

He could see you, two desks away from him. His vision makes you easily visible. The fetus snugly cradled in your belly. 

It makes him smile softly. He overheard you tell someone the baby was the size of a mango today. That was adorable. 

He just wished he could go to appointments and shopping with you. He sighs, focusing back on his screen. Maybe get some kissing in too. 

You don’t open your balcony door, there’s an excessive pile of leaves and dust on the ground and over the patio chairs. 

You don’t even go out there anymore. 

He was frustrated, but he understood. He used to joke that you had the same mentality as Lex Luthor who has progressively become an opposing voice to the conversation on Metahuman intervention and conflicts. 

He understood your point. Superheroes could turn at any point. A bad day, a missed calculation could end up in so much destruction. And it already has. 

But Superman was starting to show you how you and many others didn’t have to worry. There will always be a prevalence of good people. 

It all fell apart. 

He visited every night the week you found out you were pregnant, looking into your bedroom with X-ray vision, and watching as you retook pregnancy test after pregnancy test. 

He’d watched you cry, he’d watched you zone out into your ceiling fan, even watched you as you slept, still sniffling. 

You were scared. He was too. 

“Holy shit- Clark.” 

He sits up at your voice, his thoughts disappearing, replaced with a spike of anxiety rising through his throat. 

Your chair rolls loudly as you push away from your desk. 

He stands, almost knocking down his cubicle along with his chair as he rushes to your side. He kneels to your level. He looks over your body.

“What, what, what, what?” he asks in a panicked frenzy. 

Your stare at your bump, eyes wide and flickering. As if waiting for something to rip through your skin and maul your face. 

You yelp again, cupping your stomach in panic. He grips your desk chair, swerving it to the side to have you face him, his body between your legs. 

His eyes squint lightly as he stares at your stomach. He doesn’t find anything wrong. The baby was curled in the amniotic sac, heartbeat stable. 

A tiny leg twitches and he flinches. He takes a deep breath in.

“Kicking,” you sigh softly, astonished. It felt like flutters, you pressed a hand to the side, where you felt the movement. 

You take his hand and place it to where the kicks are prominent. His hands shake, his palm smoothing over the fabric of your shirt. Clark’s hand was large. So warm. You just realized how close he was to you. His fingers glide underneath the waistband of your trousers, thumb rubbing the kicked spot tenderly. 

It was so intimate, you swore his eyes were glistening with welling tears. He exhales shakily, adjusting his glasses and sweeping a hand across his curls as you let go of his hand. 

His eyes land over your pelvis and he looks away quickly, clearing his throat as he stands. His cheeks turned pink. You glance down and you curse at yourself. Your panties were on full display, zipper wide open. You needed new pants. 

…

It was a cool night, you zip up your jacket quickly and clutch the strap of your bag as you hop out of Clark’s car, he comes out of the driver's side and stares at you, opening and closing his mouth, wanting to say something.

It was cold, you wanted to get inside. 

“Clark-” you start, wanting to thank him for the ride.

“I want to take you out to dinner.”

Your mouth shuts and your breath stutters. He stands up straighter amidst the silence. 

“I mean- can I take you out to dinner- may I?” 

…

“He asked you out?” 

You nod. 

“I think he has a fetish,” you say calmly as you hold up a onesie and feel the texture of the fabric. It was so soft, you pouted at the cute baby elephant design. 

Lois looks concerned by your statement. She pushes down the onesie in your hand so that you drop it back into the pile of baby clothes already in your shopping cart. 

She lifts a brow and crosses her arms. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

You shrug, pushing the cart to the maternity aisle. Lois follows, lifting up clothes, allowing you to either nod or wince before it either goes into the cart or is left behind.

“Well, he just likes you. He always has,” she says carefully. You attempt to recall instances where you felt his interest before your pregnancy. You guess you just didn’t notice. 

“Since when?” you ask. 

“The moment he walked into the Planet and saw you almost put your fist in Jimmy's stomach for stealing your story.” 

You purse your lips and shake your head. Lois sighs. 

You bought some pants and shirts for work, a dress, pjs and underwear. Lois also chipped in and bought some onesies, claiming that as godmother she needed to provide early. 

You grumbled at the self-appointment. 

Being on your feet had you winded, your soles ached. You sip on your lemon water, taking a break from shopping as you take lunch. Lois swirls the straw in her drink. 

Everyone was too afraid to ask you questions. No one knew you were seeing anyone. Many were theorizing the baby was Clark’s but given by the way you spoke about him, it seemed unlikely.

“So, do you know who the father is? I mean has he offered to be there for the baby?” 

She avoids your gaze as she asks, looking to the side as if the topic didn’t interest her as much as it did. You look off into the distance and let out a long, heavy sigh. 

“Remember that interview I did about five months ago?” 

It took her a moment. She startles you as she leans over the table. She cups your face and makes you turn your head. Your lips pursed, her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in shock.

“Superman?!” 

…

Month Zero: Conception

“You’re so annoying,” you grit out. 

“That’s not what you said the night before, or the night before, or the night before…” 

You grip onto his shoulders tightly. His suit was on the floor, each piece making a trail to your kitchen. Your ass slid against your kitchen island as he pumped into you. 

You kiss him harshly, teeth clinking, lips bruising and leaving him breathless. Your thighs spread as you wrap your legs around his waist. 

His hand twists your shirt at the small of your back as he thrusts in a steady rhythm, the fabric tightens around your torso and highlights every dip and curve. His hips slam onto your pelvis, making your body jiggle with each beat. 

“S-shut up-“ you stutter. 

He came to you at this point. Your work relationship strong due to his punctuality. 

He’d arrive at your apartment's balcony, wait there as you got your recorder, your pen, and your notebook ready. 

You’d open your sliding door, dressed professionally in your pajamas. He’d step in with his hands intertwined and in front of him. His cape would caress your bare legs, like a breeze in the summer night. 

You came at him with tough questions. He’d get heated, you’d shift in your seat. He always smelled your arousal. 

And you’d always spread your legs for him the second he confronted you, stepping between them as you sat on your couch, his cock covered in Kryptonian fabric straining in your direction, willing you to touch. 

You wouldn’t publish the interviews. So, he’d come back to try again. 

He carries you to your bed, despite your growls and barks, you really didn’t bite. He could feel you soften underneath him as he drills into your tight wet hole over and over again. 

Your nails dig into his skin, barely leaving a mark, if only light red lines on his back as you took his cock throughout the night. 

You’re left a panting mess, lower belly painted in white, a path leading to your pussy, his seed dripping from your folds.

He had left a 50-dollar bill on your dresser. He didn’t pull out quick enough. An honest mistake when your walls got so tight he didn’t even want to move. 

He was going to come back the next day, probably check if you took a morning after pill, if not tease you about your frequent forgetfulness due to stress. 

That was the plan, until he was accused of attempting to conquer the world and build a harem. 

Your balcony was locked, blinds closed shut. You never answered despite his soft knocks. You didn’t trust superheroes, he knew this well. 

He broke what little faith you had in him, and it wasn’t even his fault. 

…

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out as you finish your recount of events. It gave you a headache whenever you thought about Superman for too long. He just recently stopped knocking at your balcony door, about the same time Clark asked you to dinner. 

Lois nods along. Oh Clark. He was going to be a father. Out of wedlock no less, she wonders what the midwestern farm boy thinks of that. Her lips purse. 

He’s too open minded to be thinking of that type of stuff. She doesn’t approve of his “plan”. She wonders what you would say when you realized. Because you will realize. 

The baby has potential super strength and might have laser beams shooting out of its eyes, but the child’s will also have an uncanny appearance to Clark Kent. 

“What did you say to Clark?” 

You look down at your plate of lunch, picking at the pieces of food with your fork. Lois sips her lemonade as you mutter.

“I said yes.” 

She almost spits out her drink from laughter. Clark is so screwed. 

…

Month Six: Libido highs 

You were so soft. Softer than a rose petal. He could tell you liked being cared for, pampered. But you just didn’t open up. 

He could tell by the way your heart fluttered each time he got you something sweet from the cafe next door. When he would bring you fresh flowers to decorate your desk each week. 

He loved taking care of you, taking you home, asking about your day especially when you had difficulty expressing yourself with anything other than irritation. 

A compromise was made as you started dating. A subconscious compromise. He’d take you home right after seven at the latest. Straight home. He’d come in and make you dinner, maybe even let you help. 

Then he’d be on his merry way home.

You’d relax and work on your laptop, snug as a bug, freshly showered, and in your pajamas for the night, an oversized shirt and sleep shorts. 

You were doing just that tonight, watching reality tv, a hand absentmindedly rubbing over your belly as you zoned out. 

But something was different. Your energy finally increased over the past week or so. You move as if your center of gravity wasn’t shifted completely. Like a lioness on the prowl. You turn to stare at him as if he were prey, hands tight against the back of the couch.

You had acted this way the whole day, eyes following him as he made his way through meetings, calls, errands. 

“Can you stay the night?” you ask, your head resting on your arms, resting on the back of the couch as you watch him wash the dishes from your kitchen. You bite your lip as his tank top was visible over his dress shirt. You imagine this was how it felt to see a girl's bra through her shirt. 

You smile innocently as his eyes roam over the way you're on your knees on top of the couch. He shifts and faces the sink, willing his growing boner to soothe over. The shirt was loose over your shoulders, exposing your collarbones. You weren’t wearing a bra, apparent by the lack of a strap. 

“Y-yeah,” he clears his throat, his voice cracked. 

You haven’t had sex with Clark. But Clark remembers the feel of your body in hyper detail. He shivers as you make your way over to him, pressing your front to his back as you reach over to the cupboards.

Your belly presses against him, he straightens his back. His hands squeeze the sponge in his hand and he closes his eyes, almost in prayer. 

Your hand meets his side as you reach for a mug and your tea bags. He gets them for you, glancing briefly to see the way you rest a hand on top of your belly, fingers highlighting the curve of your breasts by pressing the fabric of your shirt underneath them. 

The more your pregnancy progresses the more he wants to tear apart a room, maybe even your clothes. How dare you walk around the editing room with a shirt that pronounces your bump and the breasts that rest atop it, pants that show off your thickening hips and juicy ass. 

He grips the sponge so hard it almost rips from the pressure. He wants to touch your soft tits so bad. 

“They’re throwing a baby shower for me next week. Wanted to know if you’re coming with me.” 

He pauses briefly at the invitation. He wasn’t just invited as a guest. He was invited to go with you. As your partner. He fights a grin of elation. 

Your water heater boils loudly. You press a hand to his back, rubbing up and down. You could feel his back muscles. You bite your lip as they flex under your touch. 

He turns. 

“I’d love to go with you.”

You smile softly, genuinely. He dries his hands with a rag, takes your hand and presses a soft kiss against it. 

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly. 

He nods. His hand squeezes yours as you swing it lightly between your bodies. 

“You don’t have to. I’m not trying to ask anything of you,” you rush out. 

He takes a step towards you, you avoid his pointed gaze. You were asking so much more than a baby shower. 

“What if I want to?” 

You take a step, bringing your intertwined hands to the side of your bump.

“You want this?” 

He bends down to meet your gaze, willing you to meet his eyes. He cups your face gently, tapping your chin with his thumb when you couldn’t quite look up at him. 

Your eyes were red, slowly welling with tears. Frustration, anxiety, fear. He cups the side of your belly, thumb rubbing soothing circles over your skin. 

“I want this and more.” 

You sigh in relief, arms winding over his shoulders, fingers playing with the collar of his flannel as he kisses your cheek and pulls you close into his warm embrace. 

…

You sit on the couch behind him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling it back as he types in his laptop, grumbling about the red line highlighting underneath proper nouns. 

Your legs were spread wide to accommodate his broad shoulders as he sat on the carpet facing the tv. 

He was in a shirt and sweatpants. Some of your most oversized clothing items you had on hand. They were form fitting, luckily. 

You fight the urge to pounce on him. You didn’t think he could be so large. Tall, yes of course. But muscular and shaped like a Greek God? 

Who would have known. Then again, he is from a farm. He must know a thing or two about working with his hands.

His kisses have gotten even more adventurous. The tension is sticky and dewy. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. At least you hoped he did so that he could follow through. 

You peed yourself in the morning, after rushing to work and having missed your alarm. The kid kicked harder and harder each day, your organs losing space inside of your body. A hit to your bladder was imminent. 

Clark had watched you straighten up from your chair to stand stiffly, hand on your back to handle the weight. You were 26 weeks along, just about to get into your third trimester. 

You were waddling to the restroom and he was pretty sure you weren’t waddling the night before as he left you at your apartment door. You texted him SOS. 

He had to look through your desk drawers for spare undies. He pulled them out of your drawer to shove in his pocket quickly. They were maternity panties, the ones that stretched over your belly. 

He was flustered as he made his way to the bathroom, looking behind him after barging in to the women’s. 

He held the underwear between his fingers as he handed them to you, snickering under his breath about granny panties. You pinched his side and used a stall to change. 

“You could have asked Lois,” he mentions, completely embarrassed from being inside the women’s bathroom. Even if the door was locked and no one could enter. 

“You're my boyfriend, I don’t want her to see my intimates,” you retort behind the stall. 

The word repeated in his head over and over again. He couldn’t not think about the casual way you said it. He felt his pants tighten, he grinned as you came out of the bathroom. He was your boyfriend, and you were his pregnant girlfriend carrying his big baby that just made you pee your pants.  

He came up behind you and pressed himself against your back. The proximity surprised you, his hands cupped your belly, adjusting the stretchy strap of your maternity trousers lower and lower until it bundled up on your waist. 

His fingers press underneath your belly, inching closer to your cunt. 

“What-” 

He kisses you as you turn your head, holding you in place as his lips moved languidly over yours, his hands wandered, softly at first, resting on your bump but it quickly evolved into passionate fondling. 

He cupped your breast, squeezing as you leaned further into him and lifted a hand to caress over the back of his head. The other hand pressed against your hip, pressing you against him to grind on you. 

You felt his hot erection press against your ass, you arched your back to press your mound against the bulge. 

The knock at the door didn’t soften him, but his groping slowed to a pause. He caresses over your belly, his head buried between your neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. 

They knock again. 

“Clark, we need to go.”

He growled, kissing a path to your jaw and shocking you from his possessive hold. His glasses were skewed as he unwillingly pulled away.

He was flushed as he made his way out of the women’s bathroom behind you. Cat stared at you pointedly as you avoided her gaze. She gave a wry laugh as Clark said a quiet ‘excuse me’.

You couldn’t focus the rest of the work day, and now as he sits on the floor of your apartment between your knees, you couldn’t help but feel frustrated. 

Your hands travel, smoothing over his shoulders, then over his biceps, squeezing the mass until it hardens with a flex. 

He turns his head, the side of his face meeting your bump. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. You tip his head so that you could meet your lips with his. 

He must be shy. The bastard. 

In his own head, he was thinking if you’d find his body familiar if things continued. He’s visibly nervous. He’s had time to think over the possibility of you somehow remembering the shape and size of his dick from months before.

You shift in your seat. You stick your tongue in his mouth and moan. He suddenly forgets about all of his worries. He turns his body, departing from your lips and kneeling in front of you. 

You lean forward to peck his lips.

You wince as your feet meet the ground. He stops, parting from your lips, like a dog straightening up from a rustle in the bush. He’s been noticing you wincing a lot lately. 

“What is it?” he asks softly, cupping your cheek.

You shake your head, leaning down to kiss him again. He pulls away. You whine from the back of your throat and you surprise yourself with the noise. 

He bites back a smirk. His chest rumbles with satisfaction at your neediness. 

“Tell me what’s hurting.” 

You groan and slump against the cushion. You lift your foot. Your usual heels didn’t fit anymore, you had to wear sandals. It's been like this for a couple of days now. You could barely bend down to see your toes. 

He pushes his laptop off to the side and takes your feet to his lap. His thumb presses against the arch of your feet, a tingle shoots through your leg and to your center. His touch was firm yet gentle. 

Your head lolled against the cushion, and you sank deeper into the softness of your couch. You groan as he presses and kneads your foot. You didn’t even notice one of his hands started rubbing up your calf and to your inner thigh. 

Your eyes are closed, your leg twitches in a short burst of pleasure as he continues. 

He kisses up your leg. You sit up but he pushes you back down against the couch, palm right up against your mound and cupping your belly. 

His fingers on the sole of your foot continue to massage into your muscle.

“Let me take care of you. Hm?” he says, mouth parted as he played with the waistband of your shorts. 

You gush. 

“So good,” he hums against you, tongue flattening over your folds. You cup his head against you pressing his face deeper. You roll your hips. 

The lower half of his face was covered in your arousal as he pulled back. He kisses your inner thigh as you lift yourself up on your elbows. 

“You taste so good. So sweet.”

Your leg twitches, breath stuttering. You internally squeal. You want to grab your throw pillow and shove your face in it to bite and scream. His eyes narrow and his eyes flicker from your chest, your heart pumping erratically, to your cunt. 

He grips your hands pushing them against the cushions as you attempt to reach for his head as he dives in again, you moan out at the strength he displayed. Sweet, shy Clark, holding you down as he ate your pussy like a man starved, not caring for the breathy whines of overstimulation that vibrated through the walls as he pressed the tip of his tongue around the rim of your hole. 

Clark loved your attitude. He loved being able to turn you into putty in his hands. He’s sure you didn’t even realize as he maneuvered you onto the bed, over his body. 

You were somewhere else, somewhere not quite away but never quite conscious enough to retort or scowl or take the control you so desperately required at work, in public with your colleagues. 

Even Superman got you fucked out and stupid, despite your skepticism and cold demeanor. 

You were always so warm when he had you like this, underneath him, his cock impaling you, his mouth licking over your skin. 

He situated you on his lap, your eyelids were threatening to close completely, and you had lost all of your words. He took your clothes off of your body, hands wandering and squeezing, your hips, your ass, your breasts. His lips praised you as he brought you to ecstasy over and over again with his tongue, fingers, and cock.

“Good girl.” 

Your hips stutter, your eyes widen. You look at him as if he held the world in his hands. Putty in his hands. You bounce on his cock, his hand lightly holds your throat, the other playing with your sensitive nipples, squeezing your swollen flesh. 

“Fucking me so good, my good girl.” 

You lean forward, your round stomach pressing against his. You kiss over his neck, although due to the deep thrusts from below, you often paused just to moan out. You close your eyes tightly as he lifts his hips up into you. 

You lose your inhibitions completely to a place he’s never taken you before. 

“Daddy,” you blurt out, word coming out as he thrusted and his cock punched the breath from your lungs. 

He pauses, he makes you sit up straight again. He teases you, failing to hide his smirk at your completely petrified face. He was a daddy, technically. 

“Fuck, I don’t-” you press a hand to your mouth in shock, your eyes were teary from pleasure, you were shaking. 

He sits up against the headboard, taking your hands away from your face and kissing your lips softly and slowly. He cups the back of your head, keeping you in place as he moves your hips back and forth, plunging you onto his cock like a sex doll. 

He uses your body, you break the kisses to moan, to bite your lip and attempt to contain yourself. That won’t do. 

“Who’s your daddy?” 

You try to say it, you try to answer him but your shyness prevents you. You bite your tongue, pursing your lips as your face scrunches as if you were in pain. He cups your belly, he kisses down your jaw, coaxing you to let go. 

“You’re so stubborn. Who’s your daddy?” he repeats, his pace quickens. You let go with tears in your eyes, you babble your answer repeatedly into the air. 

“Fu-You. You, Clark, You, You, You.”  

He makes you repeat yourself all night. 

…

He was so peaceful asleep, his arm was holding you close by the waist, his face shoved in the pillows, hair a complete mess. He snores a little. 

Your finger caresses his cheek lightly, he takes a deep breath in, his eyes fluttering open. It was eleven. You both slept in. 

Your stomach growls and he looks pulls you closer, his face gently resting against your breasts.

You didn’t really like being cuddled in bed. There wasn’t enough space to spread out, your body was too hot during the night and now with your pregnancy, the discomfort made it hard to sleep. 

You melt into his touch, burying your nose into his hair and smelling your shampoo and a hint of salty musk. 

He kisses up your neck, to your lips, making you groan as he attempts to use his tongue to open your mouth. 

“Morning breath,” you mumble self-consciously, keeping your lips pursed as you speak groggily. He hums pressing a kiss to your temple, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m making you breakfast. You two hungry gals need to eat.” 

You don’t say anything as he sits up, you stare at him as if he grew a second head. How did he know? You’ve barely asked your obstetrician for the gender the day before after being so indecisive for months. 

Maybe you mentioned it. The confusion is excused as pregnancy brain. 

He knows his way around your kitchen, your apartment in general. As if he lived there himself. He serves you from your favorite plate, turns on the tv in the background as you talk because you hated the silence between each shift in conversation topic. 

You hated yogurt but you let him feed you a scoop of his. 

He had a lot of his things here you notice, some snacks he likes, a Smallville sweater he left. The crib he built, the stuffed cow he bought the baby, up as decoration against your spare bedroom’s window because “it’s a safety hazard to have stuffed animals and thick blankets in the crib, y'know". 

“How are you feeling?” 

You're ripped away from your inner thoughts. He rests his hand on your stomach. You nod. 

“No heartburn?”  

You shake your head. He lifts your feet to his lap, massaging the swelling around your ankle. You feed him the rest of the food on your plate, he always serves you too much. 

“No bleeding gums?” 

Your disturbed expression tells him no. He laughs and you stuff a piece of toast in his mouth. 

He was treating you like his baby momma, as if the child growing in your womb was his. But you had to admit, you could see him as a father to your baby. Some part of you already did. 

Your chest feels heavy. You sigh. You have to tell him who the father is. One of these days. 

…

Month 8.5: Labor 

Maternity leave just started, albeit later than usual due to your stubbornness. He hated seeing you in so much discomfort. 

You were mentally done with pregnancy at 35 weeks. It was uncomfortable to sit, to lay down, to eat, to shower, to just be. 

The final straw was when you started leaking. You were one of the lucky ones to express colostrum. Some cheesy and outdated “mommy” blogs called it liquid gold, stating that the milk was a blessing. 

Your blessing made two large wet spots in the middle of lunch, your coworkers avoiding looking you in the eye for the rest of the day as a result. 

You had cried that night, completely humiliated. You were leaking all day and Clark couldn’t help but think that this was all his fault. And it was. 

That was the final straw. You stayed home. 

You were sitting on your couch, staring at the ceiling in deep anger. 

“I hate him,” you mutter. Clark leans over the back of the couch and rests his head against your shoulder.

“Who are we hating today?” 

You shake your head. You’ve been anxious to tell him. He knows the man, they talk for interviews all of the time. You think they were friends. 

You sigh. 

“The man who did this to me.” 

He says nothing but a short “oh.” and kisses the side of your head. You blink up at the ceiling, having expected him to ask clarifying questions. 

He pats the side of your belly, like he would a dog that would bound up to him at the park whenever you wanted to walk outside.

He chuckles at the sound it made, like a hollow watermelon. You grip his hand tightly, head turning slowly to glare. 

You stand, wobbly, pressing a hand to your back to steady yourself. 

“Are you not going to ask?” you ask accusingly. His visible confusion makes you even more upset. You turn the corner.

“What do you mean?” 

You scoff. He was a journalist. You’d think he’d be better at asking questions, that he’d yearn to learn the truth, to know more. 

His lack of interest on the topic of the biological father wasn’t going to be healthy in the long run. 

“You’ve never asked, Clark.” 

Your hormones were getting more rampant, more irregular. You went through emotions quickly. Having a metahuman baby would surely make the effects even more intense. You scowl. 

“Asked what?” 

You groan lightly, you cross your arms. He was too calm, too genuine. It made you pause. Why did he fit into the father role so perfectly? He never seemed concerned at the prospect of his newish girlfriend having a baby from another man. 

“About the father.” 

He shrugs. He swallows thickly and smooths his hair back. 

“Do you want me to ask?” 

You nod. 

“You have to know. In case…” 

You drift off, your voice trembling. What if he doesn’t want a metahuman baby? What if it’s too much? What if the child looks too much like his buddy? 

“You have to know,” you say with finality. He sits down on the loveseat, gesturing for you to sit on the couch, facing him. His lips twitch, as if he found the situation funny. 

You huff. 

“What- how do you want me to ask? Serious, casual, w-what?” he stutters wittily. You stare at him, unblinking. He nods, pursing his lips at your eyes full of scold.

“Who is the father?” 

You swallow thickly. He mimics the action. His leg bounces, ready to hear you say what he already knew. 

“Superman.” 

His lips twitch, your hands were wringing in your lap with nerves. You look down at your feet, as they shift against the carpet. 

He chuckles. He stands.

“Superman?” 

You scoff at his tone. His voice was filled with disbelief. He kisses your cheek sweetly, rubbing a hand over your belly before standing up straighter.

“Ok.” 

He swallows so thickly that he almost chokes on his tongue as he goes back to the kitchen. His face pales as he faces away from you. 

He was panicking. What will happen once that curly dark-haired baby comes out looking exactly like Clark Kent. Will you shrug it off as coincidence? Should he tell you the truth before you figured out Clark and Superman were one in the same?  

He chopped some fruit, dwelling in the silence that followed his dismissal. He hears the couch shift, you stand, determined. 

“You don’t believe me,” you state. He avoids your gaze. He chops up a mango for you to snack on. He shrugs. 

“You don’t think your buddy Superman could ever be an absent father?” you spit out. His hands tighten. He places the knife against the cutting board softly. He was about to retort a sharp no. 

Because Superman was not an absent father. 

You huff heavily through your nose at his silence. Your body starts to shake with frustration. 

“Why don’t you call him up.  Ask him.” 

He says your name slowly.

“You get an interview from him any other day, I'm sure you could get him alone to ask about child support.” 

He turns to face you, your eyes hardened. You turn to your balcony, throwing your hands out. You ignore the slight pressure on your belly. It must be a strong kick. 

“You know what? I’ll call him right now.” 

You open the sliding doors roughly. 

“Superman!” 

He follows you outside. He feels his chest ache as he looks around. A sense of nostalgia from stepping into your balcony. 

“Superman!” you shout again, a tad bit louder. Clark stands behind you. The sounds outside were deafening, you didn’t think you would be able to hear yourself from the street below 

“What are you doing-“ 

You cut him off, holding a finger up as if his voice was disturbing your call. 

“He said he would answer my call no matter where he is, what he’s doing, he could hear me.” 

He does. He hears you perfectly well. Superman wasn’t going to come. He looks at you softly, you shout a few more times. Annoyance builds within you, sadness festering with it. 

You clutch your belly with a hand, you wince, the pressure around your bump becoming more prominent. You felt your heart in your throat, you groaned at the tightness. Clark jumps to action, hand moving to cup your bump and ask you what was wrong. 

You clutch the balcony’s thin metal railing as you lean away from him. Petty and still upset. 

He notices the creak coming from the rusty bars. He sees the way it bends forward from your weight.  You pushed away from him and suddenly you were weightless. 

You yell out as your feet slip from the ledge. 

He holds you up by the waist, another hand cupping your head. You stare at him, terrified to fall. Your chest rises and falls, you wrap your arms around his shoulders tightly.

You hear the fence clash against the street below. 

A pressure releases from your center, it felt like you pissed yourself, but your bladder wasn’t squeezed by the baby’s kick. Your pajama pants dampen. 

He was floating, the soles of his shoes lightly brushing the walls of the building. His curls flop forward as you stare up at him.

Your yell was so loud he flinched. 

“Hospital!” 

…

Month 6: Family Road trip

She babbles from the back of the car. You could see her from the mirror you set up in front of her seat, biting into the teething toy Clark froze a while ago as he drove. 

The drive from Metropolis to Kansas was almost 6 hours long. It was like a family road trip, even though you’re sure she wouldn’t remember a thing about her travels along the state. 

Clark has his hand on your thigh, resting there. You place your hand on top of his and he glances in your direction, giving your leg a squeeze. 

Driving back to Kansas was annoying, admittedly, but after groveling at your doorstep or whenever you dropped off his Dolly at his apartment, he finally managed to make you agree to seeing him again.

He couldn’t fly you both to Kansas, no matter how much he attempts to convince you to climb on his back. 

The car parks right outside the Kent household. He takes little Martha Dorothy, Dorothy mostly your silly little suggestion for a middle name because Kansas, out of the car seat and into his arms. He coos at her, mimicking her slight fussiness from the hot humid air she was blasted with as the doors opened. 

She was so small in his arms, she leaned against his shoulder. Clark blew on her face lightly, providing a cool breeze. She sleeps as he rubs her back in circles. 

Martha and Jonathan Kent greet you all with open arms. 

…

Martha was in Clark’s old crib, she slept peacefully, Clark rubbing her belly as she snoozed. 

“She liked the cows,” he says almost in a whisper. You looked over at him and could see the adorable way he was crouched over the wooden crib, his hulking form watching the teeny tiny half human dream of candy clouds and rainbows probably. 

You hum, crossing the room and pressing against his back, arms winding around him and palms sliding over his chest. 

He’s been begging for you back for months, ever since Dolly was born. You press your face in his neck. His flannel smelled like him. Not like smoke and dust from debris like Superman. Not like printer ink and that expensive coffee that he gets from around the corner. 

He smelled like plain old Clark, hot chocolate and firewood. 

“I really want to marry you.” 

He touches your hand, playing with your fingers. He wasn’t nervous as he told you this. He was surprisingly calm, and his voice was steady. He tips his head lightly to glance at you. 

You were surprisingly not freaked the hell out. 

“Not right now, though, obviously.” 

You nod, snorting at his clarification. You peck his cheek, smoothing back his hair. 

“Obviously, yeah.” 

You watch the baby settle into deep sleep. She had Clark's hair and his eyes, a slightly darker shade. You wonder if you would have ever realized the similarities. 

You tsk. You definitely would have. 

—-----------------

Hope you enjoyed anon! This was fun and silly to write. I’ve never written about some of the smut aspects. lol I'm exploring. 

Requests will be closing soon (a day or so) because I’m about to move into my new apartment soon and start the semester and lowkey I gotta lock in for senior year. I need that honor chord twins. 😔

Chubby Clark request soon! 😝

Taglist:

@aphroditesblunt @animegamerfox @twizzlelutz

-Alejandra 💋🐇

[buckysthunderbolts]

casual

Clark Kent x fem!attorney!Reader

Summary: Your blossoming relationship with Clark Kent has you questioning whether what you have is serious, or something casual.

Word Count: 7.6k+ (phew)

Content Warnings: SMUT (18+)!!! fingering, oral (fem), unprotected sex, we're together but ?? are we serious trope??, miscommunication trope, clark and reader are certified yappers™, clark is so sweet and understanding it hurts, flirty!!!! reader and clark, angst!!, clark the lover boy

Author's Note: this is the most self indulgent fic i've written in a long time!!! anyway who cares!! please let me know what you think. only descriptive part of reader is that she has glasses. here are some things you need to know: foia = freedom of information act - attorneys/journalists/whomever send these to get government and public records. nicknames for reader and clark come from the following legal and journalism movies: legally blonde, erin brockovich, to kill a mockingbird, and to all the presidents men. none of these are suggest reader's appearance!! just wanted to use them. please let me know what you think, mwah!

There’s a soft knock on your office door as you pour over the discovery documents Metropolis’s legal department finally sent over. The sheer volume of documents in front of you was giving you a headache. You take off your glasses and lean back in your chair.

“Come in!” you shouted.

The door clicks open, and Clark pokes his head in. You grin at his surprise arrival. A soft, closed mouth smile stares back at you.

“You have a minute? I have a FOIA request for you and some oddly specific legal questions on behalf of a source,” Clark asked, sitting down in the chair across your desk and kicking his legs up as if he’s at home.

“I can give you a minute as long as you take your filthy shoes off my desk,” you teased, shoving at his shin. Clark laughs quietly under his breath and takes his feet off your desk and fixes his posture. He wordlessly passes the FOIA request over to you, and you put your glasses back on.

“What’s this request for?” you asked, skimming over it.

“I’m writing a piece about the insurance policies the city buildings have when they get damaged from… extra-terrestrial crime fighting,” Clark answered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You can’t help the smirk that slowly crosses your face. You cross your arms over your chest and lean back into your chain again. “Were you assigned this by Perry, or did you get a tip from your source?”

Clark flushes under your intense gaze and scratches the back of his neck. He shifts in his seat and swallows hard. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I’m the journalist here.”

You can’t help the loud cackle that rips through your throat, and you grin wildly at him. His reaction is all you needed to know that he in fact did get this information from his super source. “Clark, I’m an attorney. I get paid to ask questions just as much as you do. The only difference is that I do it to cover your ass, and you do it to cover a story.”   

Clark laughs quietly and blows a raspberry before running his fingers through his messy curls. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Nope! It’s my job to know everything so the Daily Planet doesn’t get sued.”

A brief, comfortable silence falls between the two of you before you ask, “What oddly specific legal questions does Superman have now?”

Clark stutters and blushes again. “I didn’t say who my source was,” he stammered.

You smile so hard your cheeks ache. “Clark,” you laughed, “you didn’t need to. Everyone knows you’re the only reporter he’ll speak to. I won’t tell anyone about the things you ask me; you can trust me.”

His beautiful blue eyes widen, and he moves to stand. “I do! I do trust you. I don’t want to make it seem like I don’t. I’m just… very protective over him.”

Your smile softens and you stand and follow him to the small sofa on the far side of your office. You sit beside him, your fingers itching to reach out and hold his hand. You want nothing more than to reassure him, to let him know anything he shares with you about Superman will stay secret. You can’t quite bring yourself to cross that boundary.

“I know,” you whispered. “I don’t blame you. I’m just surprised Superman has you asking legal questions on his behalf. I didn’t think you were that close.”

Something in the air shifts between you two and Clark’s large, muscular thigh brushes yours. You swallow hard and grasp your skirt, holding it to your knees. You tear your eyes away from his, glancing out the window to the city below you. Clark coughs.

“We’re not close,” Clark mumbled back, “I just don’t think he trusts anyone else to speak on his behalf, especially if it’s about legal stuff. I mentioned you and how I trust you, and I think the convinced him.”

Your eyes widen and you can’t help but gasp. Superman knows about you? Clark talked about you to Superman? You can hardly believe it.

“You talked to Superman about me?” you asked in both awe and disbelief.

“Yes,” Clark answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He smirks and leans against the arm of the sofa. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Clark!” you shouted, shoving him playfully. Despite his clumsiness, he’s a mass of muscle that doesn’t budge underneath your touch. “Don’t say it like that! We’re talking about Superman here! God forbid I fangirl a little bit. It’s not every day you get the news from the only person he’ll interview with that he knows you exist. I’ve never even seen him in person!”

Clark laughs, deep and warm and it settles deep in your bones and inside your chest. His laughter washes over in like a warm blanket. His eyes crinkle at the edge and they’re bright and full of mischief.

“Of course, he knows you exists. It’s not like we spend all our time talking about him when I interview him.”

Warmth spreads up your neck and something flutters in your chest at the realization.

Clark talks about you. Clark talks about you to Superman of all people.

Your bright grin turns into a soft smile. The moment blankets the room and your heart races. You have so many questions you want to ask him. What’s Superman like? Why is he consulting Clark of all people for legal advice instead of Google like any other normal human being? But most of all, you want to ask Clark if he has feelings for you.

Why else would he talk about you to other people? What kinds of things is he telling Superman about you? You’re dying to know. You suddenly don’t care about the legal question Clark wanted to ask you.

Your eyes flicker from his soft and earnest eyes to his lips and back up again. Clark watches you carefully, a slow smirk cutting across his face. You feel yourself lean towards him, your fingers close enough to brush against the top of his hand closest to you.

There’s a harsh knock on your office door that brings you back to reality. You tear yourself away from him and move to stand on shaky legs behind your desk. The door opens and Perry steps inside, not even bothering to spare a glance at Clark. He asks you about the documents you received that have remained untouched on your desk since Clark stepped into your office

Heat immediately rises from the base of your spine to the tips of your ears. You watch Clark stand from the corner of your eyes and push his glasses back up his nose.

“I’ll see you later,” Clark smiled gently, slipping out of your office. 

….

The next time you see Clark for more than five seconds, you were with Jimmy and Lois at a bar getting some drinks after work. You hadn’t expected to see him. According to Jimmy, he usually took off after work most days and politely declined any social engagements. You thought it was odd.

Clark was Daily Planet’s golden boy. He was always on the front page with some iteration of a story about Superman. Everybody liked Clark. He was dorky and goofy despite his large size and always made an effort to say hello to the janitors when he saw them. He was gentle and kind and was great at his job. Why wouldn’t he want to be around people that saw his worth and congratulated him on his success?

You see Clark before Lois and Jimmy. He’s still dressed in today’s work clothes, but his hair is wind swept, and his cheeks are flushed. He ducks as he enters the threshold of the bar and glances around the room. A grin rips across his face when his eyes find yours and it makes your stomach flutter with anticipation.

He moves quickly and carefully through the sea of people standing by the bar counter before finally making his way to your table. He shrugs off his jacket and takes the empty seat across from you.

“Clark! You made it just in time. We’ve been debating the likelihood of Superman getting sued by the city, but Ms. Elle Woods over here will not give us her legal expertise,” Jimmy shouted beside you, taking a long swig of his beer.

Embarrassment washes over you and you tear your eyes away from him, attempting to sink into your seat. You grab your own glass and take a long pull of your own beer. You glance up at him and he smiles sweet and easy.

“As the bona fide expert on all things Superman, we must have your input,” Jimmy demanded, slapping his glass on the table. Some of his beer spills over the lip of the glass and on to the table.

Clark raised his brows and smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would much rather hear what Ms. Brockovich thinks,” he teased, his eyes light and full of mirth.

The nickname sends a jolt through your spine. You swallow hard and press your fingers into your thighs, anchoring you to your seat. You let out a careful breath and catch Clark’s eyes again.

“Well, I guess in theory, Superman could be sued by the city,” you answered slowly. Something imperceptible shifts in Clark’s eyes that you nearly miss it. “But I don’t think it’s likely. It would bring a lot of negative publicity. I think if the city sued him, they’d have to also sue Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, and Mr. Terrific since they’re also superheroes that unfortunately contribute to the damage to the city. It won’t sit well with the public though. Superman’s protecting the city and the citizens, so they won’t risk it with a frivolous lawsuit. It would look bad on their part, not his.”

“Aha!” Jimmy exclaimed, pointing at Lois with a shit eating grin. “I told you so.”

Lois rolls her eyes and sips at her drink. “But what about private citizens? Do you think citizens that were hurt because of Superman can sue him for damages?”

“I mean… yeah, but I don’t see how successful they’d be. You’d have to find him and serve him with the paperwork in order for the lawsuit to go forward. It’s not like anyone knows where he lives. Plus, he’d likely have a defense of others, himself, or necessity so he wouldn’t be found liable for damages anyway.”

Jimmy laughs again and Lois frowns. You catch Clark’s eyes again and his handsome, soft smile greets you. His eyes are warm and endearing. You can’t help the smile that fights its way on your own lips. You quirk a brow and nod to him.

“What do you think, Mr. Bernstein? Is that why you ask me all those legal questions on his behalf? Is Superman afraid to get sued?” you asked as you brought your beer to your mouth, finishing the last of it.

“Isn’t everyone afraid to get sued?” Clark retorted.

You hum and nod appreciatively. “Touché, Kent.”

Clark laughs again and takes his glasses off long enough for him scratch the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat on his face. You can’t help but stare. Clark’s jaw looks sharper, more pronounced. His cheeks look thinner, and his shoulders are heavy and strong, like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He almost looks like Superman.

The moment quickly passes, and Clark fixes his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose. He catches you staring at him and he fights a grin.

….

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Superman?” you asked as you walked up the small steps leading to your porch.

You didn’t even bother arguing with him when he joined you on your commute home after leaving the bar. Clark, ever the gentleman, wanted to make sure you got home safe. It touched you, but you still said: “I have pepper spray in my bag and Superman lives here.”

His smile, light and tender stretched across his face. “You’re not too far from me. It’s just another ten minutes, and besides, it’s not like Superman can be everywhere all the time. He has a life too, y’know,” Clark hummed as you walked, a teasing lilt to his tone.

You stare at him and watch his dimples poke out of his cheeks. You nudge him with your hip, and he playfully stumbles on the sidewalk. A loud chortle fills the space between you, and Clark’s smile turns gleeful at your laughter. He stops just for a second before you’re in step with each other once more.

“No, really? Superman has a life? Please tell me more, Mr. I’m-the-only-reporter-he’ll-speak-to.” 

“I mean, he doesn’t share much about his personal life for obvious reasons,” Clark answered carefully, his voice measured and even. “But he was raised by human parents, has likes and dislikes like the rest of us. He’s not that much different from you or me… he just happens to be an alien with super powers.”

You hum and nod quietly as you walk, but don’t press for more answers. You don’t blame Clark for being overprotective and cagey with what he decides to share with you about Superman. Despite his insistence that they weren’t close, you knew they were. How else could he write all those beautiful and profound articles about the Man of Steel? Clark wasn’t just a run of the mill reporter to Superman.

He was somebody.

But you knew better than to pry and ask more questions. It would have the exact opposite effect. Clark would shut you out and push you away. The last thing you want is to push Clark away.

You feel Clark’s eyes turn on you as you slowly come up to your street, your house within eye distance. You feel yourself slow down with each step closer to home, Clark matching your pace.

“What is it?” Clark asked as the two of you stood just below the porch steps. “Was it something I said? I feel like you’re using that legal brain of yours to try and figure me out.”

You know he says it to tease you, that he means nothing by it. He’s smiling and his cheeks are a flushed pink. But something twists in your chest. Why couldn’t you turn off your analytical, inquisitive brain for once? Why do you always ask so many questions?

Why are you so nosy?

So, instead of being open and honest with him, you move on to something silly and light. You grin and bound up the steps of your porch. You turn to face him, carefully pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and ask, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Superman?”

Clark guffaws, his shoulders shake with laughter. His face lights up and his brows pinch together. He takes a step closer to you and points at himself. You take the opportunity to stare at him unapologetically, unafraid to get caught.

Clark’s holding his blazer over his arm. His white button up is starting to wrinkle against his strong chest and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His muscular forearms shine under the streetlight. Clark’s hair is a mess of curls, just begging you to let your fingers run through them. Just looking at him, this openly, this freely makes your heart race.  

“Me? Look like Superman?” Clark laughed with a grin, “I think you need to get your eyes checked Ms. Finch.”

 You laugh too, shaking your head and biting the inside of your cheek. “No way! You totally do. You’re just… the nerdy, gangly, softer lookalike. Especially when I catch you without your glasses.”

Your confession hangs in the air and charges the small space between you. Your words slowly fall on Clark’s shoulders. He stares at you with such reverence it makes your legs shake. Your breath catches in your throat the longer as you wait for him to say something, say anything.

A slow, soft smile breaks through and Clark takes a careful step towards you, like he’s afraid to spook you. You have half a mind to turn and run inside, slamming the door in his face, yelling at him to go away.

But you don’t. You can’t.

“Do you catch me without my glasses on a lot?” he whispered, standing just close enough that his shirt brushes yours. He gives you enough space so that if you want to pull away you can.

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No. I just… I noticed it tonight at the bar when I was looking at you.”

Clark grins again, this time boyish and charming. He leans just enough so that your noses brush. This time, you see him. The soft, barely there freckles painting his face. The way his dimples just light up his smile. The way he sees you.

Waiting and wanting. Patient and gentle. Adoration and piety.

“Do you look at me a lot?”

You don’t have it in you to lie. Not here in this moment with him, not ever.

“Yes.”

Clark beams. He gently takes you by the waist. One hand settles at your hip, the other resting against your neck. His warm, rough fingers brush at your jaw and your cheek.

You feel his warm breath against your face, his mouth just barely there, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

You savor the feeling, and you know Clark is too. This is the before. The anticipation. The excitement. The what if. You can’t cross that line yet.

You know you can’t go back to how things were before this moment. Before he joined you on your porch steps and before you teased him about his celebrity lookalike. Before Clark took you by the waist and held you like you were a rare jewel, a priceless artifact. Before Clark looked at you like that.

“Did you mean what you said? That I’m the softer lookalike to Superman?” Clark asked, his words nearly brushing into your mouth.

You let out a careful breath, shivering under the weight of his stare. Despite the situation, you can’t help but tease him. “I think I also said nerdy and gangly,” you laughed quietly. The hand resting on your hip playfully pinches the skin there. “When have I ever said things I don’t mean, Clark?”

He hums in reply, nose brushing against yours again. Your fingers squeeze the wrinkled fabric of his shirt in anticipation.

“Just checking, occupational hazard.”

Your head falls back as you laugh, and Clark brings you back to him with a gentle tug.

His lips momentarily kiss your teeth. You nearly melt into his arms. Your mouths move slowly together, like Clark’s scared one wrong move, one wrong kiss, will send you running for the hills.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper, closer to you. You eagerly and greedily card your fingers through his dark, messy curls. Clark sighs into your mouth and the hand on your neck slides up and cradles your head. The kiss is warm, soft, wanting. It’s gentle but eager.

He swallows the soft gasp in your throat as the hand on your waist slides underneath the hem of your blouse. Clark’s hand just rests there, squeezing your hot skin, like he just needs to touch you. His fingers aren’t wandering or expectant. They don’t slide your shirt up and run across the lip where your bra sat on your chest. His hand is just there.

Clark’s glasses knock against your own and you laugh against his mouth before pulling away to catch your breath. Your breaths mix together, and Clark chases your kiss swollen lips. Your hands slide from his shoulders to chest, feeling his racing heart and heavy muscles beneath your fingers. His own hands cradle your face and he kisses you once, twice, three times before really giving you the opportunity to breathe.

Clark’s tie is askew, and his face and ears are flushed a warm pink. The lipstick you applied after your last drink stains his lips. His glasses are crooked on his face, and it gives you the perfect opportunity to take them off his face. Clark doesn’t stop you.

Without his glasses, his facial features are more defined. Strong cheek bones, sharp jaw, smooth skin, careful eyes. You reach and twirl the singular curl resting on his forehead between your fingers. Clark kisses the inside of your wrist.

The same familiarity washes over you like before when you saw Clark without his glasses. But, as you gently push them back over his nose again, just like before, it goes away.

….

You try to ignore the questions brewing in the back of your mind when you notice things you probably shouldn’t. Why does Clark disappear at odd times of the day? When he returns, why does he look so flushed and winded? Why won’t he let you spend the night, or even visit his place? Why does he cancel dates at the last second?

Why are you so nosy?

You chalk it up as an occupational hazard. You don’t want to ruin something new and exciting. Your relationship with Clark is blossoming, new, and fresh. You don’t want to push him away because you can’t stop asking questions.

You haven’t been dating for long. You’re still getting to know these softer, sweeter, gentler versions each other and if Clark wants to wait to tell you things he’s not ready to share with you yet, you have to respect that. You don’t blame him… and yet.

It keeps you up at night, tossing and turning as you can’t stop thinking about Clark.

He’s the perfect boyfriend, despite everything. Your relationship isn’t secret, but private. Clark buys you a coffee and bagel when you’re running late to work and has it sitting in your office when you arrive. He kicks his feet up on the sofa in your office during late nights of combing through discovery and legal documents he doesn’t understand just to be with you, and work beside you.

When Clark spends the night at your home, he’s the perfect chef and dotting boyfriend. He massages your feet when they hurt from the heels you wear all day. He holds you against his chest and runs his fingers down your arms, and despite the warmth of his touch, you shiver.

The more time you spend with Clark, the more your feelings grow stronger and deeper. It starts to feel like love, and you have no one to talk to about your reservations. Was this thing you had with Clark casual and fun? Is that why you haven’t been to his apartment? Is that why he cancels dates? Is that Clark’s way of telling you this thing you had was nothing serious?

It scares you. You haven’t felt like this about someone in such a long time, so you try and bury your feelings. You shrug off the canceled dates and texts that go hours unanswered. You could make this casual and fun and pretend it was nothing serious, despite the growing space Clark takes in your heart.

You ignore the ache in your chest every time you see him and watch him leave. You ignore the flutters in your stomach when his eyes find yours across the bullpen as you leaned against the door to your office and watched him. You pretend you’re not in the midst of falling in love with him. You pretend you’re not already in love with him.

“Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Lois asked you, waving her hand in front of your face.

You blink back to reality, away from your thoughts and aching heart. Your eyes find hers and her brows are pulled together in concern. “Sorry,” you apologized quietly, “what were you saying?”

Lois opens her mouth and then closes it. You watch her watch you. Her mouth quirks to the side and she leans against your desk. “Are you okay? It’s not like you to be lost in your thoughts. Is something wrong?”

You swallow hard and a shaky breath escapes your throat. Your legs tremble and you bite the inside of your cheek. You cough to avoid the quiver in your voice.

“I think… I know I’m in love with Clark,” you confessed, biting back tears, “and I think Clark thinks our relationship is casual.”

You know you should leave it at that. You shouldn’t be sharing your relationship woes with someone other than Clark, but you can’t help it. You need someone else’s shoulder to lean on, and that was always Lois. Everything you’ve antagonized and lost sleep over just spills out of you.

“Clark’s wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but he’s also cagey and secretive. I still have never been to his apartment. He cancels dates at the last second and always uses the same excuse. He takes hours to respond to my texts. He disappears for hours during the day and when I ask him about it, he says it’s for a story he’s working on.”

“Have you asked him about it?”   

You shake your head, and you hate yourself for the rogue tear that slips out. “No. I’m scared to. We haven’t been together for that long and I don’t want my anxiety to ruin what we have. I’ve always asked too many questions in the relationships I’ve been in. I don’t want to push him away.”

Lois says your name in that pitying, chastising way friends do when they think you’re being ridiculous. She takes your hand and squeezes it gently.

“Have you seen the way Clark looks at you? He adores you. He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon. You should just ask him, clear the air. Clark is the only one who has answers to your questions. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

You nod quietly and thank her for the advice. You wish sometimes you could shut off your brain. You’re your own worst enemy. You can’t just let things go. Now, all you have to do is ask and hope that Clark doesn’t break your heart.

….

There’s a soft knock on your door while you’re in the midst of doing laundry. Music plays quietly in the background and the warm scent of your candle fills the living room. You pause the music and pad over to the front door. You open it and your heart skips.

Clark stands before you holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers in one hand and your favorite Mexican takeout in the other. He’s dressed in a dark blue cotton t-shirt and black slacks. Like always, his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. Clark’s black curls are wind swept and his cheeks are rosy.

He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek before slipping through the threshold and into the front hallway of your home. You shut the door and watch Clark toe off his shoes, set both the flowers and food on the kitchen table, and make himself at home here with you. The ache that settled in your chest returns.

“I texted you I was on my way, but you didn’t answer,” Clark said as he set the table.

“Sorry,” you apologized quietly, slowly making your way into the kitchen. “I was doing laundry, wasn’t expecting you.”

Clark’s warm laughter fills your home. His boyish grin stretches across his face as he looks you up and down before taking you by the waist. “I can tell,” he teased, toying with the hem of your ratty, faded University of Metropolis School of Law, t-shirt and short lounge shorts sitting on your hips.

His mouth finds yours and he kisses you sweetly. It’s a gentle kiss, a kiss you’ve shared so many times. It takes like intimacy and domesticity rolled into one. It’s your favorite kind of kiss Clark gives you. It’s a kiss that makes you think your blooming relationship is anything but casual. Like always, his glasses clack against yours when your noses brush.

Clark pulls away and you push his glasses back up his nose. He takes you by the hand and pulls out a chair for you. You thank him quietly and he takes the spot across from you. You listen to Clark recount his day as you eat quietly, too caught up in your head thinking about the conversation you had with Lois earlier today.

“Sweetheart, are you okay? You seem pensive,” Clark asked quietly, breaking into your thoughts.

You look up from your food and blink at Clark. His brows are pinched together with worry, the lines on his face pronounced. His eyes are wide and open, filled with concern. You wipe your mouth with a napkin and swallow hard.

You nod despite yourself, ignoring the truth. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay.”

“Are you sure? You were glaring at your refried beans. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Clark’s giving you the opportunity to come clean and be honest. Who would you be if you didn’t take it?

You let out a shaky breath and move to stand. You can’t help but pace back and forth from the sliding glass door leading to your backyard to the kitchen table. You swallow hard and look at Clark. Everything you’ve been keeping to yourself spills out of you.

“I’m trying to be respectful of your boundaries, Clark, but I can’t help but feel like my feelings for you are stronger than the feelings you have for me,” you confessed, tugging at your shirt as you paced. “I don’t ask you why you won’t let me come to your apartment. I don’t ask you why you cancel dates last minute and disappear for hours during the day. I don’t pester you when you take hours to return my texts or calls. I don’t push when you give me the same lame excuses whenever I do ask. I don’t want to be nosy. I tried to pretend like those things don’t bother me and act like a cool, casual girlfriend who doesn’t care so I don’t mess this up, so I can still call you mine, but that isn’t me and I can’t do that anymore.”

Your words settle on Clark’s broad shoulders, and his beautiful smile turns down into a sad frown. You look away from him and push the tears threatening to spill over your cheeks down your throat. Clark takes a careful, measured step towards you, like he’s afraid one wrong move will spook you.

“You think what we have is casual?” Clark asked, his voice rough and wounded.

You turn and look at him. His face is flushed, and you see the hurt in his eyes. You sigh and shrug pathetically. “What else would it be, Clark?” you can’t help but ask, your voice full of exasperation. “You cancel dates all the time and you won’t let me come to your place, despite living ten minutes away. What am I supposed to think when you’re so cagey and secretive with me!”

Your heavy breaths fill the room, and you cross your arms over your chest. All you want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. A pathetic tear paints your cheek. Clark’s face twists in pain at the sight of you crying and he whispers your name. You shake your head and turn your back on him, staring at your backyard through the sliding glass door.

You feel the heat of his body behind you, chest brushing against your back. His fingers ghosting your waist. His breath hits the back of your neck. “I can explain,” Clark whispered, “please let me explain.”

You let out another careful, measured breath and turn to face Clark. Your eyes meet and his heavy hands find yours. His thumbs brush against the back of your hands.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been honest with you. There’s a reason why I’m so cagey and secretive. There’s a reason why I cancel dates last minute and I don’t have you over at my apartment. I just wanted to keep you safe and that part of my life separate,” Clark’s voice is soft and repentant. His warm breath hits your cheeks. “I can see how it looks and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You hold your breath in anticipation, waiting for his answer, for his explanation.

“I’m Superman.”

Your nose scrunches up and you pull away from him. You wrap your hands around your middle and glare at him. The space between you cataclysmic. You let out a bitter laugh. This is what you get for being open and honest about your feelings? A pathetic admission that Clark Kent is Superman? Yeah right.

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed with an eye roll, “and I’m Wonder Woman. I just poured my heart and soul to you, and your explanation is that you’re Superman? You can just tell me that you want to break up, that whatever this is between us is casual. I’m a big girl, Clark. I can handle rejection. What I can’t handle is being lied to and being treated like I’m a fucking idiot. I was just teasing you when I mentioned it that night we first kissed.”

Clark winces at your harsh words and blatant rejection when he reaches for you, “Sweetheart, listen, I’m not—”

“No!” you shouted, your voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have waited this long. It’s my fault for dragging this on far longer than it should. I just couldn’t help myself and then I had the audacity to admit to myself that I love you.”

Your confession charges the air and fat tears stain your cheeks. Clark’s gentle, pleading eyes widen at your admission. You hear his shaky exhale, and his fingers carefully remove his glasses. You watch him set them on the kitchen table and he squares his shoulders. He takes a careful step and then, like it was nothing, floats into the air.

You gasp, stumbling back into the couch. The towels you folded sitting on top fall to the ground. Your eyes widen in awe and disbelief, your mouth a gap. You blink once, twice, three times as Clark—Superman— nears you. His feet touch the ground in front of you, and you stare.

Clark is Superman. The man who trips over his chair in the bullpen is Superman. The man who blushes every time you swear is Superman. The man you love is Superman.

“I guess you are Superman,” you whispered, swallowing hard.

Clark laughs softly and this time, you don’t pull away from him when he reaches for you. His built, muscular arms wrap around you, and he pulls you into his chest before slowly floating into the air with you in his arms. You gasp again and cling to him, shrieking his name. Clark laughs again before gently placing the two of you back on solid ground.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Clark apologized, his mouth grazing your throat. “I was just trying to figure out the best way to do it. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I wasn’t serious about you… about us.”

He brushes away the last of your tears and kisses your cheeks, your nose, your temple. You shiver under his touch and run your fingers up and down his broad back.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” you sniffed quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I just… I was going crazy thinking our relationship was casual when I didn’t want it to be. I get overwhelmed when I think about how much I love you.”

Clark beams at you, his smile light and radiate. His nose brushes against yours again and his hands slide up your back and press firmly against your shoulders, pushing your chests together. His mouth nearly touches yours when he whispers, “Gosh… we must be a match made in heaven because I get overwhelmed when I think about how much I love you.”

You can’t help the wet laugh that escapes at Clark’s own admission. His thumbs move to hold your face and brush away your tears. Your fingers grasp his shirt, and your mouths meet in a slow, emotional kiss.

You lean into him entirely and Clark lifts you like you weigh nothing. Which, you guess now is true since he can hold entire buildings on his back now that you know he’s Superman.

You sigh and breath him in all at once as he blindly leads you to the bedroom. The kiss is reverent, deep, filling your soul.

Clark rests you on your back against the mattress and looks at you like you hold the universe in the palm of your hands. He looks at you like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world and not some irritable attorney dressed in old clothes. Clark stares unapologetically at you. His smile sweet and adoring. His palms rest at your thighs and run up and down the bare skin. Your hands grasp at his t-shirt, and you slowly pull it up his body and off his shoulders.

Your hands rest on his burly chest. Your fingers press to every curve of muscle you can get your hands on. Clark whispers your name and gently pulls you up to the headboard, his mouth swallowing your soft sighs. He takes your legs and slowly wraps them around his waist.

You feel the weight of his hardness against his slacks brush against the soft fabric of your shorts as Clark grinds into you. You gasp, your fingers squeezing the flesh on his shoulders and dragging down his back. He groans into your mouth.

“Clark,” you panted as he kissed your throat and gently bit into your skin, “please.”

You feel him smile into your skin and he noses your throat before his eyes find yours. You catch your breath, and he holds your face in his hands. Clark gently pulls you up and whispers against your mouth, “Wanna take care of you, sweetheart. Wanna show you how much I love you. Wanna take this nice and slow. Can I do that, baby?”

You nod eagerly, kissing him lazily. He grins against your lips, and you momentarily kiss his teeth before he pulls away. He delicately takes your glasses off and reaches for the hem of your shirt. You watch with heavy eyes as Clark slowly pushes your shirt up your body and over your head. He groans when he sees you’re not wearing a bra. He carefully places your glasses back on your face. You blink Clark back into focus.

“There, now you can see me again,” he hummed, kissing you sweetly.

Clark’s mouth is soft and eager against your burning skin. He loves every inch of you his mouth can reach. He bites the top of your chest gently. Your moan echoes off the walls and straight to Clark’s ears. He smirks, biting down just enough that he knows a bruise will form.

Clark trails kisses down your body. He kisses your breasts, your sternum, down your belly, and just above where your shorts sit on your hips. Clark grins against your skin, breathing in deeply. His blue eyes are dark and dilated with desire.

“I can smell just how wet you are, baby,” Clark murmured against your tummy, nosing at your shorts. “Can hear your heart racing, too. Can you lift your hips?”

You shiver in anticipation and gently lift your hips off the bed. Clark’s hands gather your shorts in his hands and gingerly pulls all remain fabric from your body. Your ears ring as Clark continues his journey down your body.

He places a warm, teasing kiss to your knee, nipping at your thigh. You cry out in agony, willing Clark to wrap his beautiful mouth around your throbbing pussy. Your fingers grasp at his hair, but he doesn’t budge. Clark chuckles into your skin and takes another deep breath in before licking a long strip from your center to your clit.

You cry in pleasure and feel Clark’s hands tug under your hips, pulling you closer into his mouth. Your legs lay open on the bed, bare and ready for Clark. The sound of your slick against his mouth fills your ears and your head falls back against the pillow, feeling the pressure against your hole as Clark devours you.

You moan and feel one of Clark’s fingers gather your wetness before gently pushing you open. “C-Clark!” you sobbed, sinking into the ecstasy. Your sweat and tears stain your skin.

“You can hold it,” Clark’s voice vibrated against your weeping hole, a shock shooting up your spine. “You’re not ready.”

You wail and squeeze Clark’s head between your thighs. The bastard laughs, and before you can say anything, a second finger enters you.

You’re near the edge of your orgasm. The coil in your belly begs for release. The pressure of Clark’s tongue and fingers against your clit has you seeing stars.

“Please, Clark,” you begged, hot and flushed underneath him. “Need to cum. Please let me cum.”

“Only, ‘cos you asked so nicely,” he hummed into your skin.

Clark curls his fingers and laps at your clit lazily as your orgasm washes over you. You cry his name and shake beneath him as he coaxes you through it. Your fingers stay rooted in his hair as you come down from your high, teary and breathless.

Clark carefully pulls his fingers out of you, and you whimper. You watch him lick his fingers clean before he moves up your shaking body and kisses you. You moan against his mouth at the taste of yourself on his tongue.

You greedily grab his waist and fumble with his belt as you kiss. Clark’s warm, teasing laughter brushes your lips and he kicks off his pants and boxers when you push them down his thighs.

Clark grabs your legs and carefully wraps them around his waist once more. You feel the head of his cock gather the slick between your legs. You mewl against his mouth and wrap your hand around him. Clark shudders and grunts against your mouth. You delicately line him to your entrance between your folds.

Your breath catches in your throat as Clark slowly pushes inside you. Your mouth falls open and Clark kisses your sweaty temple.

He’s massive and thick as he holds your hips and brings the two of you together inch by inch. Clark stretches you and fills you to the brim. He doesn’t move, just sits there milking your warm walls as you adjust.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured into your ear, “only makes it hurt more if you’re not breathing.”

You gasp for air, fingers clawing at his shoulder. You nod mutely and breathe in and out. A few moments pass and Clark’s nose brushes your before he kisses you. It’s slow, intimate, gentle.

Clark pushes in until he bottoms out. You groan into each other’s mouths and the weight of him inside you makes you shiver. Clark’s thrusts are deep and methodical. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He can’t bear the thought of breaking you.

You squeeze around him experimentally and Clark’s face falls into the nape of your neck. He grunts into your ear, rocking in and out of you. Your headboard hits the wall with each thrust.

“If you keep doin’ that, I won’t last long,” Clark said through gritted teeth as he bit the column of your throat.

“Who says I want you to last long?” you teased out of breath, squeezing him again.

Clark growls and rocks into you harder, faster, deeper. He ruts into you, his fingers sliding down your body and pressing against your throbbing clit. You whine against his mouth and squeeze your eyes shut as your orgasm climbs closer and closer.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Clark whispered against your skin, “wanna see those pretty eyes when you cum.”

You do as you’re told and your eyes meet his as your release washes over you, his name a prayer on your lips. Your jaw is slack as Clark chases his own orgasm after you. He kisses you passionately as he comes inside of you. His spent fills you and spills out of you at once. You’re shaking beneath his as you come down from your highs, wrapped in his arms.

Clark slowly pulls out of you and presses a kiss to your forehead before climbing out of bed and walking into your bathroom. You watch him with hazy eyes as he washes his hands and wets a washcloth under the sink before returning to you.

Clark delicately wipes you clean between your legs, whispering quiet apologies when you hiss at how sensitive you are. He tosses the cloth into the dirty clothes bin and returns to his spot beside you in your bed. He takes you in his arms and you stare at him, basking in this moment.

“I can’t believe you only wear stupid glasses to hide your identity,” you huffed in disbelief, brush his hair out of his face.

Clark grins and does the same to you, pushing hair behind your ear. “In my defense, they’re hypno glasses. They usually work, but I guess nothing gets past you, hmm?” he kisses you delicately.

“I mean… it kind of did get past me and you had to float in the air for me to believe you were Superman. But we don’t have to focus on the details, do we?” you asked against his skin.

Clark laughs and pulls you into his chest, kissing you sweetly.

[fromthebeehives]

john price x fem!reader

summary: john corrupts little ol' you.

tags: nsfw, religious themes, corruption, reader is innocent and john is an icky man, p in v, age difference, slight jealousy (of a god?), slight slapping, no use of y/n

notes: might write this into an actual fic sometime, again all characters are adults (reader is in her early 20s)

imagine. religious fem!reader and john price, who's canonically a morally questionable man (he's a war criminal, for christ's sake).

once you two start dating after having a meet-cute at a local library (and it's so wholly ironic because a meet-cute? when his life is as chaotic as it was? but he's not complaining, shit he feels blessed by a being he doesn't even believe in), john immediately knows how innocent you are, just from the small cross necklace around your neck. it's clear that life hasn't given you anything that hard or traumatizing to deal with, because of the way you speak with such brightness and hope it nearly made him snort the first time.

you're filled with life and flowers and sunshine, while john feels like he's filled with black tar.

he sees all the little things that makes you, you. like how he knows you never miss a sunday mass (and have even dragged john with you once in a while, but he prefers to just pick you up afterwards). like how you always go on your knees before bedtime to talk to your god in that soft voice of yours. like how you always pray before meals (the first time that happened, john was already picking up his fork when you clasped your hands together, closed your eyes, and said a quiet prayer. john had to put his fork down slowly.)

if john was a better man, he would have stayed away, not pull you into his life. his fucked-up, blood-soaked, too-messy-for-anyone's-good life. but he's not. instead, despite the fact that his hands are stained with so much red that it cannot be washed off no matter how many good deeds he'd do, he allows himself to want you with every fiber of his being, allows his mind and heart to be consumed by you. he'll grow possessive, tells himself that he's destined to meet you and be in your life. because he'd do anything to keep that innocence in tact. anything.

and you, being so naive and gullible, lets him be the way he is because you love all sides of him. you don't actually know how deep his history went, you just know he's a military man. to john, your acceptance is perfect. he doesn't worship a higher being, but he does worship you.

he takes your trust and teaches you things that you've never done before because of how sheltered you were. if anyone were to take this side of your innocence, it makes sense for it to be him. it makes sense to him that he'd be the one to corrupt you this way. because in his eyes, by the end of it, you're still innocent, you're still you, he's just molding you a little to his own liking.

he teaches you everything. filthy, open-mouthed kisses. how it feels to have your cunt touched, and licked, and fingered by a man old enough to be your dad. how to pleasure his cock with your hands and your sweet, sweet mouth. then, ultimately, how to take his cock deep inside your sopping wet cunt, hushing you through the pain of the stretch, taking your virginity, growling, good girl, that's it love, let me take everything. and all you can do is wrap your legs around his waist, dig your nails into his back, and take the lord's name in vain by gasping out, "oh god, please!"

you quickly feel shame burn in your chest once those words slip out of your mouth, already thinking of bringing it up in your next confession to ask for forgiveness and penance, but john doesn't allow you to spiral and drift away. he slowly pulls his cock back and then thrusts in, hard. tells you with a tone so low and dangerous that you've never heard before that you shouldn't be calling out another man's name when he's the one balls deep inside you. you're so confused—your god isn't just any other man, he's everything—and john sees it.

and it makes him snap.

he starts a brutal pace, fucks your moans out of you and your thoughts away. obscene wet squelching noises fill the air, and you try to cover your face with your hands out of embarrassment, but he takes your wrists in one hand and pins it above your head. he pounds into you like he's punishing you for being a bad, bad girl. "you only say my name when i have you spread out like this," he says, his dog tags clinking against his chest. "not your silly god. me. understood?"

and you just nod helplessly and squeak out, "u-understood", and like the good girl he knows you are, a mantra of "john, john, john"s spills out of your lips. only moaning his name, no one else's.

you don't say anything at first, too blissed out, so he gives your face a little slap with his other free hand. "sweetheart, focus," he gruffs out. "i asked you a question."

[kaliuchisangel]

can you do one where reader is on momager Malachi’s family podcast with a whole bunch of questions.

All About You

Pairing: Malachi Barton x reader

Warnings: Fluff

Word count: 660

Requests: open (please spam my inbox with ideas 🙏)

A/N: ofc. I know malachi doesn't have any siblings but js pretend he does. Enjoy!

The studio was buzzing before the mics even switched on. Malachi’s mom—also known as the momager—sat at the head of the table, shuffling through a giant stack of cards. Malachi lounged beside you, giving you a reassuring smile, while his younger siblings sprawled across the couch with mischievous grins.

"Okay, are we ready?" his mom asked, hitting the record button. The red ON AIR light blinked on. "Welcome back, everyone, to The Barton Breakdown! Today’s guest is someone who has been requested more than anyone else. Please welcome… Y/N!"

You leaned toward the mic, forcing a nervous laugh. "Hi! I’m not sure I’m ready for this."

"You shouldn’t be," one of Malachi’s siblings teased from the couch. "We have questions. Lots of them."

Malachi reached over and squeezed your hand under the table. "You’ll be fine. Probably."

His mom smirked. "Let’s jump right in. Question number one: how did you and Malachi first meet?"

You glanced at Malachi. "We met at an audition, actually. He was eating a bag of Sour Patch Kids and asked if I wanted one. And somehow… that was it."

Malachi grinned. "Snacks bring people together."

"Question two," his mom continued. "Who made the first move?"

"He did," you said instantly. "He asked for my number first. And then texted me like, five minutes later."

"I was making sure the number worked!" Malachi protested, though his ears were pink.

"Alright, Y/N," his mom said, leaning in. "What is Malachi’s worst habit?"

You burst out laughing. "He leaves his shoes in the middle of every room. It’s like a landmine situation. I’ve almost broken my neck."

"That’s not that bad," Malachi muttered.

"Yes, it is," his sibling chimed in.

"Okay, next," his mom went on, clearly enjoying herself. "What’s the most embarrassing thing Malachi has ever done around you?

"Your eyes lit up. "Oh, I have one. He was trying to impress me by jumping over a fence… and his hoodie got caught. He was just dangling there for like a minute."

The studio erupted in laughter. Malachi buried his face in his hands. "Why would you bring that up?"

"Because it was funny!"

"Fine, fine," his mom said, still laughing. "What’s one thing you love about Malachi?"

The question softened the room a little. You glanced at him, smiling. "He makes everyone feel like they matter. No matter how busy or stressed he is, he’s present. It’s… really special."

Malachi looked at you, his usual grin quieter now. "I think you just won favorite guest."

"Rapid-fire time!" his mom announced suddenly, shuffling through the next stack. "Y/N, does Malachi snore?"

"No, but he does talk in his sleep," you answered quickly.

"Wait, what?!" Malachi whipped his head toward you.

"You once said, 'Don’t eat the microphone' in your sleep."

The whole studio howled."Who’s the better cook?"

"Me," you and Malachi said at the same time.

"Who steals hoodies more?"

"Her," Malachi said instantly.

"They’re comfy!" you defended.

"Who said 'I love you' first?"

Silence. Malachi’s siblings leaned in. "Well?!"

Malachi's mom raised an eyebrow.

You blushed. "…He did."

Malachi grinned. "Yeah, I did."

"Awwww!" the whole room cooed.

"Okay, last question," his mom said dramatically. "Y/N… where do you see this relationship going?"

Your mouth dropped open. "Wait, we’re ending on that?!"

Malachi laughed, sliding an arm over your shoulders. "Welcome to the Barton family podcast," he whispered.

The red light clicked off as his mom beamed. "Best. Episode. Ever."

[accio-victuuri]

in your love, i’m fully charged 🪫🔋

( yizhan and the powerbank/charging CPN )

this video, along with other ‘new’ behind the scenes cut/s is going around cpf spaces. it’s so simple and kinda normal for them. the usual ‘gravitating towards each other’ in a crowded room routine they got going. it’s too noisy to even understand what they are saying, but it’s WYB going to XZ, putting their hands together.

clowns like us were quick to connect this to a previous fake rumor. this is when WYB was saying his battery is low and xz gives him his hand. lol. so tgis could be one of those, WYB is probably low on energy after a long day of shooting so he needs his gege’s power. 😏

last year, we got a bit of this ‘charging’ care of xz’s chongqing vlog. i have to say the timing and that caption can have different meaning but i’m leaning towards the cpn as always. he also said in a livestream that for him, going home is like recharging. which i agree with but the question is if “home” is a place or a person. it could be both. 🤷🏻‍♀️ WYB has the same sentiment, saying that being at home is like replenishing energy.

other fake rumors have mentioned it to:

take a look at the first rumor and how similar it is to a scene improvised by XZ in SBMS. it was a scene that SY met JB by chance and he hugged her. while doing so, he said “let me recharge my batteries.” It’s no wonder he thought of doing that, because he does it in real life with his boyfriend!

there is something so sweet about them being each other’s strength. i can only imagine how draining their day can be. i’m happy they have each other!

a more candid fake rumor related to WYB:

A few days ago, after filming late, the director invited everyone to a late-night snack. Anyone who's been to Hengdian knows there's a famous lobster restaurant. He invited a large group of people and told them to eat together.

WYB had been anxious from the moment he finished filming, and I couldn't believe what he was doing. He was walking around typing on his phone (is the voice chat bad?). Since we'd ordered it in advance, the food arrived shortly after, and WYB pulled a few boxes out of a bag and told him to take them back to the hotel. The staff, confused, asked him what was wrong. He didn't explain clearly, stammering that his phone was dead and he was in a hurry to get home. Someone, clueless, said it was okay, so they could eat first. Kewei offered to lend him his power bank, but WYB shook his head and said, "No, my power bank is waiting for me in the room." I was stunned, not understanding what he was saying. Everyone around him was laughing, and I started grinning.

oh okay, WYB. who is this “powerbank” that you left at home? 😂😂😂

another one most likely during CQL shooting era, it seems like they are playing games on their phone:

We'd team up with a few people. One day, the older one pulled out a power bank to charge, and the younger one joined in, but there was only one cable. They argued for a while over whose charging cable the power bank had. The older one scolded the younger one for not charging his phone properly before going out. The younger one said, "If xxx asks you to borrow it, why don't you lend it to someone else, a fellow actor?". The younger one, who was better at it, didn't ask for the power bank. The two played in silence, seemingly unhappy. After the older one's snake died, he was watched the younger one play, watching the younger one die. The younger one was quite skilled, the snake king. Then, the phone displayed the low battery icon. The older one exclaimed exaggeratedly, then immediately pulled out the power bank, carefully moving the younger one's fingers away from playing to charge his phone. Then, their team won, and the younger one was very pleased. The two started whispering again.

xzs and ybo also use it in their caption. ⬇️⬇️⬇️

this next part is actually the reason why i made this compilation ( of sorts ) post. you all know i love cpn archaeology so this is related to that.

allegedly, back in 2018, some fans discovered wyb’s personal netease account with the username ASAP16. netease is kind of like a spotify app, you can listen to music and make your playlist etc. as for whether this account is really yibo — we can never confirm. tho in more recent years, there are still fans who are able to follow his new personal QQ account. the username is cute tho! ASAP cause he loves ASAP Rocky and 16, which is his other favorite number. some said it (netease account) was cancelled because people found out. fans said there was a song from the movie YOUR NAME ( which has it’s own cpn ) and two other songs:

track 30

再一起

余佳运-幸福三部曲

track 31

我想

余佳运-幸福三部曲

these two tracks are from yu jiayun’s abum. 🎶🎧 it was connected to CPN cause hui ge ( if you are a cpf you should know this is lol ) posted videos of them with songs from the album as BGM. what a coincidence. tho i have to say, at the time, this album was very popular. track 31 ( I want ) topped the Netease Charts that year, so it could be on just about anyone’s playlist.

the account was also following a guy from chongqing born in 1990 ( xz is 1991 tho, but maybe he put that there to not be too obvious ) which closed down as well.

anyway, i just gave the context but this all ties up to the charging/powerbank because WYB’s alleged account has this photo/drawing as it’s header:

(account is cancelled and all so everything is wiped)

interpret the lovely masterpiece as you want. two hearts that gives some sort of light and electricity. a powerbank of sorts that recharges someone’s heart. so it all ties up to this thing they have between them. and how important it is to them, to yibo in this case.

being around each was like plugging into a powerbank when everything else felt depleted. they didn’t need to say much—just being there was enough. their presence carried a calm, steady current that recharged the parts of each other that the world had worn down. 💛💛💛💛

so yeah, another example of when a CPN has some truth to it — you will see signs of it over and over again. and it’s not even us interpreting, sometimes it’s spelled out clearly. bjyxszd.

sources: one and two

EDIT: I forgot to add this in, the classic mention of how a powerbank is important. during TTXS quarantine episode!

[caitlyns-left-mountain]

Hi, could you please write a Cait x reader one where the reader is working as a scientist (maybe with Jayce and Viktor - up to you) and Cait regularely comes to 'steal' her away from her work?

Don't really know where I'm going with this so have fun with it

I want to bite her and shake her like a dog toy. Maybe kiss her softly afterwards <3

No NSFW this time, just Caitlyn helplessly pining for the reader, yes this includes actual science so I can nerd out because I'm also a loser. Reader is a huge nerd, too. Hope you enjoy! First time writing Caitlyn even though I based my entire acc off her lmao.

Caitlyn is not someone who gives up easily. The dedication she has to her career alone should be enough to convince anyone that this woman does not give up. Especially when it comes to the citizens of Piltover.

At least, that's what she wants you to think.

Yes, Caitlyn cares deeply for the citizens of Piltover. That would never be a lie. But...is it really unethical to use that as an excuse to see you? She doesn't think so. Besides, what if she really had questions that she needed answers to? Theres's nobody that she'd rather ask than you. Jayce knows it, Viktor's catching on, and the blush on her face only gets deeper each time she visits.

It's Thursday. Almost the weekend. Unfortunately, science doesn't stop, so neither can you. Viktor's quiet like he usually is. He grumbles every few minutes, erases the chalkboard, and his handwriting becomes sloppier each time he writes down an equation with newfound annoyance. Jayce has heart eyes. He's been seeing councilor Medarda and that's all he ever talks about lately. Such a loverboy. And you, on the other hand, were trying to stop the hexcore from brutally murdering every plant in sight. None of you knew the hexcore would react to biological material until yesterday. If there's a way to prolong the growing and stop the...killing, it must be found.

After at least eight different plants, you think you've done it. The snake plant grows, and grows, and grows. You almost start buzzing with excitement, until it wilts. You grumble. "How many more times are you expecting me to do this?" With a firm hand, you remove the dead plant from the counter and throw it into the trash with the others. "They keep dying. There's also bugs everywhere." Jayce looks over, and Viktor remains focusing on his task. "Did you not just bring a sample of flesh-eating bacteria to the lab two days ago?" he voices, and with a faint huff you reply. "That was cool. This is not cool." The door to the lab cracks open and Jayce is out of his seat within a second.

Caitlyn ducks into the room, her eyes scanning until they land on you. Her lips part to speak but Jayce is already slinging his arm over her shoulder and dragging her to the other side of the room. "Caitlyn!" he greets, a knowing smirk rising to his lips. Caitlyn's cheeks flush just a bit, and she lets out a huff, hoping to seem casual in her nonchalance towards you. "I take it you're here to steal my favorite biologist from our project again?" he questions. Viktor looks over and narrows his gaze at the two. Feeling a gaze burn into his back, Jayce quickly corrects himself without even looking over. "Second favorite. But equally important."

The bluenette rolls her eyes, though secretly amused by Jayce's antics. "No, I'm not." With newfound grace she nudges Jayce's arm off of her shoulders and begins to approach you. "The lab results from that case came in. I just figured you might...want to see them, since you helped." She isn't able to meet your gaze, and for the first time she looks flushed. The case that Caitlyn had consulted you on a few days ago wasn't something you gave much thought to. After all, it wasn't your job anyways. Still, you nodded with very mild interest. Caitlyn approaches you and peels open the folder in her hands.

Jayce can totally be a good wingman. Sometimes. He's just...incredibly forward about it. There's just something about seeing Caitlyn of all people, who's like his little sister, trying to chat up a member of his team that forces a knowing smirk to his face. Thankfully he remains somewhat aware and approaches Viktor to talk about something random on the other side of the room instead of killing the mood between you both.

After Caitlyn retrieves the right paper she turns the folder to you, which you grasp indifferently. The results are as expected. For a moment you wonder why she marched herself all the way over here just to show you this. "That's good," you commented after reading it over, closing the folder and holding it back out to her. She retrieves it from you and begins to fidget, tapping her thumb repeatedly on the plastic while she thinks of something else to say. The Kirammans are meant to be poised. But right now, Caitlyn feels anything but.

As the silence drags on her ears only grow in their redness. She clears her throat. "So...there's a new exhibit at the Museum of Piltover." Of course, she has no idea what it really is. Something sciency that she doesn't really care to understand right now. The mention of said exhibit brings a small smile to your face and her heart threatens to give out. "I heard. Something about fossils, isn't it?" you questioned, and she couldn't care less about a damn dinosaur. All she wanted was to be next to you, ancient predator or not. But she still nods along in hopes she doesn't look like a total brainless fool. After a silent moment she took to calm herself, she replies, "Yes. I was wondering if...you might like to go see it?"

The room goes silent. She silently curses to herself, knowing that asking you on a date while the other members of your team lingered in the background was not a good idea. Her face darkens and it's almost a pitiful sight. One that you hoped to see more often, of course. A small smile rose to your face and Caitlyn wanted nothing more than to die in a hole. Thankfully, a majority of the weight on her shoulders was lifted when you agreed. "Sure. Maybe this weekend?" Your voice seemed so soft to her, though I'd be willing to bet it was really the words you said that made her feel all floaty. As soon as the words registered, she nodded. "I'd like that," she stutters out, eager to make her escape.

As soon as she could exit without seeming rude or rushed, she did. The thick wooden door fell shut behind her. An exhale fell from her lips, and instead of relief overtaking her, she felt annoyed. "Real smooth, Caitlyn." she grumbled to herself, praying that nobody else would be able to see the heavy crimson on her cheeks.

So I started this a while ago and I thought I was eating but I honestly dont know. Let's just pretend this is the best fic everyone has ever read so I don't have to jump off a bridge.

Tag List: @sevikas-whore

[httpwintersoldier]

『blacksmith's boy ch.2 | b. barnes x reader』

pairing: bucky barnes x afab!reader words: oh so many summary: after the (very frowny) son of a blacksmith saved you, you made him your knight - much to his disbelief and disapproval. At first, he's reluctant and only helps you out of obligation due to your high status, but, as time passes by, he begins growing fond of you.

⇜ previous - two - next ⇝

James Barnes. A name (and man) that played in your mind ever since you had met.

You had considered not mentioning what had happened that night to anyone (it was embarrassing, after all, how you could be so innocent and naive), but you ended up spilling it all to your parents.

They were angry at you for being careless, for walking out with a man and nobody else, however they were more glad and relieved that you were okay.

Your mother held you tightly in her arms, more of a consolation for her than you, and your father had an expression that could only be described as the one a man has when they believe they failed as a provider, somehow.

"I must meet this young man. His name, what was it?" Your father asked as he stood up.

"James Barnes."

You spoke the name as if it burned on your tongue and you itched for it to come out.

"I must go speak to him. Who is he? What does he do?" The man asked, as he gathered his boots and jacket.

"What? Father, no- please." You begged, remembering how much he wanted to be left alone.

"Y/N, he saved you from God knows what. I must thank the man." He insisted, as he slid one foot inside of his heavy leather boot.

You rolled your eyes and whined - you were pretty sure your father was about to be very patronizing to the poor man, throwing money in his face as if it was nothing, and you wanted nothing to do with it, but it seemed you had no choice.

"I've already thanked him, father! I guarantee it."

"I must properly thank the man." Your father repeated, as he patted the pocket of his jacket, in which he kept hefty bags of coins "Now, where does he work?"

That was a good question. You hadn't actually seen him working. You saw his stained clothes, sweaty strands of hair, and dirty hands, but when it comes to his labour, you were oblivious.

You remembered, however, as you very indiscreetly admired his figure from the back, that he was headed towards the horses as he left you.

"I... don't know. Really! I didn't ask, but when I left I saw him heading towards the stables."

"So, the farmer's boy?"

You shrugged, your guess was as good as his.

"Fine, get dressed, I'll take you with me so you can identify him. I don't want to be throwing money at a random chore boy."

You really didn't want to go. You wanted to see him again, sure, who wouldn't want to look at someone so beautiful, but the distaste and disregard he had for you (for some reason) were unwelcome and unwanted at any time.

Nonetheless, your father dragged you around the town as you stopped by several farmers' markets and booths around town. The Burgeousie would usually trade with all kinds of people, so your father was known and pretty well liked, which made getting information fairly easy, but the James boy was a hard find.

"Excuse me, Sir. We are looking for a man that goes by the name James Barnes? We have asked for him everywhere but no one seems to know of his whereabouts." Your father asked the man behind the very last shop you knew of around the area.

"James Barnes?... I'm sorry, I don't believe I've ever heard of such a person." The male responded.

Mixed feelings rushed through you - on the one hand, you wouldn't be subjected to the piercing, judgmental gaze of James Barnes, but, on the other hand, no one seemed to know him... You wondered if your first time seeing him would also be the last.

"Excuse me, did you say James Barnes?" A quiet, female voice asked behind you.

Everyone turned to look at the girl, she had long, wavy, dark hair and a pair of big, familiar blue eyes.

"Yes, do you know him?" Your dad asked, a glint of hope in his voice.

"I might. May I inquire what this is regarding to?" She was being careful, that much was clear.

Your dad patted his pocket, and the sound of coins clinking against each other sounded in the room.

"The man saved my daughter, I intend to thank him handsomely."

As the male said that, the girl smiled shyly.

"James is my brother. He goes by Bucky, he usually only introduces himself as James if he doesn't want to be found, but I feel like an exception could be open for a situation like this."

Asshole. You didn't know him, and yet that seemed so characteristic of him.

Rebecca was her name, and she was shy, but kind. She didn't reveal much on the way to their shop, other than we were looking for him on the wrong place - he wasn't a farmer, but a blacksmith, he was in the castle fitting the horses for new horseshoes on that night.

You could hear the metal clinking as you approached a compact shop at the end of a street not too far from where you lived - you wondered if Bucky had always been that close to you, and, if so, how could you have missed him for so long.

As you walked through the door, a large, rugged man stood in front of you, holding a horseshoe with a pair of tongs, hitting it with a black, heavy looking hammer. He felt a presence in the room and instantly lifted his head, and you were once again met with a pair of big, beautiful blue eyes - there was no mistaking, that had to be the father of James and Rebecca.

"Welcome to Barnes Blacksmithing, how can I be of use?" The man asked with a smile, wiping his dirty hands on the sides of his pants.

"We are looking for Sir James, is he around?" Your father asked.

The man seemed taken aback, as if no one ever asked for his son - probably because he had the social skills of a wall.

"Bucky! Someone asked for you!" He yelled out.

It didn't take long before the beautiful, statue-like man emerged from the back of the shop, with an equally confused face, as if he didn't expect for anyone to call him. You wondered if he just hated being among the public or if people didn't pay him any mind. Surely the latter couldn't be true for the women...

"Who could've-" Bucky's words were caught in his throat as soon as his gaze landed on you "oh come on, you promised! How did you even find me?!"

A strong hand came behind the young man and smacked him on the back of his hands.

"Have some manners! They are here to thank you!" Sir Barnes Senior turned to look at you after disciplining his son "I'm terribly sorry for his words."

"That's quite alright, I'm afraid I have tricked you, I come with more than gratitude." Your father revealed, much to everyone's surprise, even yours.

You raised a brow as everyone else looked intrigued (except for Bucky, whom just looked annoyed, as per usual, you assumed).

Your father reached inside of his jacket's pocket and placed the hefty coin bag on top of the anvil that stood between him and the other two men.

"That, is to express my thanks for what you've done for my daughter. But I come with a proposal. That could be your monthly payment, if you accept to move into my home and protect my daughter on the daily."

The offer shocked everyone for different reasons. Rebecca found it hard to believe that Bucky could be protective over anything that wasn't her, his father couldn't believe his protecting was worth such a price, Bucky, the man himself, couldn't fathom ever being offered that role, let alone to an "important" family, you, finally, the one supposedly being protected, didn't even ask for it. There was no need for it, you didn't want a babysitter - no matter how hot said babysitter was.

"What?!" You and Bucky yelled in unison.

"Father, I don't need to be protected, I'll be careful, I promise

"Yeah, what she said! And doesn't the Kingdom have knights and shit? Like people with training that are actually meant for that!?"

Another smack on the back of his head, that messed up his hair ever so slightly.

"Watch young language, kid." The father corrected.

Your own father cleared his throat and exchanged looks with the two of you.

"You are quite right, but our rank does not allow us to have knights. Still, I want my daughter to walk freely and be protected. You have proved yourself worthy and useful, I don't see why I should look any further. And as for you," he said, grabbing your hands and looking at you in the eye "I am aware you don't need a babysitter, but there are many wrongdoers out there, and I want them to keep a distance from you."

You smiled faintly, as much as the deal and the tricking upset you, you couldn't help but to feel touched by his reasoning - his protectiveness over you was touching.

"He will take the job." Sir Barnes Senior said.

Bucky whipped his head to look at his father, with widened eyes and a panicked expression.

"What?! Father- no, wait, what about the shop? What about mom and Rebecca? You all need my help around here!" Bucky was grabbing onto every little thing, every possible reason and every imaginary scenario, desperately to be taken out of consideration for the job.

However, it was all for naught. James' father placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked at his son in the eye.

"This is your chance to go up in the ladder, to get a better life. You're taking the job."

"minors do not interact" banner credit: @cafekitsune

comment, message or send an ask to be tagged

[tw1sters]

can we plsssss get a bonus scene of the batman interview???🙏🏼

omg realistically i dont think batman would ever give out a 1:1 interview 😭 because he's so dark and broody and mysterious. he will likely only do it in the future as part of the justice league! with that said, i can imagine the convo between him and clark going like this:

"Bruce, so listen, I have a favor to ask," Clark starts sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

Bruce can feel a migraine coming already. He's still licking his wounds from the brutal beating he took last night with one of the perps who stole WayneTech and used it to terrorize downtown Gotham.

However, if there is anyone he has patience for, it is Clark Kent. Though even then, he tends to test it.

"What is it?"

"I was wondering if you — or well, Batman — would do an interview—"

"No."

Clark moans petulantly. "Oh, come on. You don't even know what it's about."

"It's someone who's trying to do another perspective piece on the mysterious Batman. Probably making me out to be some troubled, masked hero that Gotham needs."

Silence is confirmation. "Okay, but this person is a great writer and I think she would write it really well. She's already been in Gotham so many times to do proper, comprehensive, investigative work."

It's Bruce's turn to pause. His ears perking up. "She?"

He can practically hear Clark blushing. "Um, yes. She's my girlfriend."

Only Clark Kent would get roped in by a woman who is willing to trek through the hell that is Gotham for a story. Sometimes, Bruce does worry about him, even if he is Superman.

"Clark..." Before Clark can protest further, he continues, "You know I respect what you do — both as a superhero and as a reporter, though the latter is a little questionable when you constantly interview yourself. But I'm not going to be a prop to get you laid."

"It's not! I don't need you to get me— that's besides the point. Please. I think it would be really helpful—"

"Final answer is no."

He takes the lack of response as acceptance.

"Alright, I have to go."

"What if I help you in Gotham? Whenever you want?"

"Desperation does not become you, Clark. Goodbye."

Clark then has to be the bearer of bad news to you and spends the whole day sulking because he couldn't get Bruce to do this one favor for him.

[crypticsketchpad]

havent had much drawing motivation lately so *throws pile of old AU scribbles i made months ago and never shared directly at you*

basically the result of a random scenario i came up with ages ago that spiraled out of control juuuust a little

introducinggggg. Splice! (it/its) the... i guess you could say love/hate child of Matrix and Alva my favorite toxic yuri/yaoi/whatever the fuck you call it when theyre both nb.

the first and only instance of a common/rare "hybrid", informally dubbed an "uncommon" wubbox. neither alva nor matrix have any idea how they managed to bring splice into existence.

despite its parents' strained and conflicted relationship, splice is well loved and taken care of- spoiled, even. alva is very protective of it, and despite letting matrix visit every now and then, never lets splice out of its sight.

believe it or not matrix is actually a decent parent! a little dumb and irresponsible sometimes but loves their kiddo very much. splice is one of very few beings in matrix's life that they truly, genuinely care about (not enough to stop their horrid experiments, though...)

somehow managed to inherit one of matrix's robot arms in place of its right arm, resulting in splice having to deal with a disproportionately long and hard to control limb from birth. it's lightweight enough to move, and its hand functions just fine, just very unwieldy overall; splice (at least when it's a kid) seldom uses it properly, mostly just letting its arm drag on the floor or keeping it in its mouth.

more drawings under the cut

rough growth chart/ref thing; third pic is its teen/young adult stage! this au is connected to my semi-anthro wubbox universe, so as it ages splice's body gradually becomes more humanoid

(and in case it's barely legible the text in the preteen pic says "matrix went missing when splice was around 10". what do i mean by this?

:] )

more grown up splice! had a silly idea where it retains its arm-chewing habit from when it was a baby throughout its life

i <3 making aus of aus. heres organic au splicey and a peek at human au splice (aka Spencer; haven't really drawn them much yet)

organic!splice is missing an arm, but its prehensile tri-tipped tail makes up for that- manipulation wise, anyways. it prefers to walk on two legs rather than on all fours (or. all threes). as a common/rare hybrid of sorts i guess it'd be the monster equivalent of intersex? inter-rarity? just generally an oddity

spencer was also born missing an arm, so maddox made them some sort of experimental prosthetic (hence the robot arm. it probably looks more normal canonically I just like drawing it as the noodle version). but, no matter how many times maddox (sometimes Alva too) tries to fix or upgrade it, it’s pretty uncomfortable/doesn’t work all the time and spencer doesn’t like it very much. it's kinda just dead weight to them

pictured here is 10-11 year old spencer dealing with the newly acquired knowledge that one of their parents is a wanted criminal and serial killer. poor kid

anyways splicey baby I love you. sorry you have the most shitty parental situation

[frog-chemicals]

hi did you finish the fic about the bad kids and their various autistic traits? I'd love to read it

Oh! It is nowhere near finished! (I’ve been doing SO many Other Things)

But! That does not mean I will not be informing you of my Many Elaborate Headcanons and Why I Have Them!

I think either Gorgug or Adaine would be the first to get diagnosed with anything.

Adaine, obviously, gets diagnosed with anxiety first. I think from there on out she gets Actual Therapy, which then leads to her getting diagnosed as autistic. I think she really struggles with learning how to unmask and actually be comfortable in her own skin, in being her own person.

A lot of the autistic traits she does not hide could be explained by her being a High-Elf Wizard.

She’s very blunt, she’s very fixated on things making sense, she hyper focuses on Her Specific Field of Interest, she’s peculiar about how her things are organized. She only likes when a select few people touch her and that’s not even all the time.

When she does allow herself to unmask, I think most of her stims involve swaying and repeating phrases, spell names, spell ingredients, those sorts of things.

Gorgug’s parents care about him so much. However, I don’t think he actually gets diagnosed until he’s in his teens. There’s probably a few reasons for it ranging from his parents simply not realizing due to gnome culture being incredibly autism friendly to it being really hard to get a half-orc kid diagnosed with anything that won’t end up with the stigmas of said diagnoses causing them more difficulty in life.

That being said, Gorgug’s autistic and probably deals with a lot of body dysmorphia.

He’s one of the people who adapts most easily to learning that What He Experiences Has A Name. He probably does have a brief moment of “Oh. So I am different.” only to once again realize that everyone he’s surrounded himself with are also different and they’re awesome, so him being different is, if not also awesome, completely okay.

He generally struggles socially (bad at social cues, doesn’t know how to make friends, awkward around strangers), he likes listening to Brain Explosion Music, he doesn’t pick up on a lot of things at the same speed that most other people seem to.

I think that when he stims, it’s usually not something very obvious. It’s a lot of playing games it’s his hoodie strings, drumming on things (picked up from Fig), humming a song to himself. That sort of stuff.

I think it takes until after Ayda discovers she’s autistic for the rest of The Bad Kids to Figure It Out.

In my mind, at least, it starts with her asking Fig and Adaine for help making a presentation so she can explain Herself better to her friend.

Adaine already knows a thing or two, having also been diagnosed (probably pretty recently) but it takes her reading Jawbones books for things to fully click that “Oh. We’re all like this”

She still helps Ayda with her presentation, of course. She is her best friend, after all. But it does very much result in a secondary presentation in which Adaine thinks all The Bad Kids are autistic, which several of them had already started to suspect during Ayda’s presentation about herself and her autism.

Riz is most obvious. The only reason he’s not diagnosed is the fact it’s expensive and there’s not a lot of mental health professionals who know anything about goblins in the area.

He’s autistic and has both anxiety and insomnia as a direct result of it.

Initially, he tries to deny it and goes to his mom basically trying to convince her to agree that it’s just goblin stuff, right??? She tells him that not only is he a Remarkably Autistic Goblin, he gets it from Pok.

I think his stimming involve a lot of, for lack of better words, instinctive behaviors? He chews on things, he chitters, he taps his claws on things, he takes cover in small, comfortable places (like his friends backpacks or jackets, especially while they’re wearing them).

But a lot of it is also very,,,, Detectively. Yeah. That’s a word. Why not.

He repeats words and phrases regarding his cases, he scribbles down notes even if he already has the information, even if he knows he will remember, he clicks his pen and probably does some pretty sweet tricks with them too. His clue board making should absolutely be considered a form of stimming, in my opinion.

(Also, him joking about Shooting People being a stim is Very Funny to me)

Kristen I think is pretty chill about it initially, only to have a breakdown about her entire worldview being changed again at a later point.

She has a pretty blatant special interest in religion to me.

She also has adhd and dyspraxia.

Most of her stimming involves a lot of movement. She picks up on hand flapping from Ayda, sways a lot, brunches her legs, taps her feet, taps her hands on things, stretches out and flexes her body a lot. She probably used to play with her hair a lot when it was longer. While she still does, she’s mostly moved on to using the frankly absurd amount of stim toys she’s keeping stored somewhere. Most of them end up getting “borrowed” and lost in the pockets of her party at some point.

Sometimes she sings old hymns.

Fig tries to act cool about it. Fig is not cool about it. She already struggles with Being Herself and Wearing Masks enough as it is. Finding about the ADHD makes sense, really. Finding out about the autism is a slightly higher hurdle to get over.

For a lot of her life, she was so incredibly focused on fitting in, on making the pretty popular girls like her enough to include her, on making sure no one noticed just how much she felt like there was something different about her.

And then it turned out she is different. She’s a tiefling. She’s bisexual. She’s autistic. She is so little like the girl she used to be, like the girl she pretended to be.

It’s difficult, for a while, I think.

But, one thing about being nothing like the kid others expected you to be, is that it’s supper fucking punk.

It still takes a good long while to discover who Fig truly is, but she’s finally starting to feel true confidence that she doesn’t need to know just yet. That she’s allowed to be figuring herself out. That she’s allowed to be complicated and messy.

I think the way she stims is pretty similar to Kristen. There’s a lot of movement to it. She drums on things, bounces her legs, shifts her weight around a lot when she’s standing, plays with her hair, generally likes keeping her hands busy with something. But she also has a pretty big oral fixation. While her chewing habits aren’t quite as intense as Riz, I do think she tends to chew on stuff like pens when they happen to get near her mouth. I think her smoking habit is also pretty strongly influenced by this.

Fabian is the one who struggles most. While it’s fine for his friends to all be a little odd in all their different ways, he cannot have anything wrong with him. I think it takes a lot of talking before he even accepts that maybe it’s okay for something to be strange about him as well. Even if he is becoming his own man, that boy still has so many insecurities about who he is as a person.

I think he has a similar social struggle to Fig. He seems like someone who fits in. He feels like someone who’s supposed fit in. He adapts so easily whatever situation he’s put in, hoping that maybe if he’ll bend himself the right way, he’ll actually fit somewhere.

But he’s never actually had friends his own age. Sure, part of that is because he’s been on pirate ships up until he was, like, 16 but part is also the fact that, for so long, he’s been trying to be who his father wants him to be that he barely knows how to be his own person.

He struggles socially the same way Fig does. He doesn’t know how to fit in with people that actually like him, so he puts on his rich boy jock persona and he fakes it until, well, something happens. He uses humor in an attempt to deflect the fact he doesn't understand when talk about things in roundabout ways. He acts like he doesn't care when people talk about things that he struggles to understand. He barrels through a team sport solo because he figured it would be more effective that was.

And unlike Fig, who could have probably continued to be that sweet little cheerleader for years to come hadn’t it been for her horns, people realize he’s different, realize he does not fit in.

Fabian struggles with accepting it the most but he does have somewhere he fits in, even if he spent so long trying to deny it. He fits in with this party of weirdo misfits that love him just as much as he’s realized he loves them.

I think, when he finally allows himself to unmask enough to stim, it’s a lot of dancy movement and a lot of vocal stims. He bounces on his feet, he sways on his legs, he hoot-growls to himself a lot. Also, because I love projecting onto Fabian, I think he gets a "Kipperlilly Copperkettle" vocal stim at some point. I also like to think of him as dylsexic but that is a purely self indulgent headcanon

[basketobread]

HEY!!! just wanted to say that i am sooo sorry to the people who have been waiting on a response to their ask 😭 you guys ask way too good of questions where i have to sit down and really think before i can give a response im happy with SFDIUHSFDI

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

i think about the whole "love that" exchange a lot.

[tackminyard]

show tempe gang crossover with the morris islanders would actually have been the best episode of bones ever. btw

[willoftheabyss]

Just wanted to say hii same pfp :)

true hiii ^_^

[mylove-thresher]

Sometimes I think I’m just fucking stupid 😭