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Trapped in the storm

Joel miller x reader x Tommy miller

The snowstorm hit faster than anyone expected. Joel cursed under his breath, wiping frost from his beard, while Tommy tried to radio back to Jackson with no luck. You had insisted on joining the patrol despite the weather warnings, and now the three of you were holed up in an old hunting cabin, snow piling high outside.

Joel and Tommy were both quiet—too quiet—eyes darting from you to each other. You couldn’t help but notice how their hands twitched when you shivered, as if they wanted to pull you closer, but neither did. Instead, they focused on starting a fire, giving you a chance to change out of your snow-soaked clothes.

You rummaged through a battered trunk in the corner, finding a worn flannel shirt that must have belonged to someone twice your size. Pulling it over your tank top and shorts, you couldn’t help but grin at how it swallowed you, the hem brushing your thighs.

When you walked back into the room, both Miller brothers glanced up, their eyes lingering on your bare legs and the way the shirt slipped off one shoulder. Joel looked away first, jaw clenching, while Tommy gave a low chuckle, trying to hide the way his gaze traced the line of your throat.

“Shirt’s a little big, sweetheart,” Tommy teased, but his voice was rougher than usual.

You shrugged, arms lifting just enough that the too-large armhole gaped, revealing a hint of the soft skin of your chest. Both men froze, eyes glued to the sight before you casually tugged the fabric back into place. You pretended not to notice, biting back a smirk.

“Better than freezing,” you shot back, settling near the fire. You stretched, the shirt lifting just enough to show the curve of your thigh. Tommy’s eyes darkened, and Joel cleared his throat, looking like he was two seconds away from bolting.

There was something thrilling about the way they looked at you—like they were trying to resist but couldn’t quite manage it. You knew your husband back in Jackson was the last person either of them would want to think about, but out here, snowed in and restless, it seemed like their restraint was wearing thin.

When you leaned back on your hands, the movement made the flannel ride up just a little more, and you caught Joel’s gaze fixed on the exposed skin before he quickly looked away, cheeks flushed under his scruffy beard.

“So… how long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you asked, voice sweet and innocent, though your eyes lingered on Tommy’s tense shoulders.

He ran a hand through his hair, scoffing. “Hard to say. Could be all night.”

Your smile widened. “Guess we’ll have to find ways to keep warm, huh?”

Tommy choked on a laugh, and Joel shot him a glare that could’ve melted the snow outside.

“You always this damn reckless?” Joel muttered, but you caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Only when I’m with you two,” you teased, shifting closer to the fire, but not missing the way they exchanged a look—part frustration, part something darker and deeper.

Tommy was the first to break, moving to sit beside you, his thigh brushing yours. “Y’know,” he said, voice low and smooth, “it ain’t fair to go teasing like that.”

You looked up at him with wide, feigned-innocent eyes. “Teasing? I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

Joel grunted, sitting across from you, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “Ain’t sure you know what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he muttered.

But you did. You knew exactly what you were doing—and by the way they were both leaning in just a little too close, it was working.

[eeerrrrewsd]

Temptation’s Game

You’ve always been the good girl—the one who never steps out of line, the one who smiles politely, nods at orders, and never makes a fuss. But lately, a new side of you has been waking up—one that craves a thrill, a danger you’ve only read about in stories. And no one embodies that temptation more than Remmick.

Remmick’s reputation precedes him—rough around the edges, commanding, and unpredictable. You’d be lying if you said his presence didn’t send a shiver down your spine. Maybe it’s the way his intense gaze lingers a little too long or how his deep, gravelly voice makes even a simple greeting feel like a challenge.

Tonight, you’re alone in the safehouse, cleaning up and organizing supplies. The dim light flickers, shadows dancing across the worn walls. You’re humming softly when you hear the door creak open. You turn, heart pounding, only to see Remmick leaning against the frame, his eyes locked onto you like a predator sizing up his prey.

“Didn’t think anyone else was here,” he mutters, his voice low.

You smile sweetly, pushing a stray strand of your dark hair behind your ear. “Just me. Figured I’d tidy up a bit.”

His eyes rake over you, lingering just a second too long on the curve of your neck. “You always this good?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.

“Depends,” you reply, your voice softer, hinting at something unspoken. You swear you see his jaw tense.

He steps closer, the air thickening between you two. “You don’t fool me,” he says, reaching past you to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “That innocent act. It’s cute. But I know better.”

Your cheeks flush, but you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his defiantly. “Maybe I just like playing the part,” you murmur.

Remmick’s smirk is dangerously enticing. He sets the bottle down and moves closer, his hand grazing your hip. “Playing with fire, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “Maybe I’m not afraid of getting burned.”

His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You think you can handle me?” His breath ghosts over your lips, and you shiver despite yourself.

Your hands find his chest, fingers tracing the muscles under his shirt. “I think you’re underestimating me,” you whisper.

He chuckles darkly. “Sweet girl. You’re gonna regret teasing me like that.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours—rough, demanding, and impossibly intoxicating. You gasp, but your hands fist his shirt, pulling him closer as he pushes you back against the worn wooden table. The kiss is a clash of heat and want, and you can’t help but let out a breathy moan when his hands grip your hips harder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. “Still think you’re the one in charge here?”

You smirk, running your fingers through his hair. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Remmick doesn’t waste another second. His lips trail down your neck, nipping at your skin just hard enough to leave a mark. You can feel his frustration mingling with desire—how you push his buttons just right. Your sweet, innocent act crumbles as you let out a soft, needy sound, and he growls in response, his hands sliding under your shirt.

“Thought you’d be quieter,” he teases, his voice husky.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Only for you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pulls back, a wicked glint in his eyes. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t said that.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s capturing your lips again, more possessive this time. And as the night goes on, you realize just how dangerous it is to play with fire—especially when it’s with someone like Remmick.

But in that moment, wrapped up in his touch and his smoldering gaze, you can’t bring yourself to care.

[eeerrrrewsd]

My Journey to Escape the War in Gaza

My name is Abdelmajed. I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.

The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Basic needs have become luxuries. Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.

I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.

Escape from Gaza is my only hope, but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.

I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.

Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety. Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.

Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.

Vetted by @gazavetters

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Right in Front of Me

The first time Clark cried in your arms, he trembled like the world had broken beneath his feet. You had never seen him like this—Superman, the strongest man in the world, undone by a single revelation.

“She didn’t know,” he whispered against your shoulder, his voice raw. “She thought he was me. And now… now she thinks he treats her better than I ever could.”

Your heart ached for him. Clark Kent, the boy who always put everyone before himself, was now drowning in the pain of being unseen—of being loved by someone who didn’t know it was never really him.

You held him tighter, your fingers threading through his dark hair as he clung to you like you were the only solid thing left. “Clark, you are so much more than he could ever be,” you murmured. “And if she couldn’t tell the difference… maybe she wasn’t really seeing you at all.”

For weeks, you were his anchor. You checked on him, forced him to eat when he forgot, made him laugh when the sadness weighed too heavily on his shoulders. You reminded him that he was still Clark Kent—still good, still kind, still worthy of love.

But you also knew he still loved Lana.

So when the time came, you pushed aside the feelings creeping into your heart and made it your mission to help him.

“Clark, listen to me,” you said, standing in front of him, hands gesturing wildly as you paced his barn. “Lana does love you, okay? Maybe she got confused, but that doesn’t mean it’s over! You have to talk to her. Show her who you really are, remind her why she fell for you in the first place—”

He kissed you.

The world tilted, the breath stolen from your lungs as his hands framed your face, pulling you closer. It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, pouring every unsaid thing between you into that one moment.

When he pulled away, your eyes were wide, searching his in stunned silence.

Clark smiled, breathless, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it,” he admitted, voice low, reverent. “But it was never about Lana. It was you. It’s always been you.”

Your heart pounded, your mind reeling. “Clark, I—”

He shook his head, smiling like he’d finally figured out the answer to a question he never knew he was asking. “You’ve been here all along, taking care of me, making me laugh, reminding me who I am. And all this time, I was too blind to realize… you’re the one I should’ve been fighting for.”

Tears burned in your eyes, emotions crashing into you all at once. “You really mean that?” you whispered.

His hands squeezed yours, his gaze steady and sure. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

And in that moment, you knew—you were no longer just Clark Kent’s best friend. You were his choice. His future.

The one who had been right in front of him all along.

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Hey in smallville there is an episode where Lana fell in love with a version of Clark(bizzarro)The actual Clark is heartbroken because she didn’t know that it wasn’t him.i wanted to request where the reader is holding him because he breaks down.He is explaining how he can’t believe lana didn’t know it wasn’t the really him and how she thinks that bizzarro can treat her better then him.Few weeks go by and the reader has been taking care of him being a really good friend.She goes to Clark to help him get back with Lana and in the middle of her rant he kisses her.so much is poured into it.she is shocked and he can’t help smile and explain how he fell in love with her and how sorry he is it took a long a long time to see what was truly right in front of him.

Should be posted soon !

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Safe in His Arms

Clark x reader, tw?

The first thing she felt was warmth. Strong, familiar arms lifting her up, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world. Then came the scent of him—Clark, her Clark—earthy, safe, home.

She barely registered the chaos around them, the sirens wailing in the distance, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his boots as he carried her away from that horrible place. Her body ached, her lip stung, and her eye throbbed painfully, but none of that mattered now.

Clark had her.

And the moment she realized that, the dam broke.

She clutched onto his jacket, burying her face into his chest as sobs wracked her body. “Clark—” Her voice broke, barely a whisper against him. “I was so scared.”

Clark squeezed her tighter, as if he could somehow pull all her pain into himself. “I know, baby. I know.” His voice was thick with emotion, his breath uneven. “I’m so sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”

His lips pressed against her hair, then her forehead, then her bruised cheek, lingering there like he wished he could erase the pain with just a kiss. “Please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

She couldn’t stop, though. The fear, the helplessness—it was all spilling out in choked sobs, shaking her down to her bones.

Clark sat down on the ground right there, still cradling her in his lap, rocking her back and forth like she was something precious. His lips ghosted over her skin again and again—her temple, her nose, the corner of her busted lip, so careful, so gentle.

“I thought—” She sucked in a sharp breath. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

Clark shut his eyes tight, jaw clenching. “I would never let that happen.” His fingers tangled in her hair, holding her to him like he was afraid she’d disappear. “I’d burn the world down before I lost you.”

She believed him. She always had.

Her sobs softened, breath still hiccuping as she clung to him. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here,” he promised, pressing another lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’ll always be here.”

For a long time, they stayed like that—wrapped up in each other, bodies trembling from everything they’d been through.

She knew the bruises would fade, the pain would dull. But right now, all that mattered was Clark.

Her protector. Her home.

And as long as she had him, she knew she’d be okay.

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I really need something with Clark from smallville.The reader gets kidnapped and gets like a busted lip and black eye.Clark is able to save her and she just cries in his arms .He is there kissing her forever and rocking her back and forth trying to calm her down.he says sorry baby please don’t cry.They both are just so emotional.

Posted! Sorry this took so long 😓

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I really love your stories!

TYSMMM❤️❤️ it means a lot

[eeerrrrewsd]

In Another Life

Part 2

The first thing Achilles does after Patroclus remembers is pull him in.

He crushes him into his arms, burying his face in Patroclus’ shoulder, holding him like he might slip away again, like this is just another dream, another cruel trick of fate. But Patroclus is real, warm and solid beneath his hands, the scent of his skin achingly familiar.

Patroclus doesn’t let go either.

“I found you,” he whispers against Achilles’ collarbone.

“You found me,” Achilles chokes out.

They stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the weight of thousands of years pressing against them.

And for the first time since the fall of Troy, Achilles feels whole.

—

They don’t talk about it right away.

The memories come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes all at once, overwhelming and raw. Some days Patroclus will reach for Achilles’ hand like it’s second nature. Other days, he’ll pause mid-sentence, eyes distant, remembering something else, something new, something old.

Achilles gives him space.

For once in his life, he’s patient.

Patroclus needs time to process everything—their life in Phthia, the war, their deaths.

And Achilles—Achilles is terrified.

Because what if remembering means Patroclus won’t want this? Won’t want him?

He remembers how it ended. The grief. The anger. The way Patroclus must have felt, watching Achilles fall, knowing what would come next.

What if he resents him?

But then, one night, as they lay side by side in Achilles’ bed, staring at the ceiling, Patroclus murmurs, “We were always going to find each other again, weren’t we?”

Achilles swallows. “I hoped.”

Patroclus turns his head, looking at him, soft and fond. “I knew.”

Achilles lets out a shaky breath, and Patroclus smiles, reaching for his hand.

And just like that, Achilles knows too.

—

They settle into this new life together slowly.

There’s no war to fight, no prophecy hanging over their heads. No gods to please, no throne to claim.

It’s just them.

Achilles teaches Patroclus how to fight again, just for fun, just because they can. Patroclus grumbles about how unfair it is that Achilles is still faster, still stronger, even after all these years, but he never really minds.

Patroclus, in turn, teaches Achilles how to be still. How to appreciate the quiet moments—soft mornings tangled in sheets, cooking dinner together in their tiny apartment, watching old movies on the couch.

They live.

And for once, time is theirs.

—

One evening, they’re walking home from the bookstore when Achilles suddenly stops, staring up at the sky.

Patroclus follows his gaze, frowning. “What is it?”

Achilles exhales. “The stars.”

Patroclus tilts his head. “What about them?”

Achilles hesitates, then looks at him, something unreadable in his expression. “They don’t look the same anymore.”

Patroclus studies him, and understanding flickers in his eyes.

He reaches out, gently linking their fingers together.

“They don’t have to,” he murmurs.

Achilles turns to him fully then, searching his face, and Patroclus just smiles, warm and sure.

And Achilles thinks—maybe he was wrong.

Maybe the stars aren’t different.

Maybe it’s just that this time, he finally gets to see them with Patroclus by his side.

And that’s all that ever really mattered.

[eeerrrrewsd]

In Another Life

A Reincarnated Patroclus & Achilles Fanfic

The first time Achilles sees him again, it’s like remembering the lyrics to a song he’d long forgotten.

It’s been lifetimes. Ages. And yet, when the man in the café glances up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, something in Achilles’ chest clicks into place, like a puzzle piece he hadn’t even known was missing.

“Patroclus,” he breathes.

The man blinks at him, confused. “Sorry, do I know you?”

Achilles stares, heart pounding.

Gods.

It’s really him.

But there’s no recognition in his eyes. No memory of the way they once stood side by side in a war that tore the world apart. No memory of the way they once swore, in hushed whispers beneath golden light, that they would find each other again.

Patroclus doesn’t remember.

Achilles sits down across from him anyway.

—

They don’t become friends immediately.

Patroclus—now Patrick—is hesitant. Quiet. He studies Achilles with careful curiosity, like he can sense something just out of reach, but can’t quite grasp it.

Achilles, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate at all. He sticks by Patrick’s side like gravity itself pulls him there. He knows it’s selfish. Knows he should leave, let him be, let him live this life without the weight of their past pressing on his shoulders.

But he can’t.

Not when he’s finally found him.

—

One night, Patrick falls asleep next to Achilles on the couch, his head tilted toward Achilles’ shoulder, the glow of the TV flickering across his face.

Achilles doesn’t move.

He just listens to the steady rhythm of his breathing, his heart aching with something he can’t name.

Something close to worship.

Something close to grief.

—

Patrick starts remembering in pieces.

Small things at first—a phrase slipping from his lips that he doesn’t remember saying before. A dream of golden fields and the sound of waves. The overwhelming feeling that Achilles is someone he should know.

Then the memories hit all at once.

They’re sitting by the ocean when it happens, watching the waves roll against the shore.

Patrick stiffens.

Achilles glances at him. “You okay?”

Patrick turns his head slowly, eyes wide, stunned, reverent.

“You,” he breathes.

Achilles stills.

Patrick reaches up, fingers trembling, and touches Achilles’ face, just the barest brush of his fingertips against his cheek.

“I remember,” he whispers.

Achilles doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

Because he’s staring at Patroclus.

Not Patrick. Patroclus.

And for the first time in over three thousand years, his name sounds like home again.

—

That night, when Achilles kisses him, it tastes like salt and honey, like the memory of golden shores and laughter stolen in the dark.

It tastes like something that was lost, and finally, finally found.

[eeerrrrewsd]

Make Up for Lost Time

Yearner! Bruce x reader-fluff, yearning

The clock ticked softly in the dimly lit bedroom, the sound almost deafening in the quiet. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping absentmindedly through a book, though your mind barely registered the words. It had been days—weeks, really—since you had more than a fleeting moment with Bruce.

Wayne Enterprises, the city, Batman—they had all stolen his time. And you understood. You always did.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t miss him.

A soft creak of the door caught your attention, and before you could turn, a familiar warmth pressed against your back. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into an embrace so tight, so desperate, that it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Bruce—”

“Just let me hold you,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost hoarse. His face buried into the crook of your neck, and you felt his breath, warm and uneven against your skin.

You melted instantly, letting the book slip from your fingers as you leaned back into him. His grip tightened, as if afraid you’d slip away, as if you’d disappear like smoke between his fingers.

“I missed you,” he confessed, barely above a whisper. The words carried a weight that made your heart ache.

You reached up, threading your fingers through his dark hair, feeling the tension wound so tightly in his body. “I missed you too.”

He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath for days. His hands roamed gently, almost reverently, over your arms, your waist—like he was mapping you out again, committing you to memory, as if he hadn’t spent every night for years holding you in the rare moments he was home.

“I hate being away from you,” Bruce murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of your neck. “I hate missing you like this.”

Your chest tightened at the raw honesty in his voice. Bruce didn’t say things like this often—he didn’t let himself—but right now, it felt like he was making up for every lost second.

You turned in his arms, cupping his face between your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were dark, heavy with exhaustion, longing, and something deeper—need.

“You’re here now,” you whispered. “That’s what matters.”

A flicker of something desperate passed through his eyes before he crashed his lips against yours, pouring every missed moment, every stolen night, into the kiss. It wasn’t gentle—it was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to pull you closer than physically possible.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping your waist like he’d never let go. When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged.

“I don’t want to waste another second,” Bruce murmured, brushing his lips against yours again, softer this time, like a silent promise.

You smiled against his mouth, your fingers tracing over his jaw. “Then don’t.”

And with that, Bruce pulled you impossibly closer, determined to make up for every lost moment.

[eeerrrrewsd]

Hiii not a specific requests I just really like the way you write Bruce I was wondering if you have anything new for him :)

Il keep trying to write more for him !

[eeerrrrewsd]

Just Stay

Yearner!Bruce Wayne x reader- comfort

The manor was quieter than usual tonight. The rain outside drummed a steady rhythm against the windows, filling the vast space with a kind of lonely melody. You sat curled up on one of the plush armchairs in the study, absently flipping through a book, though your mind barely registered the words.

You weren’t sure why you had come here tonight. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the weight of the world pressing too heavily on your shoulders. Or maybe it was because this was the one place where you didn’t have to pretend to be okay.

And maybe—just maybe—it was because of him.

Bruce stood by the fireplace, his gaze lost in the flames. He was still in his suit, though his tie had been loosened, the first few buttons undone. He looked tired—not just the kind that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled deep in your bones, the kind you carried with you no matter how much rest you got.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Bruce finally spoke, his voice low and rough from disuse.

You exhaled softly, placing the book down. “Just… thinking.”

He turned his head slightly, his sharp blue eyes flickering to yours. “About?”

You hesitated. You could lie, brush it off, say it was nothing. But this was Bruce. He would see right through it.

“Everything,” you admitted with a dry chuckle. “Life, the past, the future. All the things I can’t control.”

Bruce hummed in understanding, stepping away from the fireplace. His presence was a grounding force, steady and strong. He had that effect on you—making you feel safe, even when your own thoughts threatened to drown you.

Without a word, he sat on the couch beside you, close but not too close. The space between you crackled with something unspoken, something that had lingered there for far too long.

“You don’t always have to carry everything alone,” he murmured, his voice softer now.

You gave a small, tired smile. “Funny. I could say the same to you.”

That earned you a rare smirk, but it faded quickly. Bruce leaned back, tilting his head slightly as he studied you. “I hate seeing you like this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped a beat.

It wasn’t often that Bruce let his walls crack, that he allowed himself to be vulnerable. But tonight, there was something raw in his eyes—something that made your breath catch.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gaze. “I’m okay, Bruce.”

A lie. A half-truth at best.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to be, not with me.”

Silence stretched between you. The rain outside continued its steady rhythm, a gentle backdrop to the moment hanging between you both.

You could feel the yearning in the air, thick and suffocating.

Bruce wanted to say something—do something—but he held himself back, as he always did. Always restrained, always controlled.

So, for once, you made the first move.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his. He stilled, his breath hitching, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he turned his hand over, letting his fingers intertwine with yours.

It was such a simple thing, so small. But it was enough.

Bruce’s grip tightened ever so slightly, like he was afraid you’d slip away. “Stay,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

Your chest ached at the plea hidden in that single word.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time that night, Bruce let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

[eeerrrrewsd]

Hi I was hoping to request a Clark Kent (smallville ) x female reader.She and Clark have just started dating (not officially together)but the reader a bit insecure about how he still tends to Lana.The reader is understanding she that Lana was Clark’s first love and they are all friends.But she can’t help but think she will always come second.prom is coming along and promposals happening.she thinks Clark will ask out Lana but she is pleasantly surprised at the end.

Posted ! Hope it’s good

[eeerrrrewsd]

More Than Second Place

Clark Kent(smallville) x reader

The halls of Smallville High buzzed with excitement as prom season approached. Locker doors slammed, giggles echoed, and colorful banners announcing the dance hung over the main hallway. Every day, someone new was getting “promposed”—some with flowers, others with elaborate signs or even full-fledged performances.

You tried not to think about it.

You and Clark weren’t officially together yet, but you were… something. Late-night phone calls, lingering gazes, his arm occasionally finding its way around your shoulders—it was there, unspoken but real.

And yet, no matter how much you tried to reassure yourself, there was always her.

Lana Lang.

You had no problem with Lana—she was sweet, kind, and had been in Clark’s life forever. But that was the issue. She was his first love. The girl he had pined for, the one he had chased even when she was with someone else.

And you… well, you were terrified you would always come second to her.

You pushed the thought away as you walked down the hall, only to hear a group of girls squealing nearby. You turned your head just in time to see Whitney, Lana’s boyfriend-turned-ex, holding up a bouquet of roses. He grinned sheepishly as he handed them to Lana, his voice clear in the noisy hallway.

“I know we didn’t work out before, but I was hoping… would you go to prom with me?”

Your stomach clenched as Lana gave him a soft smile. “That’s really sweet, Whitney, but I think I need to go alone this time.”

You barely heard his response over the ringing in your ears.

So Lana wasn’t going with anyone.

Which meant Clark could still ask her.

You hated how quickly your brain jumped to that conclusion, but it wasn’t exactly irrational, was it? He had loved her for so long. Even now, you still caught him glancing her way sometimes, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could stand being in this weird, undefined space with him. If he still wanted Lana, he should just—

“(Y/N)!”

Your heart nearly stopped as Clark jogged up beside you, that signature boyish grin on his face. “Hey, I was looking for you.”

You forced a smile. “Oh? What’s up?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “I, uh… I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Your chest tightened. Here it comes. He was going to tell you he still had feelings for Lana. That he was going to ask her to prom, that you and him—whatever this was—was just a placeholder for the real thing.

You braced yourself, already searching for the best way to keep your expression neutral. “Okay,” you said, voice steady.

Clark exhaled, then suddenly reached into his backpack and pulled out a small box. “I, um… I made this for you.”

Confused, you took it and lifted the lid. Inside was a small handmade keychain in the shape of a star, carefully carved from wood. You ran your fingers over it, feeling the smooth texture.

“You said once that you always loved looking at the stars,” Clark explained, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I figured you should have one to carry with you.”

You stared at it, something catching in your throat.

This wasn’t a break-up. This wasn’t him choosing Lana.

This was Clark—the Clark you had fallen for—thinking about you.

Before you could say anything, he cleared his throat and took a step closer. “So, um… prom is coming up, and I was wondering if—”

A nervous chuckle escaped you, your fingers tightening around the keychain. “Clark, are you… are you asking me to prom?”

His cheeks turned red, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. I am.”

You blinked. “Not Lana?”

Clark frowned, looking almost offended. “Why would I ask Lana when I want to go with you?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. “I just… I thought…” You sighed, shaking your head. “I guess I was scared I’d always come second to her.”

Clark’s expression softened. He reached out, gently taking your hand. “(Y/N), you’re not second to anyone. You never have been.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to ignore how fast your heart was beating. “You really mean that?”

He squeezed your hand. “I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest lifted. You looked up at Clark—the boy who had spent so long chasing after someone else—now standing right in front of you, asking you to prom.

And, for once, you let yourself believe it.

Maybe, just maybe… you were finally his first choice.

[eeerrrrewsd]

maybe a story where miles 1610 meets this girl who’s very closed off and quiet, she battles with depression and doesn’t let people on all the time but he still fights for her to let him in until she eventually does and gains a crush for him and vice versa

Posted ! I tried my best 😭

[eeerrrrewsd]

Breaking Through

Miles Morales (Earth-1610) x Reader-Angst/Fluff, Slow Burn, Comfort

You never really understood why Miles Morales was so persistent.

From the moment you met him at school, he had this way of always showing up. It wasn’t in an annoying way, but it was noticeable. Like the way he’d slide into the seat next to you when no one else did, or how he’d wait just a little longer at the lockers when he saw you struggling to fit your books inside.

At first, you thought it was coincidence. Then, you thought it was pity.

But Miles never treated you like a project, like something that needed fixing. He just treated you like… you.

And that was the problem.

Because you didn’t know how to handle that.

You were closed off—by choice. You didn’t do small talk. You didn’t laugh at every joke. You weren’t the type to spill your emotions onto people who might not even care in the end. You carried your battles quietly, tucked away where no one could reach them.

But Miles was relentless.

Not in a way that overstepped, but in a way that made it impossible to ignore him.

Like now, for example.

“You’re not eating,” he pointed out, poking at your untouched tray.

You glanced at him, then back down. “Not hungry.”

Miles frowned. “You said that yesterday.”

“And the day before,” you muttered under your breath.

“I heard that.” He nudged your arm gently. “C’mon, Y/N, you gotta eat something. Just a little bit?”

You exhaled, pushing the tray slightly toward him. “Here. You eat it.”

He gave you a look. “That’s not how this works.”

You shrugged, pulling your hoodie over your head a little more. “Works for me.”

Miles sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair. “You really don’t make this easy, do you?”

A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at your lips. “Was I supposed to?”

He grinned, shaking his head. “Nah. But lucky for you, I don’t scare off that easy.”

That was an understatement.

Weeks passed, and Miles didn’t give up.

He wasn’t overbearing about it, never forced you to talk or do things you weren’t comfortable with. But he was there.

There when you sat alone at lunch.

There when you spaced out in class.

There when you felt like a ghost in a world that never seemed to notice.

And, eventually, without meaning to, you started letting him in.

It wasn’t all at once. It wasn’t some dramatic realization where everything suddenly felt okay. It was slow. A few words here. A little more laughter there.

One day, you told him you liked drawing.

The next, he was handing you a notebook.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He smiled. “Figured you’d put it to good use.”

You stared at it for a long moment before finally taking it. It was small, unassuming, but yours.

That night, you sketched until your fingers ached.

And then, one day, you realized something terrifying.

You liked him.

Like, really liked him.

The way he always had something to say, even when you didn’t. The way he cared—genuinely, deeply, without expecting anything in return. The way he saw you, really saw you, when you’d spent so long convincing yourself you were invisible.

But what scared you the most?

The fact that he might like you, too.

Because Miles wasn’t just nice—he was intentional. And it showed in every little thing he did. The way he waited for you after class, the way he texted to make sure you were okay, the way he sat a little closer, like he wanted to be in your orbit just a little longer.

You weren’t used to that.

And when he finally said something—when he finally admitted, in his own dorky, Miles way, that he liked you too—

You almost panicked.

Almost.

But then he looked at you, hopeful but not pushing, patient but sure.

And you thought about everything—every time he stayed, every time he fought to be there, even when you tried to push him away.

So, for once, you didn’t run.

For once, you let yourself have something good.

And when he took your hand, fingers lacing through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world—

You held on.

Because, maybe, just maybe—this time, you didn’t have to fight alone.