multi-fandom-imagine

[multi-fandom-imagine]

send me a headcanon or scenario for Supernatural,Supernatural (2025),Criminal Minds and i’ll write a five paragraph fic for it.

NSFW / SFW welcomed

For when I go on vacation! I need stuff to do in the car ride and standing in line ( write in the request for vacation) because I am saving these for when I go on vacation next week.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮’𝘀 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 || 𝗦𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗼𝘆 ||

A/n: Ughh he's so hot

Warnings:Jealousy, rough sex, possessive energy, mirror play, cream pie

Other info: Stepford wife aesthetic. Reader is publicly married to Homelander for show.

You hated this dress.

The sequins itched. The neckline was too tight. The red matched your lips, your heels, your smile—plastered on for the cameras like it always was. Vought’s darling, draped on Homelander’s arm like the world’s most patriotic accessory.

You stood on stage beside him as he gave another speech about protecting America from “radical threats,” your fingers clasped in his while the crowd cheered and clapped. You didn’t flinch when he squeezed your hand a little too hard or when he leaned close enough to whisper, “Smile wider, sweetheart.”

And you did.

Because that’s what you were paid to do.

By the time you made it back to the penthouse suite, your cheeks ached and your stomach was sick with adrenaline and disgust. You closed the door behind you and pressed your back to it, sighing in relief at the silence. You kicked off your heels, peeled the lashes from your eyes—

And froze.

There was a low hum in the room. A flick of electricity in the air. You turned, slowly.

Soldier Boy stood at the bar, one hand gripping a glass, the other curled into a fist at his side. He hadn’t said a word yet. But his eyes?

His eyes were fucking lethal.

“Nice show,” he muttered, taking a slow sip of whiskey. “You and Captain Cocksucker really had the crowd going.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s just PR. You know that.”

“I told you to stay off his fucking arm.”

You stepped toward him, cautious, makeup still perfect, lipstick unkissed. “You think I want to touch him? Be seen with him?”

“I think I’m tired of watching him claim you in front of the goddamn world while I sit in the dark.”

His voice was low and dangerous now, the kind that made your thighs press together. You’d seen him like this before—when his blood was hot and his control even hotter.

“You’re jealous,” you said, almost amused. You didn’t see him move. One second you were near the bar; the next, your back slammed against the wall, the glass rattling in its frame.

“Damn right I am.”

His body caged yours. One hand pressed to your stomach, firm and unrelenting. The other tangled in your hair and yanked your head back, exposing your neck.

“You’re mine. You think just because Vought put a ring on your finger and threw you at that freak in a cape I’m gonna fucking share?”

“I don’t belong to him,” you whispered.

He growled, teeth bared. “Say it louder.”

“I don’t belong to him.”

His hand slid up your thigh, rough and fast, pushing the slit of your gown aside. “Who do you belong to?”

You hesitated.

Wrong move.

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “Try again, sweetheart.”

“You,” you breathed. “I belong to you.”

“Damn fucking right you do.”

He spun you toward the massive wall mirror, the one Vought insisted you pose in front of for promo shots. Your reflection looked back at you—lipstick still perfect, dress clinging like sin, hair tousled from his hands.

“You look like a Stepford slut,” Soldier Boy rasped against your neck. “Vought’s pretty little puppet.”

His fingers yanked down the zipper of your dress. It spilled to the floor. You still had on the garter belt, the red satin bra, the matching thong. Of course you did. You’d been styled like a fucking pin-up for America.

Soldier Boy’s voice dropped. “Leave it on.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, boots planted, hands on his thighs. His eyes raked over you as he nodded to the mirror.

“Ride me. I want you to watch how good you look getting fucked by a real man.”

Your stomach flipped, heat blooming between your legs. You stepped out of the gown, made your way to him. His belt was already undone, cock hard and ready, heavy in his palm.

“You’ve been walking around all night with his name in your mouth,” he gritted. “Time to fix that.”

You climbed onto his lap, angling yourself just right, teasing the head of his cock with your soaked slit. He grabbed your hips, grounding you. “You’re already dripping for me.”

“For you,” you whispered, and sank down onto him in one slow, breathless slide.

“Fuck—” His head dropped back. Then his fingers bit into your ass and he thrust up, burying himself deeper. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You started to move, bouncing in his lap, your body framed in the mirror like a perfect little porno. He kept his eyes locked on your reflection, watching your tits bounce in your bra, the red lipstick parting with every moan.

“You see that?” he growled. “That’s you, taking me so good, riding like you were made for it.”

He reached up, yanked the straps of your bra down, exposing your breasts. Your nipples peaked instantly from the chill and from his gaze. He cupped one in his hand, squeezed hard enough to sting.

“You gonna let him touch you like this?” he asked.

“No.”

“You gonna let him hear you scream like this?"

“No.”

“Say my name, doll.”

You locked eyes with your reflection, hips grinding down, breath hot and shaky.

“Ben.”

“That’s right.” His hands moved to your throat, holding—not choking—but firm enough to remind you who was in control. “Only name you scream when you’re getting split open like this.”

Your rhythm faltered, legs trembling, heat coiling low. “I—I’m close—”

“Good. You’re not getting off until I do.”

He stood suddenly, lifting you like nothing, keeping you stuffed full while he carried you to the mirror. You gasped, palms splaying against the cold glass as he slammed into you from behind.

“You gonna come with me buried in this perfect little pussy?” he hissed.

“Yes—please, yes—”

His pace turned brutal. You were nothing but breathy sobs and lipstick-smeared whimpers now, your reflection hazy with fog and heat. And when he reached around, rubbed your clit in tight, hard circles, your body arched and broke, coming around him like fireworks bursting behind your eyes.

Soldier Boy grunted, pulled you tighter against him, and came with a feral growl, filling you deep.

When you collapsed against the mirror, boneless and wrecked, he didn’t let go. His mouth brushed your ear.

“Let the whole world think you’re his,” he whispered. “Just means I get to fuck you harder when the lights go out.”

You should’ve known he wasn’t done.

Your legs were shaking. Your knees had buckled somewhere between the mirror and the bed, and you were still trying to remember how to breathe when Soldier Boy grabbed your hips and dragged you back onto the mattress.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he growled, voice thick with post-release grit. His chest was heaving. Sweat slicked down his temple. His hands were still rough, big enough to grip your entire waist as he shoved your thighs apart again.

“Ben,” you panted, trying to lift your head. “I can’t—I just came—”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head, dark eyes dropping to where his cum was already starting to leak out of your swollen pussy. His jaw clenched. “Then why the fuck is my cum tryin’ to leave you?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer. He flipped you over like a rag doll and pushed your hips up until you were bent, ass in the air, face pressed to the sheets.

“You think I’m gonna let this go to waste?” he rasped, spreading your cheeks with a filthy groan. “Nah, sweetheart. That pussy’s mine. And when I fill it, you fuckin’ keep it.”

You gasped, mouth open in shock as he lined up again, still hard—God, how was he still hard?—and slammed back inside without warning.

The squelch of his cum getting shoved deeper made your whole body jolt.

“Ben—fuck—” you cried out, but he grabbed your hips and started thrusting hard, slow and deep like he wanted to imprint himself on your goddamn soul.

“That’s right,” he snarled. “Take it. Take all of it. You think you’re done? Not even close.”

You were a mess already—makeup smudged, drool on the pillow, thighs soaked in slick and sweat and cum. But he didn’t slow. If anything, it made him rougher.

“You walked around all night like his perfect little doll,” he gritted, snapping his hips forward. “Waved to the cameras. Sat on his lap. Now you’re gonna stay right here and take every drop until it fucking sticks.”

His hand came down hard on your ass—once, twice, again—leaving a burn that had your walls clenching tight around him.

“You like this, huh? Being bred like a bitch in heat?”

You sobbed out a broken moan, nodding desperately. “Yes—yes, I love it—”

“Say it.”

“I love when you fuck your cum back into me—when you make sure it stays—”

His growl turned feral. He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back, and leaned down until his lips brushed your ear.

“Damn right you do. ‘Cause you’re mine, baby. My fuckin’ prize. And no one else gets a taste.”

His pace became punishing, skin slapping skin, the lewd sound of his cum getting shoved deeper making you whimper through another orgasm. Your body went limp, twitching, soaked in sweat. But he didn’t stop.

Not until he spilled in you again, filling you so deep you could feel it pooling inside, hot and thick and endless.

He didn’t pull out.

Just stayed buried to the hilt, grinding slow.

“Maybe I’ll do this every time,” he murmured against your spine. “Fill you up. Fuck it back in. Keep going until I know it took.”

Your breath hitched.

“Ben—”

He kissed your shoulder, soft and possessive now.

“You’ll look real pretty carrying my kid on his red carpet.”

He said it like a threat, you moaned like it was a promise.

And you believed him. Because after all…

You were America’s sweetheart.But you were his dirty little secret.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Me: Writing a smut where the Reader is Homelander's wife for show but they're getting dick downed by Soldier Boy

[multi-fandom-imagine]

The Vessel’s Consequence || Michaelⵑ𝗗𝗲𝗮𝗻 ||

A/n: Five people liked that Michael!Dean thing, so here it is. Will have two other parts.

The dreams began the night Dean said yes.

He told himself they were just echoes—leftover fragments of Michael’s mind bleeding into his own. Faces he didn’t recognize, golden skies, the scent of jasmine and smoke. And always, always you. A woman with a voice that rang like truth and lips he could never quite kiss before waking up soaked in sweat and shameful arousal.

But Michael knew who you were.

You were his.

The first time you met him in the flesh was in an abandoned church in Missouri.

You stood frozen, shotgun aimed straight at his chest. You weren’t sure if it was him—or what he was.

“Dean?” your voice cracked.

“No,” he said flatly. “Michael.”

But his green eyes flickered. Just for a second. You saw it—the man inside the god.

And he saw you. Not as a stranger. As something deeper. Something primal.

“You’re real,” he whispered, stepping forward. “You’re her.”

You didn’t understand what that meant until he was inches from you, his grace humming like electricity through the air, hands gripping your arms like he was afraid you might vanish.

“I saw you,” he murmured. “In Eden. In flame. In heaven and battle and dreams. I felt you.”

You tried to back away. “You’re not touching me, archangel. I don’t care what you think I am.”

His eyes darkened. “You were mine before time began. You still are.”

You tried to fight the connection. You tried to run.

But Michael found you. Again and again. Dreams. Whispers. Touches that burned across your skin even when he wasn’t there.

The night it broke was a storm-soaked blur.

You were in a safehouse, alone. Or so you thought.

Thunder cracked.

And there he stood—soaked, golden-eyed, trembling with restraint. His vessel’s body—Dean’s body—tense like a predator at the edge of breaking.

“You don’t belong to this world,” he said, voice low. “You belong to me.”

You should’ve said no.

You should’ve screamed.

Instead, you whispered, “Then take me.”

The first kiss was devastating.

His lips crushed yours like he’d waited an eternity. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. And his grace—God, his grace—licked at your skin like fire.

Clothes vanished. You didn’t even see them fall. One minute you were clothed, the next bare and pinned to the mattress by something greater than gravity.

“You were made for this,” he growled, kissing down your neck, over your chest. “Made for me.”

His touch was reverent and ruthless all at once. His mouth worshipped every inch of your skin, his fingers dragging your thighs apart like he owned your body.

You tried to tease, tried to stay in control, but the moment he slid inside you—stretching you in a way that made your breath stutter—everything cracked.

“Fuck,” you gasped, arching into him.

Michael’s control slipped.Light bloomed behind his eyes.

His thrusts started slow, deep, punishing in their precision. But each moan you gave, each cry of pleasure from your lips, pushed him closer to the edge. His grace flared, burning under his skin. He was glowing—literally—his vessel’s body radiating celestial power.

“I’m going to break you,” he rasped. “Split you open with divinity. Mark you. Claim you.”

And you let him.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, moaning his name—not Dean’s. Michael’s.

He took you harder then. Desperate. Obsessive. Devoted.

Your orgasm hit like lightning—shattering, rippling through you like holy fire. You screamed, trembling beneath him, light flashing behind your eyes.

Michael followed, groaning low in your ear, his release searing through your soul.

For a moment, you swore your heart stopped.

The room went still. Only your heavy breaths filled the air.

His grace calmed, settling in your bones like it had always belonged there.

Later, tangled in sweat and sheets, you looked at him—not the archangel, not the soldier, not the vessel.

Just him.

He reached out and brushed his fingers down your spine, eyes soft for the first time.

“You were always my consequence,” he said.

And you knew—this wasn’t over. Not the war. Not the lust. Not the love blooming like ruin between you.

But tonight?

You were his.

And he was yours.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I see the Superman brainrot when i see one, and i undertstand, we need to give this man a baby 🥹💛💛💛

FACTS!

Im gonna have to write more dad things!

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Two heartbeats and terrible jokes || Clark Kent ||

A/n: Follow up to littlest heartbeats

It was just after sunset when the truck pulled into the Kent family farm, headlights cutting through the golden dust rising from the gravel driveway. The porch light flicked on before the engine even turned off, and Martha was already wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped outside, Jonathan following with that curious squint he always wore when something felt just off.

You were nervous, fingers laced tightly with Clark’s as you climbed out of the truck. He squeezed your hand—once, firmly—and smiled like he wasn’t holding the weight of the world behind his eyes.

Because you were glowing. And he was buzzing.

Jonathan raised a brow. “You two get lost or just out joyriding?”

Clark chuckled. “Not exactly.”

“We brought pie,” you added quickly, holding up the bakery box like it was a peace offering—or a distraction from the fact your heart was pounding a mile a minute.

Martha was already eyeing you knowingly. “That’s nice, sweetheart,” she said with a little smile. “But something tells me pie isn’t the only reason you’re here.”

You and Clark exchanged a glance.

Should we tell them?

Now?

But Clark cleared his throat and looked at his parents with something between awe and vulnerability.

“There’s… something we want to share,” he said, motioning toward the steps. “Can we sit?”

Jonathan crossed his arms. “You’re not dying, are you?”

You laughed, a little too high-pitched.

“No,” Clark said gently. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

The four of you settled on the porch swing and creaky chairs, fireflies blinking lazily in the distance as the warm Kansas air settled around you. And for once, the silence wasn’t awkward—it was expectant.

“I heard something the other day,” Clark began softly, eyes on the dark fields ahead. “Something… small. But strong. Beautiful.”

Martha leaned in slightly.

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “What kind of something?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “A heartbeat.”

Jonathan blinked. “Well, yeah, people have those—”

“Another heartbeat,” Clark interrupted, now looking down at your joined hands. “Coming from her.”

The words hovered in the air for a breathless beat.

Then Martha gasped, hands flying to her mouth as her eyes welled. “Clark. Are you saying…?”

You nodded before he could, eyes glimmering with emotion. “I’m pregnant.”

Martha let out a soft, teary laugh, standing so fast the porch swing groaned. “Oh my stars,” she whispered, immediately pulling you into a tight hug, rocking you like you were her own.

Jonathan sat frozen for a second, jaw slack, before standing and reaching for Clark’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Dad,” Clark warned with a half-smile.

Jonathan just shook his head, utterly dumbfounded. “My boy’s gonna be a father.” He pulled him in for a gruff, proud hug. “Doesn’t matter if they’re half-Kryptonian or half-butterfly. That baby’s gonna be loved something fierce.”

Martha turned back toward you, wiping her eyes as she held your face between her hands. “Have you been feeling okay? Are you eating enough? Have you been to the doctor? Do Kryptonian babies even need doctors—?”

Clark stepped between you with a chuckle, wrapping one arm around each of you. “We’ll figure it all out. Together.”

Clark should’ve known the second he saw Jonathan’s smirk.

It had been five minutes—five—since you told them you were pregnant, and Martha was already in full grandma-mode, listing off quilt patterns and baby food recipes while hugging you like she might knit the child herself out of sheer willpower.

But Jonathan?

He was leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with a dangerous kind of joy.

“You okay, Dad?” Clark asked cautiously.

Jonathan grinned.

“Just thinkin’, son… now that you’re gonna be a dad, it’s time I pass the torch.”

Clark tilted his head. “Torch?”

“You know,” Jonathan said with a shrug. “Dad jokes.”

Clark visibly paled.

“No,” he said, already regretting everything.

“Yes,” Jonathan replied, voice low and menacing—like a farmer delivering the corn harvest of doom. “It’s in your DNA now. Or… well, half of it. The other half’s from space, so I’m not sure how jokes travel through light-years, but you get the point.”

“Please stop.”

“Son.” Jonathan stepped forward solemnly. “What do you call Superman’s kid when they’re fussy?”

Clark sighed. “Don’t.”

Jonathan raised his brows. “A Kryptantrum.”

You snorted behind your hand.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dad!Please!.”

“Got another one,” Jonathan continued proudly. “Why did Superman’s baby refuse to wear a cape?”

Clark gave him a deadpan look. “Why.”

“Because it kept getting wrapped up in itself.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Super swaddled.”

You were actively wheezing now.

Clark turned to you. “You married into this.”

Jonathan beamed. “Hey, I’ve been storing these for years. Finally get to use ‘em.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Clark muttered to you as Martha returned with a stack of baby name books.

“Oh, he doesn’t need encouragement,” you whispered, grinning. “He’s powered by pure dad-ergy.”

Jonathan pointed two finger guns in the air. “Up, up, and a dad-way.”

Clark groaned so hard, you were pretty sure the barn creaked in sympathy.

“Get ready, son,” Jonathan added, clapping him on the shoulder. “In a few months, you’ll be up at 3 a.m. changing diapers and whispering ‘I’m Super-Pooped’ to your kid.”

Clark stared blankly. “…Can I go back to fighting Zod?”

You patted his arm gently. “No, sweetheart. You’re on diaper duty now.”

Jonathan smirked. “Welcome to fatherhood. It’s not faster than a speeding bullet—but it will hit you like a runaway train of terrible jokes.”

Clark sighed in defeat as Martha finally said, “Jonathan, please, let them breathe for one minute—”

“Only if I can tell my ‘Man of Steel-Toe Boots’ joke—”

“NO.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

“Not in front of the pie.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Littlest Heartbeat || Clark Kent ||

A/n: Soon to be dad Clark, also I can't stop writing for this man. (I love clark, he's one of my favorite dc boys)

The moment he heard it, time stopped.

It had started as any other morning—soft sunlight pouring through the kitchen windows, the scent of pancakes lingering in the air, and you humming under your breath as you moved around in one of his shirts, bare feet padding across the tile.

But then… he heard something he wasn’t supposed to. Something impossible.

A second heartbeat.

Smaller. Softer. Rapid like a hummingbird’s wings.

He froze mid-sip of his coffee, eyes locked on the spot where you stood with your back to him, completely unaware that your husband—Superman—was hearing something not even you knew yet.

Or maybe… something you did know.

You had been quieter lately. Touching your stomach absently. Pausing to smile at nothing. Reaching for food you normally avoided. And just last night, he’d caught you staring at a tiny pair of socks in a shop window.

God.

He set the mug down slowly. Carefully. The ceramic clink sounded deafening in the quiet room.

He couldn’t let you know he’d heard it. That would ruin it. Whatever moment you were building up to—whatever plans you had to tell him—it was yours to give.

And his to treasure.

“Clark?” Your voice broke his daze, sweet and curious. “Everything okay?”

He smiled. A little too wide. A little too warm. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow, walking over and slipping your arms around his waist. “Thinking? You? What a shock.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and kissed your forehead, lingering just a little longer than usual. He wanted to press his ear against you. To listen again. To be sure. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t steal this from you.

“I love you,” he murmured instead.

You looked up at him with surprise, then softened. “I love you too, Clark.” A pause. A nervous glance. “So… I was wondering if maybe you’d want to go out for dinner tonight. Just us.”

“Of course,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Anywhere you want.”

You smiled, lips twitching like you were holding back a secret. And he played along, heart thudding in time with the one he wasn’t supposed to know about.

That night, as you sat across from him in a candlelit booth, fingers nervously fidgeting with your napkin, he listened to the tiny heartbeat thrum beneath the soft layers of your dress.

You looked up, eyes shimmering with a tearful kind of joy. “Clark… I’m pregnant.”

And he acted surprised. Let the emotion wash over him like a tidal wave. Let his hands tremble as he reached across the table and cupped your cheek. “Are you serious?” he whispered.

You nodded, and he kissed you. Fully. Reverently. As though holding his whole world in his hands.

And in a way… he was.

Because even though he’d heard it first, even though he’d known—

nothing compared to hearing it from you.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐨𝐲'𝐬 || Clark Kent ||

A/n: he's the best boy.

The wind whips around you as Clark sets you gently down on the icy floor of the Fortress of Solitude, a proud little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His cape flutters behind him, majestic, dramatic, exactly as you’d expect from your superhero fiancé. He watches you expectantly, eyes shining like he just brought you home to meet his parents.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude,” he says, arms spread wide like he’s unveiling the eighth wonder of the world. “It’s Kryptonian design. Advanced tech, alien crystals, voice-command architecture, memory banks that hold millennia of—”

GASP.

Clark's head never turned so fast to a sound.Your loud, breathless squeal cuts through his monologue like a bolt of lightning.

Clark blinks.

You don’t even see the towering alien archives. You don’t register the glowing control console pulsing with celestial light. No, your eyes have zeroed in on one very important thing sprinting towards you on four legs.

“Krypto!!!”

The white blur barrels into you joyfully, tail wagging at light speed, tongue out, pure delight in dog form.

“Oh my god, Clark,” you croon, dropping to your knees and immediately smothering him in kisses. “He has a little cape!”

Clark blinks again, his hands slowly lowering from their dramatic ‘ta-da’ pose. “Y-Yeah! You’ve met Krypto! He lives with us... At the apartment!"

“But you didn’t show me his cape, Clark,” you say, scandalized, holding the golden-edged red fabric between your fingers like it’s the Shroud of Turin. “And he can fly!”

It felt like it was Christmas....better than that actually now that you think about it.

Krypto barks and promptly floats three feet off the ground, tongue lolling, tail still wagging like a propeller. You gasp again like someone told you cake now contains vitamins.

“Oh, he’s a superdog! Look at him! He’s majestic. Regal. My god, he’s the hero this world truly deserves!”

Clark clears his throat, sheepish. “I mean…I also fly.”

“Mmmhmm,” you mumble, now gently placing Krypto’s paw in your hand like you’re officiating his wedding. “But does your nose boop when I touch it like this?” You gently boop Krypto’s snout. It does, in fact, boop. Gloriously.

Clark sighs, folding his arms and trying not to smile. “So…not impressed by the Fortress, huh?”

“Oh no, babe. The giant crystal space cave is very cool,” you say distractedly, as Krypto flops dramatically into your lap and rolls over for belly rubs. “But your dog has a cape. And he flies. And he’s got little teeth, look at ‘em! Look this little face." You puckered your lips smushing Krypto's face as the dogs tail wags a mile a minute.

Clark grins now, eyes warm as he watches the two of you—his fiancé completely enraptured by the world’s most powerful belly-rub beggar.

“Krypto,” he mutters under his breath with a shake of his head. “Showoff.”

Krypto barks triumphantly.

You gasp again. “He knows sarcasm.”

Clark just sighs again, quietly resigning himself to a lifetime of sharing your affection with a flying dog in a cape. And honestly?

He’s fine with that....

Later that day, as you lay sprawled out on the icy floor with Krypto napping on your chest like an overgrown, slightly radioactive marshmallow, Clark stands nearby looking only mildly betrayed.

You’ve been rubbing his belly (Krypto’s, not Clark’s… for now) for twenty minutes straight while whispering things like “I’d die for you, tiny hero” and “you’re the best boy in any multiverse.”

Clark clears his throat. “Babe, you know I saved Metropolis last week, right?”

You hum absently, fingers still working. “Mhm. And he saved my serotonin.”

Then, with perfect Kryptonian timing, the air shimmers—and Kara zips into the Fortress.

“Clark, I got your message—wait, are you—pouting?” She floats down, sees you cuddling her superdog cousin like he’s made of marshmallow fluff, and bursts into laughter so hard she nearly crashes into the memory crystals.

“Oh. My. Rao,” Kara wheezes. “She’s ignoring you for Krypto?!”

“She’s not ignoring me,” Clark mutters.

Krypto lifts his head, gives Clark a smug woof, then plants a wet lick on your cheek. You squeal and snuggle him closer.

“Oh my god,” Kara giggles, already pulling out her phone. “This is incredible. You finally bring your fiancée to the Fortress and she gets imprinted by the dog.”

“She didn’t imprint,” Clark grumbles.

You look up. “We’re soul bonded now.”

Kara cackles and almost drops her phone.

Clark just throws his head back and groans, clearly questioning every decision he’s ever made since inviting you here.

“Admit it,” Kara says, smirking. “This is so much better than when your ma saw the Fortress for the first time.”

“She cried,” Clark says proudly.

“She also didn’t immediately pick favorites,” Kara grins. “You’ve been dethroned by a dog in a cape, Kent.”

You nod solemnly from the floor. “Your dog is my hero now.”

Kara gives you a thumbs-up. “Excellent taste.”

Clark just sighs again, then walks over, flops down beside you with dramatic resignation, and mutters, “Fine. But when I wear a cape, no one scratches my belly.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that…an invitation?”

Krypto barks.

Kara walks off still laughing—“I’m telling the Justice League!”—while you and Clark both groan, Krypto smugly nestled between you like the world’s fluffiest third wheel.

And the Fortress echoes with a whole new kind of warmth.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Idk if you're still doing Kpop demon hunters, but could we get fluff/comfort/smut scenarios aimed for male!readers x Saja boys? Maybe even transmasc ones? Don't really see a lot of those around the fandom.

Of course! Is there any specific one's you'd like to see or any specific scenarios ?

[multi-fandom-imagine]

On my way home, had a nice day out

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Five like's is good enough for me

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭 || 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 ||

A/n: Annnd another one

You’ve always said danger was relative. Clark says you’re ridiculous.

The first time he saves you, it’s from a fire escape. You were trying to get the perfect aerial shot of a Metropolis street market from above, balancing on one foot, one hand gripping your camera and the other fumbling with your lens cap. You remember tilting a little too far forward.

You also remember the warm wind rushing past your face.

Then his arms—strong and impossibly fast—looping around your waist, gently pulling you to safety. You looked up into those eyes, framed by those annoyingly attractive glasses.

“You fell again,” he said, brow furrowed.

You grinned. “Got the shot, though.”

⸻

The second time, it’s raining. You’re kneeling on the edge of a construction site, photographing the sunrise bouncing off a freshly built skyscraper, when your foot slips on wet concrete. A scream barely leaves your lips before you’re airborne.

Clark’s just there, like he always is. One arm under your knees, the other braced around your back.

“Are you actually trying to die for your art?” he mutters, voice low and dry.

You grin again. “It’s a dramatic skyline. It deserved a dramatic angle.”

He doesn’t smile, but his thumb brushes the side of your face. You feel it anyway.

⸻

Then there was the rooftop incident. Yes, that one.

You’d convinced Jimmy to help you up onto the Daily Planet’s roof so you could photograph the rally three blocks down. Clark told you explicitly not to climb anything. You told him you were “just going up for a sec...I swear."

Cue a gust of wind and a very wobbly tripod. You nearly go over the edge, heart slamming in your chest.

Except Clark catches you. Again.

This time, he’s clearly not amused.

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose.”

You just wink. “Well, if you keep catching me, how am I supposed to stop?"

There’s a pause.

And then he kisses you. Not softly, not cautiously—just like he catches you. With everything he has.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs against your lips.

“And you’re invincible,” you reply breathlessly. “Seems fair.”

⸻

You don’t stop climbing. You don’t stop leaning a little too far. You don’t stop chasing light and color like it’s oxygen.

And Clark doesn’t stop catching you.

Because he knows you’ll never stop chasing the perfect shot.

And he’ll never stop chasing you.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

May I add you to my Harry Potter writers list?

Of course 🥰

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Do you have any rules?

No canon x canon ( i just dont write it )

No minor x reader

No cheating

Are the biggest one's i have

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I have a three part fic i wanna write, let me know if you want it.

It will consist of.

Michael!Dean fucking the reader

Dean fucking the reader

Poly between Dean x Reader x Michael!Dean

[multi-fandom-imagine]

One of my friends did that :/

She became an ex-friend real quick(once I realized which took awhile)

Its a very shitty feeling :/

I'm sorry you went through that

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐈 𝐊𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐈𝐭 || 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 ||

The rooftop was quiet. Too quiet.

Clark had just taken off his glasses. Just… casually took them off while squinting at a distant fire, and then muttered something about needing to go help before turning back to you.

You froze.

Your eyes narrowed.

His eyes glowed slightly. Just enough to fry a toaster.

“…Clark?”

“Hm?”

“Do you—” You took a step closer. “Do you want to tell me something?”

He blinked. Then gave that sheepish half-smile. “I suppose it’s time.”

And with that, the blazer came off, the shirt unbuttoned—bam! Superman suit underneath, red and blue in all its glory.

You stood still for a beat...it was quiet for a moment until you shouted. "I KNEW IT!”

You threw your arms in the air like you’d just won the lottery.

“I freaking knew it! Clark Kent is Superman! ME! I figured it out!”

You began to hop in place, then broke into a celebratory dance—some chaotic combo of a shimmy, a spin, and a finger-point skyward.

“Who said the glasses were too obvious? ME! Who said no one’s shoulders are that broad by accident? ALSO ME!”

Clark, amused, tried to interrupt. “Honey—”

“And to everyone who said I was overthinking it? To Lois? I say—HA!”

You spun triumphantly, taking an exaggerated moonwalk backwards—

—and stepped right off the edge of the roof.

There was a pause.Then a yelp. Followed by;

“OH COME ON!”

Before gravity could do its thing, a blur of red and blue swooped under you and caught you mid-air.

You glared up at Clark, now floating and cradling you like a princess.

“Just admit it,” you huffed, “this is the second most dramatic way I could’ve found out.”

He chuckled. “What’s the first?”

You smirked. “You accidentally heat-visioning the TV during The Bachelor finale.”

He winced. “Okay, yeah. That would’ve been worse.”