punksnotdeadbutiam

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Oh this is the Wayne!reader insert I’ve been dreaming about 🥹❤️

a resounding heart attack

summary | there are three romance rules you have to follow: don't date coworkers, don't fall in love with flirty people, and never show how whipped you actually are. clark fails the three of them.

pairing | clark kent x wayne!female!reader

warnings / tags | pure fluff with a bit of suggestive stuff (language & actions), but nothing actually happening except lingerie photos that reader does not send but they are from a production :D. reader is a menace but gotham loves her ??? she's actually so cheeky so flirty so everything (just one chance pls). clark is blushing mess especially when it comes to her. mentions to a sad childhood because reader it's literally a wayne ?????

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

i've written this with david!clark on my mind but you can picture him hoverer you want. i also believe in battinson agenda for this specific version of clark :D

THERE ARE LITTLE THINGS IN THE WORLD THAT CAN AFFECT CLARK KENT.

All the types of Kryptonite disturb him in different ways. Red sun weakens him, dulling his strength and senses until he almost forgets what it feels like to be invulnerable. Magic does a number on him too, inexplicable and chaotic, like trying to hold onto smoke with bare hands. Other aliens with tech far beyond Earth’s understanding have hurt him, too. Kara once punched his arm and left it all purple — it healed fast, but it still hurt.  

There are, indeed, little things that can affect him. 

But you? 

You are at the top of that list.

He does not remember his heart beating that fast, almost inhumanly, on the edge of being impossible. Does not remember his cheeks ever being so red, his clumsiness bordering on being considered the dumbest man on Earth. Once he dropped his entire mug of coffee on his slacks just because you called him “Smallville” with that mischievous little smirk. 

Jimmy, Lois and practically everyone just laugh at him, his quirks, but he can't help it.

He can't help how much you affect him. Can't help how much he likes you. 

In his defense, there's no way he was able to not like you. Not only because he —and at least half the population— thinks you are hot. You are hot. Very much. He’s not going to lie to himself about that. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t feel like it was made for the front page of a magazine, but the kind that stuns you mid-sentence because of how effortless it is. You laugh too loudly sometimes, you talk with your hands, and you make eye contact like it’s a dare.

But it’s more than that.

You’re smart. Sharp as broken glass. Your writing is electric, biting in the way that Gothamites tend to be—your byline alone has caused five resignations, two public apologies, and one lawsuit (which the Daily Planet won). Not even Perry crosses you, that must count for something. You flirt with everyone, but with him, it’s different. You save your cheekiest lines, your softest smirks, your most infuriating whispers for him—as if you know how easily he folds.

The worst thing is not that you work together. No. Clark has a complete and long list about the worst —best— part of working with you.

In the first place, is that you share the same space with him. Your desks are pressed together, both of you facing one another, screens lit up, voices low as you trade edits, ideas, and insults. Your heel taps his shoe sometimes—grazing more than stepping. He’s convinced you don’t even notice it, that it’s just a habit, something subconscious.

From his seat, he sees you clearly. Memorizes your expressions like a song stuck on repeat. The way your eyes narrow when something doesn’t sit right. The sharp inhale before you pounce on a lead. You scrunch your nose when someone makes a poor argument, like it physically pains you to hear idiocy. You press your tongue briefly between your lips when you're deep in thought, which he pretends not to see but always does. You smile—oh, when you smile—it hits like sunlight through lead glass. Blinding. Honest. Beautiful.

The two of you share a corkboard pinned to the wall. His side is sparse—some clippings, a "Mighty Crabjoys" movie poster, and a coffee-stained sheet of work hours he never took down. But yours? Yours is filled to the brim, despite not being much space.

A series of colorful letters that spell your name, doodles, a Gotham National University pennant, and a printed photo of a night out with everyone —Lois, Jimmy, Steve, Cat, you, and himself included.

He hears the click of your heels before anyone else does.

It’s the kind of sound that parts his thoughts in two, makes them flutter like loose pages in a breeze. Sharp, rhythmic, deliberate. You don’t walk through the bullpen—you arrive. And every step pulls the air taut around him like fishing line. 

He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you. His entire body already knows. His hearing adjusts itself before he can think better of it—your heartbeat, lighter than most, steady and confident, like it owns time. Like it’s never once skipped or stalled the way his just did.

You turn the corner and he’s already looking, caught in the act—he knows you catch him. You always do.

You enter the Daily Planet like you own it, and in some subtle way, you do. Not because of your name. You don’t need money or threats to command a room. You have something worse. Charisma. Ease. Danger. Power in a smile that knows it has claws and doesn’t care to hide them.

Your skirt is black and short—unreasonably so. Illegal in several states, maybe. Certainly illegal in Clark’s heart, because it just stopped beating. Your white stockings gleam slightly under the lights, spotless and smooth and devastating. You’ve tucked your ironed shirt into your waistline like some kind of cruel, beautiful war crime. Gold glints from your ears, your wrist, the edge of your collar. Not fake gold, not plated. Real. Heavy. Old money.

You wear your wealth the same way you wear your grin—like a challenge.

You look over, the corner of your mouth curling, and say, just for him, “Good morning, Smallville.”

Smallville.

He could snap the pen in his hand if he weren’t careful. You say it so softly. So wickedly. Like you know. Like you know that he’s already halfway undone and you’re just playing with the bow.

Clark already had your coffee in his hand—he'd been holding it since 7:43 AM, exactly three minutes after he arrived. Two sugars, no cream. Lid slightly ajar because you said it kept the flavor from suffocating. He didn’t really understand what that meant, but he listened. He always listened.

He handed it to you with trembling fingers.

“Good morning,” he says, trying not to clear his throat.

You sit down, smooth the back of your skirt behind you with grace and muscle memory, and lean to the side, setting your bag against the leg of your desk. Your voice is light as you bring your phone to your ear again. He doesn’t mean to listen. But he hears everything. He always does.

“Alfred,” you say warmly. “Yes, I got here. No, no traffic, thank god. Yes, I remembered my meeting with Lucius over the computer. No, I’m not eating fast food for lunch. No— No, I will not talk to Bruce unless he sends Dickie over for the weekend. I already told him that.”

Clark’s cheeks heat just listening to you talk. Not because of what you’re saying. But because of how you sound when you say it. Comfortable. Confident. Unfiltered. Even the way you say Alfred is affectionate and biting at the same time. Gotham to your core.

“Alright, Alfie. Gotta go. No, I’m not drinking too much caffeine. That’s a lie and you know it. Bye.”

You hang up and turn your attention to the rest of the room, sweeping your gaze around the bullpen like a queen taking inventory of her court.

“What’d I miss?” you ask, reaching for your coffee.

Lois, across from you, didn’t look up from her monitor. “You missed Jimmy flirting with Marcie from legal. Again.”

Jimmy Olsen, from the far side of the square of desks, turned his chair with all the mock indignation of someone deeply unashamed. “I wasn’t flirting. I was complimenting her boots.”

“You told her she had the stride of an Amazon warrior,” Lois deadpanned.

“Well, she does!” Jimmy said, throwing up his hands. “That’s empowering. I’m being supportive.”

You sipped your coffee, giving Clark a wink over the rim. “You’re one scandal away from a harassment workshop, Olsen.”

“Pffft. I’ve dated half the women on this floor.”

“Exactly.”

Lois snorted, and Clark tried very hard not to laugh. He tried even harder not to stare.

It was pointless.

You leaned back in your chair, arching slightly as you stretched—your blouse pulling just enough to make Clark look away before he went blind from the effort it took not to look. You tapped your pen against your lower lip as you glanced at the whiteboard across the bullpen.

“I see no one’s updated the lead stories,” you said casually. “So we’re still pretending the mayor’s brother being caught in a LexCorp-funded apartment with two unlicensed bounty hunters isn’t news?”

Perry White’s voice roared from his glass office. “I’m waiting on confirmation before we blast that one, Wayne!”

“Oh, sorry,” you replied, not even looking at him. “I forgot the Planet’s new slogan: ‘Cowards First.’”

Clark coughed to cover his laugh, and Lois shook her head, grinning.

“Do you wake up and choose violence or is it just muscle memory at this point?” Lois asked, not even hiding the fondness in her tone.

“Neither,” you said, rolling your chair closer to the below edge of the desk. Your knees brushed his. He stopped breathing. “I wake up and check if Gotham’s still a hellhole. Then I make myself look nice for Smallville here.”

You smiled at him, devilish. Clark’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

Jimmy leaned over the desk, pointing between the two of you. “This,” he said, “this is why I never bother flirting with you. I don’t like losing.”

“Oh, lover boy,” you purred. “No one even asked you to compete.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “And I never will again. Lesson learned.”

Lois chuckled, returning to her screen. “Good. Maybe now you’ll actually write your piece on the sewage reform bill.”

Jimmy groaned. “Please. Why do I always get the sexy stuff?”

Clark finally found his voice. “Because last time you covered a robbery, you took a selfie with the suspect.”

“He was holding the stolen merchandise!” Jimmy argued. “What was I supposed to do—ignore the story?”

You shook your head with a dramatic sigh. “You’re the reason Perry has a ‘No Selfies at Crime Scenes’ memo pinned to the break room door.”

Clark smiles, ducking his head toward his screen, pretending to reread a paragraph he’s already proofed twice. But your heel taps his shoe under the desk—lightly, casually—and the impact goes straight to his ribcage.

You sip your coffee and sigh happily. “Mm. You got the vanilla right this time.”

“I, uh—yeah,” Clark says. “I remembered.”

“Of course you did.” You grin, crossing one leg over the other. “You always do.”

He forces his eyes to his monitor. His vision is fine, of course. Superfine. He could read microscopic text if he wanted. Right now, though, even large font blurs when you look at him like that.

Lois finally glances up and gives you a once-over. “Did you steal that skirt from a teenager?”

You make a scandalized noise. “Lois Lane. Jealousy is unbecoming.”

“I’m just worried HR is gonna pass out in the hallway.”

“Please. HR loves me. They send me memes.”

Jimmy leans over the divider. “Is it true you threatened that CEO with a bottle of wine?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Technically, I described what a bottle of wine could do in the hands of a woman from Gotham. The threat was implied.”

Lois huffed. “God, you two are unbearable before ten.”

You wink. “We’re unbearable after ten, too. Just more caffeinated.”

A comfortable hum settles into the bullpen after that. Everyone returns to work—Lois muttering to herself, Jimmy editing photos, the low murmur of keyboards and printer hums filling the space. Clark focuses on his article, or at least pretends to. The screen glows back at him, a half-finished headline blinking expectantly. He tries again.

From his seat, he can see you—your expression flickering through a dozen small emotions as you scroll through your inbox, narrowing your eyes, muttering curses at editors, grinning when Jimmy shows you a ridiculous photo of a dog wearing sunglasses. He watches you like a man stranded in the desert watches a thundercloud. With reverence. With thirst.

It’s stupid, probably. This crush. This...thing.

But then again, everything about you is a little bit dangerous. A little bit impossible.

And still—he wants it. Wants you. Wants this part of his life that feels so close to normal, even if it isn’t.

Because you don’t know.

You don’t know who he is. What he is. You flirt with him like he’s just a man. You smile at him like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand secrets on his spine. And when your heel brushes his shoe again, just lightly, he lets himself smile back.

Just a little.

Just enough to make it through the rest of the day.

Moving to Metropolis had been a choice . . . unexpected to everyone close to you. Well, you didn't have many close people back on Gotham that weren't your brother, Alfred, and Dick. And Dick was your nephew, so that must say something. 

Growing up as orphans took its toll on you and your brother, but each of you took different paths. While Bruce trained in his youth to become Gotham's vigilante—the glorious Dark Knight—adopting Dick while on it, you had become more of a celebrity, always the center of attention. 

When you came of age, you became a model —while studying multiple careers: you were fascinated with the aspect of having many degrees since you could remember— and it wasn't until you moved to Metropolis several years later that you abandoned your career altogether.

It wasn't that you didn't enjoy it. You really enjoyed being a model. Especially when the shoot wasn't shared—the modeling world was very competitive, and quite exhausting, too.

But it wasn't enough.

You went to therapy for many years. Your brother hadn't been able to be convinced, but Alfred had insisted so much that you had no way of refusing. And it was in one of your last sessions that your psychologist had mentioned something about a new lease on life.

Perhaps she didn't mean exactly moving to another city, but you took it like that.

Gotham had been your cradle and your crypt. It raised you, starved you, scarred you. It made you what you are. But it also stole a piece of you when it took your parents. You were only eight, and you still remember the scream your brother made—guttural, inhuman—as he held your tiny shoulders and covered your eyes. He’d been just a kid, too.

You loved Bruce, deeply. You respected what he became. But the way he chose to fight back… it wasn’t your way.

You had to find your own.

That's how you ended up in Metropolis, with an excellent letter of recommendation (or rather, a favor) that led you right to where you are now. You lived well, combining the money from your last name with your salary, in a safe area, on the top floor of a tall building.

Metropolis differed vastly from Gotham. While Gotham rarely saw a ray of sunlight, Metropolis seemed flooded with it. There weren't as many villains as in your hometown either, but the ones that did exist were either pure aliens or completely enhanced. Meta-humans, they called them.

And here they didn't have a vigilante. They had a hero.

Superman.

Your brother doesn't especially likes him. Doesn't hate him either way. He just wants you safe, and if Superman is there to protect all of Metropolis, then he must be there to protect you as well. 

You don't worry much about it. If it's about burglars, you have a gun, a taser and a pepper spray so powerful that you could be arrested in at least five countries. If it's about aliens . . . well, you had a good life.

Lunch breaks at the Daily Planet were a coin toss. Sometimes, you barely got a fifteen-minute window to scarf down a protein bar between deadlines and chaos. Other times, like today, you managed to sneak out with Lois Lane—two of the sharpest tongues in the city wrapped in designer sunglasses and sarcasm, tucked into a booth in a tiny diner four blocks from the office.

You liked this place. A hole-in-the-wall with cracking linoleum and a grumpy waitress who called everyone “sweetheart” and meant it in a way that could also mean “dumbass.” The coffee was terrible, but the fries? Perfect. Greasy, salty, served on cracked white plates with tiny cups of spicy ketchup. You and Lois had claimed the corner booth months ago, and no one had dared to sit there since.

You pulled your sunglasses off your head, tossing them onto the table as you sank into the squeaky vinyl seat.

“I swear to god,” you muttered, unbuttoning the top of your blouse to breathe, “if Perry gives me one more rewrite on that Luthor piece, I’m going to throw myself out a window.”

Lois smirked over the rim of her iced tea. “He only pushes you because your drafts are so clean. You know he likes to feel like he’s doing something.”

“Yeah? Next time he wants to feel productive, he can scrub the bathrooms.” You stabbed a fry. “He’s lucky I don’t invoice him for every time he makes me put a period after LexCorp instead of Lexcorp.”

Lois’s laugh was soft, knowing, the kind that made her seem lighter than she ever let herself be at work. “You need a vacation.”

“I need a raise.”

“You’re already rich.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want Perry’s money too. I’m a capitalist pig. I want your money while we’re at it.”

Lois chuckled again, shaking her head. “Gotham.”

“Damn right.”

It was easy, this. Effortless. You’d always gotten along well with women—grew up around men who didn’t talk about their feelings and a brother who bottled everything up until it cracked through his ribs—but Lois? Lois was like steel wrapped in velvet. Smart, intense, loyal to a fault. You liked her immediately. She reminded you of a fox—sharp, beautiful, and always watching.

You weren’t sure when you’d become best friends. It had just… happened. Shared assignments turned into late-night editing sessions, which turned into wine-fueled gossip nights, which eventually became something deeper. It felt good to have someone like her. 

She didn’t care that you were a Wayne. She didn’t care about Gotham. You were just you to her. You hadn’t had that in years.

“So,” Lois said, her voice carrying that sharp edge she got when she was gearing up to dissect something, “are we gonna talk about it or do I have to drag it out of you?”

You blinked at her. “Talk about what?”

She gave you a look. The Lois Lane look. The one that could strip paint from a wall and force you to confess crimes you hadn’t even committed.

“Oh no,” you said, pointing a fry at her like a weapon. “I am not talking about it.”

“You are absolutely talking about it,” she countered. “Because you’ve been mooning over him like a teenage girl with a crush on her math teacher, and I’m this close to staging an intervention.”

Your entire body went hot, like she’d just shouted the truth to the whole diner. “Lois—”

“Don’t Lois me,” she said firmly. “You are painfully, pathetically, devastatingly whipped for Clark Kent, and it’s embarrassing for both of us at this point.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I am not whipped.”

“You’re whipped,” she said again, sipping her tea with infuriating calm. “You’re so whipped you buy your outfits based on how you think he’ll react. I saw you this morning. That skirt? That was a weapon of mass destruction.”

You peeked through your fingers at her. “Okay, first of all, I looked amazing. And second of all…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe I wanted him to notice.”

Lois leaned forward, smug. “And did he?”

You hated that she was making you say it out loud. “He… looked at me.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Lois, it’s Clark. He looks at everyone like they hung the moon. That man probably blushes at Perry when he’s in a good mood.”

Lois laughed so hard she nearly choked on her tea. “Okay, first, I wish I could un-hear that mental image. Second, you’re wrong. Clark doesn’t look at me like that. Or Jimmy. Or anyone. He looks at you like that.”

You snorted, leaning back against the booth. “He’s just… nervous. He’s nervous around everyone. That’s his thing. He’s like a giant golden retriever with anxiety.”

Lois leveled you with another one of her patented, withering stares. “You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly. “I work hard at it.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Y/N. He likes you. He’s just shy. Painfully shy. The man can barely string a sentence together when you’re around.”

Your heart gave an unhelpful little flutter, and you immediately tried to squash it. “Or he’s just… shy in general.”

“No,” Lois said flatly. “Trust me, I’ve known him for years. He’s quiet, but he’s not shy. He’s the kind of guy who’s comfortable letting everyone else take the spotlight. Except with you. You short-circuit him.”

You stared at her, trying to will yourself not to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope led to heartbreak. And you’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. “You really think he likes me?”

Lois smirked. “I know he likes you. You could cut the tension between you two with a butter knife. Honestly, it’s nauseating.”

You bit your lip, fiddling with your straw. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s Clark. He’s kind, and sweet, and ridiculously good-looking, and—”

“And you’re crazy about him,” Lois supplied.

“Shut up.”

“You are,” she said, grinning like the devil. “You’re so gone for him it’s painful.”

You shoved a fry in your mouth to avoid answering, chewing furiously. But she wasn’t wrong. Clark Kent had somehow managed to completely undo you. Which was ridiculous, because you’d grown up surrounded by some of the most intimidating, impressive men on the planet. Bruce. Alfred. Hell, you had met the most attractive men on Earth while being a model…

Clark Kent made your heart beat like you were sixteen again.

“He’s so fucking cute.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Violently.” You popped another fry into your mouth. “Do you think he knows? Like, knows?”

Lois blinked at you over her straw. “Are you serious?”

“I mean… I flirt with him a lot.”

“You practically sit on his desk and purr.”

“He never flirts back.”

Lois put her drink down with a thunk. “Y/N. He stutters when you look at him. He spilled an entire latte on his lap last week because you called him Smallville.”

You tilted your head, considering. “Okay, but—he’s like that with everyone, isn’t he?”

“No. He’s not. He’s awkward, sure, but with you? It’s different. What I'm saying is that Clark Kent is terminally down bad for you. And has been since you showed up at the Planet for the first time in Prada heels and a war crime of a pencil skirt.”

You smiled, teeth flashing. “So you noticed that skirt.”

“Everyone noticed that skirt. Including HR.”

“Still not my shortest.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. And half the office thinks you’re already dating.”

You blinked. “They do?”

“Of course they do,” she said. “You two sit practically on top of each other all day. You bring him coffee, he brings you bagels, you touch his leg under the desk, he turns the color of a tomato… it’s a whole thing.”

You buried your face in your hands again, frustrated with yourself. “I’m going to die.”

Lois grinned wickedly. “Or you’re going to kiss him. Your choice.”

The walk back to the Daily Planet is slow, heavy with the weight of too many fries and just enough gossip to give the next hour of productivity a fighting chance. You and Lois move together the way you always do—shoulder to shoulder, stride for stride, two women used to commanding space and rarely apologizing for it.

Lois is telling you about a source she has in the Mayor’s office—a guy who apparently sweats like a faucet when asked about Luthor’s latest construction contracts.

“You should see him,” she says, half-laughing as you both round the corner. “One mention of ‘independent oversight’ and the man’s upper lip turns into Niagara Falls.”

You snort, adjusting your sunglasses on top of your head. “I’ll go with you next time. I’ve been told I have a very disarming presence.”

“Oh, you disarm alright,” Lois mutters, pushing open the lobby doors. “Mostly by blowing people’s equilibrium to hell.”

“Why thank you,” you grin. “I do my best.”

You ride the elevator up with the kind of easy silence only best friends share. Lois doesn’t press, not anymore. She’s said her piece about Clark—twice—and now she’s letting the cards fall where they may. Which is good. Because your heart is still somewhere back in that booth, fluttering like a moth caught in a lampshade.

The bullpen is quieter now, the post-lunch lull settling in. Phones ring, keys clack, and the occasional shout from Perry’s office cuts through like a cleaver. Jimmy’s at his desk, editing something with his headphones on. Lois splits off with a “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and you answer with “That’s a very short list,” earning a wink and a wave as she disappears.

You move through the bullpen with purpose—heels tapping soft but steady—and you’re halfway to your desk when something catches your eye. Or rather, someone.

Clark.

He’s exactly where you left him: sitting ramrod straight, tie slightly loosened now, glasses perched just so, brow furrowed in concentration. From behind, he looks painfully composed. Too composed. The kind of composed that only comes from total panic.

And the screen in front of him?

Well.

That’s your face.

Your body.

A high-resolution photo splashed across his monitor, larger than life. You in pale green lingerie, draped across a white velvet couch, lips parted, hair tousled, gaze direct. The photo is a couple years old, but unmistakably you. From a Gotham editorial that never ran publicly, just teased in hush-hush corners of the internet and fashion magazines. A private, exclusive shoot—back when you still occasionally let stylists talk you into anything.

It wasn’t obscene, not exactly, but it was… suggestive.

Clark Kent is staring at it like it might explode.

You stop walking.

Then, slowly, carefully, like a predator who’s just spotted something delicious, you change course. You drift behind his desk with feigned nonchalance, the lazy curl of a smirk already blooming on your lips. He hasn’t noticed yet. He’s too focused. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You lean in close. Not too close—just enough. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough that he can feel the softness of your blouse graze the back of his shoulder. You rest your chin on the slope between his collar and the thick fabric of his suit jacket. He froze, every muscle going tight as though you’d just hit him with a Taser.

Your voice is warm honey when you speak.

“Well, well. I didn’t know I had a fan club.”

Clark jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“Y-Y/N—!” His voice pitches up. He fumbles for the keyboard like it might save him, slamming a key—probably Escape, poor thing—but it only zooms the photo in further. Right on your midriff.

You raise an eyebrow, still resting your chin on him like you belong there. “Nice monitor, Smallville. That screen quality’s amazing. Did the Planet get new tech or are you just… investing in some private research?”

“I—No, I didn’t—This isn’t—” he’s turning bright red, hands practically slamming at the keys now in pure panic. The image disappears with a blur of motion, but the damage is done. The shade of him. Scarlet all the way up to his ears. You swear even the back of his neck is blushing. 

You grin, slow and wicked.

“Relax,” you murmur near his ear. “It’s not like I’m offended. I’d say I’m flattered.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a strangled gasp.

You step around his chair, finally moving to stand in front of him. Not that it helps. You’re still too close—just standing, slightly leaning into the wood. And you’re looking at him now. Really looking. Fingers resting lazily on the edge of his desk, eyes soft but unreadable.

“That’s an old photo,” you said conversationally, eyes flicking toward the screen. “At least two years, maybe three. I’m impressed you dug it up.”

He made a strangled noise. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, sure,” you interrupted again, smirking. “You just… accidentally stumbled across me in lingerie on a random Tuesday afternoon. Happens all the time.”

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough with mortification. “I can explain—”

You tilt your head.

“But between you and me,” you say, voice low, “there are… better views than that photo.”

Clark blinks rapidly, shoulders so stiff they could crack. “Better—?”

You let the silence stretch, letting him squirm just a little longer. Watching him. Watching how hard he tries not to look at your mouth. Your legs. Anywhere but your eyes. He fails, beautifully.

You smile—real slow, like it knows too much.

“I mean,” you shrug, feigning innocence, “if you want an updated photoshoot, all you have to do is ask. I’m very cooperative when properly motivated.”

The sound that escaped him wasn’t even a word. More like a faint, startled noise from the back of his throat.

You straightened up at last, letting him breathe, and smoothed your skirt with a practiced flick of your fingers. “Anyway,” you said breezily, as though you hadn’t just completely destroyed him in front of his own computer. “I should get back to work.”

Clark turned slowly in his chair, wide-eyed and still visibly reeling, his tie slightly askew. “Y/N, I—”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “No need to explain, Smallville. Really. Just… try not to get distracted, hmm? Perry would hate for you to miss a deadline because you were staring at my legs on a screen.”

You gave him one last, devastating smile before gliding toward your desk, heels clicking softly on the floor. Behind you, you could feel his gaze follow you like a physical thing, hot and helpless and utterly, wonderfully Clark.

Yeah, maybe Lois was right.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Hear her out, take her out, eat her out

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

god someone’s gotta write this 🙂‍↕️

I’m gonna tell you something right now.

I would let this man free use me into oblivion.

But if I actually worked at the Pitt, and this man squatted down to my eye level to try and prove a point?

I would punch him so hard in the fucking face.

They’d be calling security

“AHMAD! SHE DONE SOCKED DR ROBBY IN THE FACE!”

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

TV APPRECIATION WEEK 2025 Day 2: Newest TV Obsession (x, x) -> The Pitt (2025-)

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

blind boxes and x-ray visions

• pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

• now playing: love you for a long time by maggie rogers and the simple things by michael carreon

• word count: 3.2k

• genre: fluff

— another quick one I made just now. unedited again, but i hope you enjoy!

The keys jingle loudly in your grip as you twist them to open your front door; the singular key to your apartment is lost among the numerous keychains hanging on the split ring. You were well aware that Clark was already inside. It had become a sort of tradition between the two of you for him to leave earlier from the office to buy stuff to make dinner, if you call breakfast food dinner, as a surprise. It has also become a habit of yours to make a fuss while opening the door to subtly announce your presence, because, for a metahuman, he does get startled a lot.

“Hey! You’re right on time,” he says as you step foot into the kitchen. Before you could even get a word in, he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. You let your bag drop from your shoulders to the floor and slide your hands across his chest.

It’s warm and easy, his way of saying I missed you in the three hours we spent apart without saying it out loud. He tastes like coffee and something sweet. It must have been from taking bites from the small bowl of strawberries behind him. He pulls back as you gasp when he effortlessly picks you up to place you on the counter, just enough to glance down at you.

“How was the drive home?” he murmurs, voice low against your cheek.

You nod, half-dazed. And he smiles that adorable grin of his that reminds you of summer.

Then, with a chuckle, he steps away to check on the pan on the stove. “You’re just right in time. Can you hand me some plates?”

You grab two mismatched plates from the overhead cabinets behind you before moving to stand next to him. With no words spoken and collisions,  you move around like it’s your second nature. He transfers the food to the plates you put on the counter next to the stove. While you reach for the utensils as he shifts out of the way. At the sound of the door opening, a hand reaches out from behind you to grab two glasses.

It felt like a quiet rhythm you’ve both fallen into without trying. It was something you loved with Clark. You didn’t have to think about anything the way you normally would without others. 

You just know. And so does he.

Sitting next to each other on the couch as the voices from the television fill the room, your attention was entirely on the film that was playing. Your legs are folded beneath you, shoulders leaning slightly into his. One of his arms lay comfortably on the back of the couch.

He shifts to grab your empty plate, walking towards the kitchen to drop them off in the sink in an organised manner, knowing that you liked to wash them by hand after dinner. It was sort of a therapeutic time for you to rinse the dishes with the great view of Metropolis just above the sink.

He resumes his position beside you, but instead, he grabs your legs to place them on top of his lap while your eyes remain focused on the movie. At some point, his eyes drift from the television to the shelf on the wall. His eyes lock onto an unfamiliar figurine resting beside your books. 

Thanks to his incredible vision, he looks closer. Its wide, green eyes look to be in a glare. It, or she, was holding a white notepad with what seems to be a black cat with wings on its back. The colors were soft and pleasing to look at: forest green pants, a cream and blueish green hoodie, and a headset atop her orange hair. It reminds him of you while you’re busy at work with your notepad always on hand.

“What’s that?” he asks with a small furrow in his brow and a curious glint in his eyes. You pause the movie and shift your gaze to where he was looking.

“Oh!” You immediately knew what he was pertaining to. “That’s a figurine that I bought yesterday. I was at the mall with my sister, and she wanted to go to this store that might have something she was looking for. A figurine, too.”

You pull your legs from his hold and stand to grab the figure from its place. Dropping next to him, you show it off. “She was collecting those ugly little monster figures, but then I saw these on display and had to buy them. It was so adorable.”

Clark blinks at you, then at the figurine in your hands, and back at you again. “Ugly little monster figures?” he asks as he carefully takes the plastic figurine from your grasp. He was holding it sodelicately since it reminded him of those comic hero figurines that he used to collect back in high school. 

“Yeah, they have sharp teeth and furry bodies. I hated them, but I promised her I would buy whatever she wanted.” You shrug.

“Are they a collectible or what? You said she was looking for it specifically,” he asks, eyes still focused on the item in his hands.

“Yeah, it’s a blind box figurine. You buy it without knowing which one you’re gonna get. They have a preview on the side of the box that tells you what it might be,” you explain. “There’s even a secret one that is super hard to get!”

His eyebrows draw together as he looks at you, the gears in his head visibly turning. “So you just… pay for it and hope you get the one you want?” he finally asks, confused by its appeal.

You grin, nodding. “Pretty much. I chose a series that had more of the cute designs so I wouldn’t regret it.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he gives it back to you with the same measured care. Seeing him do so made your heart soften. The fact that he didn’t fully understand what it meant to you, but still wasn’t so dismissive and uncaring, was a change from your past partners.

“Why not just buy the one you want?” he asks.

“Where’s the fun in that?” you shoot back, “I wondered that too, but while we were opening our bags in the car. It was so thrilling. Lana said I should choose which ones I wanted first and the ones I don’t want and say it out loud so that it keeps it suspenseful.”

He looks at you endearingly at the way you were so happily describing the experience with your sister. The glint in your eyes was so bright even in the dark. You were also waving your hands around the way you do when you are overly excited about something.

He laughs when you say, “Lana was so mad that the thing she said of saying the one you want out loud didn’t work.” 

“Why?”

“Apparently, if you declare the ones you hate or something, you would get that specific one. But luckily for me, I got a good one!” You clapped like a kid in a candy store. The sight made a small, affectionate smile tug at his lips. The deep dimples on the side of his mouth that you loved so much make an appearance.

Clark keeps asking you questions to which you happily answer. Then, unable to control himself, he comes forward and cups your jaw gently as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

The next day, around lunch time and you were off on an assignment wth Cat. He turns to Lois.

“Hey, do you happen to know what blind boxes are?’ he asks. Lois was confused as to why he was asking her about such things, but nodded, nonetheless.

Lois raises an eyebrow, mid-sip into her sugar-filled coffee. “Yeah,” she says. “Those little collectible toys that come in sealed packages so you don’t know what you’re getting until you open them. Why.”

He shifts a little, feigning casualty, but the way he pushes his glasses up is a tell of his interest. “No reason. Just…uh, do you know where to get them? Like the ones that are girls with big wide eyes,” he says, unsure of how to describe them.

Lois stares at him.

He adds, “It’s tall and wears baggy clothes and has orange hair,” and gestures vaguely to show how tall it was.

“Clark,” she turns her chair to face him, “are you trying to buy one of those cutesy little female dolls?”

He clears his throat, rushing to clarify. “It’s not for me!”

“Right.” Lois leans back in her chair, knowing perfectly well it’s for you, but you guys haven’t been public yet at the office, so she lets go of it. “You’ll want ot check any toy store at the Metro Center. I’m pretty sure they have the ones you’re looking for. It’s a bit farther, but there’s a store on 7th Avenue that has the official store for them if you can’t find any at Metro.”

He quickly thanks her and moves back to his desk just as you enter through the double doors and slide a cup of hojicha for him. Making sure to drop one for Lois, too, as you pass.

The store was quite big, tucked beside a bookshop, and had a lot more people walking around than he expected. Clark was standing in front of the display like he was inspecting evidence of conspiracy, hands in his pockets, brow slightly furrowed. The low display table was stacked with rows of Peach Riot boxes, some for individual buys and a few sealed off the whole thing. The glossy packaging was plastered with chaotic, overdramatic little poses of the characters in different attire.

He scanned the 12 boxes in front of him, then again, a slow breath leaving his mouth.

Peach Riot Rise Up Figures.

That was the one that seemed to be the series you got. His eyes skimmed over the lineup printed on the side of the display box: Gigi Lil’ Lead, Frankie Sick Beats, Poppy Business, Frankie Diva.

You pointed out that you wanted Frankie Diva last night, flickering through your phone as you were lying back on his chest, showing the complete collection to him. You found her little red cowboy hat adorable, which reminded you of the one you had as a kid. Then you also liked the Sick Beats one. 

He looked around. A couple of teenagers hovered by the huge figurines at the centre. One bored cashier. No one that would wonder why he would be staring so intently at the boxes.

Casually, he reached out and grabbed a box in each of his hands. His x-ray vision flicked on for just a second, just enough ot catch a glimpse of the figure inside. “Poppy Business, pass,” he muttered under his breath.

He set it back and continued to pick up another box until he found one that contained either of what you wanted.

It was box five when he hit the jackpot. That went into the crook of his arm.

He looked around for another series you mentioned, the Punk Fairy ones. He immediately spots them a few steps over.

Jackpot on box three. Poppy-Strawberry. He found the secret figure. Looking at the two he has, you would have one of each character now. 

Then, just for fun, he scanned for two more: Gigi Leaf and Frankie Tutor. Both were cute, but kind of too boring for their price tag. 

About two days later, you come home from the grocery store to find Clark already in your apartment. He swiftly grabbed the bags from your arms and gave you a peck on the forehead before moving to the kitchen to sort them out for you.

“I got something for you,” he says as you follow him to help. 

You turn to see where he was pointing to find a bag from the store waiting for you at the coffee table. You gasp and run towards the living room with Clark trailing after you with a smile on his face.

“Oh my! No, you didn’t!” You excitedly slap his arms as you sit down on the floor. 

“Yes, way!” His high-pitched voice makes you laugh. “Open it.”

“Ok, what do we have?” you say to yourself as you spill the contents of the bag. Meanwhile, Clark was looking at you expectantly, waiting for your reaction as you opened them. 

“This is a lot, Clark. You shouldn’t have!” you off-handedly remarked. But from how distracted you were by them, it seemed like you weren’t as bothered as you normally would be when he spoils you. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“Ok, but you have to open them with me so you get what I mean by how exciting it is!” You pull him forward from his relaxed posture beside you. You grabbed a random box, which you handed to him, and grabbed one. He laughs to himself, but you ignored him. Turning it to the side where twelve colorful iterations were printed, “We have to pick which ones we want.” You tap on one, then another. “I want the Tree Stump or Sunflower. Just not this leaf one. What about you?”

He glances at the box as if it were the first time he was looking at it before pointing decisively at the secret figurine.

You snort, “Secret figurines have, I think, a one in a hundred forty-four chances. Pick another.”

He laughs, “Ok…the Sick Beats then.”

“Ok, let’s tap the boxes before opening them,” you say as you tap on yours.

“Why?” 

“For luck.”

Clark stares at you, unimpressed, before looking down at the box in his hand. He exhales and mimics your movement. “This is dumb.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You wave him off, starting to rip the cardboard box already.

The sound of crinkling stiff plastic fills the room as you both rip them open. You close your eyes and let him look at your pull first. At his laugh, you groaned while opening your eyes to find Gigi Leaf staring back at you.

“The most boring one, seriously?” you sagged against the couch behind you. “What about you?”

He closes his eyes, too, before pulling out his own. You glance at it and groan again. “Ok! You’re bad at choosing boxes, I guess,” you tease, in a mix of disappointment and laughter. “You got Frankie Tutor. Cute but a bit boring too.”

Clark lifts the tiny figure between his fingers with a faux thoughtful hum. “Hmm, she’s cute. She’s helping kids out with their studies.” Brow furrowing with mock seriousness.

You snort, “Ok, Superman.”

He chuckles at that, the sound low and warm, and sets the figure down next to yours. Then he reaches to grab another box for you and himself. He made sure to grab the secret figure to mess with you even more, because he wanted to see the way your nose scrunches when you’re overflowing with energy. He finds it ridiculously adorable and swore to never stop buying you stuff that you loved if it meant seeing it again and again.

“Round two,” he says.

“Ok, hopefully this is good.” You tap the box like crazy and go as far as shaking it. Like that’s gonna help.

He tries not to smile too much so he won’t give himself away. You’re just so serious about it, like it was such a high-stakes mission. He loves that about you. The way you get so animated over things you were passionate about. And particularly loves that you make an effort to make him a part of the experience.

“You know shaking it won’t do anything, right?” he teases, knowing better the contents of the box.

You side-eye him, “You never know.”

“Ok, scientific method.” 

You both pulled the seal open again. He watches as you rip through the plastic and, much to his delight, your eyes widen the second you spot what’s inside.

“No way-” You yank it out, mouth open in surprise and glee. “It’s Frankie Diva!”

You turn the figurine to face him, showing it off like it was your baby. He leans back with a grin, watching you stare at the small figure like it’s made of gold.

“Open yours!” You sit up straight, suddenly reminded that there was still one more. 

Clark looks down as he spots the figure inside and makes a loud snort. You wait impatiently as he pulls it out. You lean in, wide-eyed, “What is it? Show me!”

But he takes his time, fingers curling slowly around the tiny figure as he lifts it out with the same reverence as someone handling a rare artifact. 

Your jaw drops.

You stare in disbelief as you look at the secret figurine he’s carefully holding in his hand. Your eyes comically dart back and forth from the figure to him. “Are you kidding me?”

He doesn’t even try to look modest. His expression shifts instantly more into that loud, smug look, the one that he wears when he knows he’s right. The one that makes you want to shove his face in.

“What did you say just now?” he says, putting a hand by his ear, pretending like he didn’t hear you right. “I’m bad at choosing boxes?”

“It was a joke,” you laugh, sheepish now as you reach for the figure in his hand. “I take it back. You’re gifted!”

But Clark knew, and he shifted just out of reach, holding the figure high above his head and a bit further behind him with ease. His grin widens as you try (and fail) to grab it from him.

“Oh no, no,” he says, voice dripping with faux-seriousness. “I don’t know, that seemed very insincere.”

You groan. “Clark. Baby. My lovely alien darling, who is good and generous.”

“I mean, now you say I’m gifted and you call me your darling, but five seconds ago I was horrible at this.” He tilts his head, tapping the side of his cheek with his other. 

You huff, narrowing your eyes. “What do you want?”

He pretends to consider. “I want a fair trade.”

You cross your arms. “Like what?”

He shrugs, all innocent as he pushes his face closer to you. “A kiss. Just a little one.”

“That’s it?”

He nods. “And maybe a laugh at one of my jokes sometimes.” He quickly adds.

You stared at him for a second, flustered. You couldn’t help yourself from laughing at how adorable he was. “You’re unbelievable. The second one might be a bit hard, but fine.”

“Hurry up.” he pushes his face out even more, still holding your figure hostage above you.

You roll your eyes, blushing as you lean in and are surprised as he turns slightly for your lips to press against his lips instead, a cheeky smile on his face as he holds you close to him by the back of your neck.

“Clark!” You giggle at the cringy move. He moves his head to the space between your neck and shoulder and drops the figure into your hands.

“There,” he says, softly. “It’s yours.”

He looks fondly at you as you give him one more kiss on the cheek before pouring all your attention to the figurine. 

Maybe sometimes secrets can be a good thing.

masterlist

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

OH THIS IS TO DARN CUTE 😭

calico critters, clark kent

word count: 700

pairing: clark kent x pediatric nurse! reader

summary: you have an obession with calico critters and decide to play a silly prank on clark.

the early morning sun shined through the curtains, your boyfriend clark was half dressed, freshly crisp white dress shirt tucked into his pants, hair still messy from sleep.

you were sitting at your vanity, already dressed for work in your scrubs with your strawberry short cake badge, with your hair tied up. dabbing some concealer beneath your eyes, humming to yourself a song from the radio.

“sweetheart” clark’s voice breaks the morning silence, lace with curiosity “why is there a cat in my drawer?”

you turn, peeking over your shoulder. in his hand, he held a tiny plastic calico critter, your little cat with her faded pink floral dres

“oh! i’ve been looking for her! thanks clark!” you grinn, way too brightly, clearly dodging the question.

he gave you a look. then sighed, the sound soft, and gently placed the critter besides you.

“how does it—uh, she even end up there?” he mumbles, already sliding his tie around his neck and turning back toward the closet.

you picked her up and walked over to the little wooden shelf by your nightstand. It was your tiny village, critters mid tea party, some shopping for groceries, others eating breakfast

you shrugged as you placed her back among her friends. “maybe it’s like toy story.

clark paused blinking twice. “…huh?”

“you haven’t seen toy story?” you gasped.

“i mean, i know of it. talking toys, right?”

“when we’re not looking” you clarify walking back to your vanity to apply some lip balm. “they’re just…alive when it’s dark. or when no one’s around. it makes sense, if you think about it. the little cat probably wanted to see what it was like to wear a tie.”

clark chuckled, turning to face the mirror grabbing his suit jacket and putting it on. “you think she wants to be a journalist?”

“she wants to live a double life, like someone i know very well”

that earned a full laugh from him.

“come here” he says gently, standing in front of the mirror.

you crossed the room and stood in front of him to fix his tie, smoothing it out even though it was already perfect. you always did, every morning.

you place a kiss his cheek.

“how about after my shift at the hospital we make pancakes, and watch toy story, let’s hope you don’t get busy saving the world” you smile grabbing your tote bag from the chair, you slip your hand until a pocket grabbing another calico critter, this time a rabbit.

“your leaving already? we haven’t even ate breakfast” he mumbles out, grabbing your wrists gently.

“don’t worry about me, i’ll grab something on the way”

he sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I worry about you every day.”

you leaned in and kissed his lips. then, without a word, you slipped the rabbit into his suit pocket, making sure the head peaks out.

“i love you,” you said, halfway out the door

“i love you more, honey be safe.”

you flash him one last smile, waved, and disappeared into the hallway.

your perfume lingering in the air

clark stood there for a moment longer, unannounced to him there was a little rabbit now tucked into his front pocket of his suit.

later that morning, clark was typing up notes from a city council, when jimmy walked by with a coffee in one hand and a donut in the other.

he stopped by clark’s desk, squinting his eyes.

“dude,” jimmy said. “why do you have a tiny bunny peeking out of your pocket?”

clark blinked. “what?”

jimmy leaned in, already cracking up. “no way! do you still play with toys?”

clark looked down, and sure enough, there she was. the little rabbit sat neatly in his front suit pocket.

clark simply pulled the cat out with a quiet, sigh, knowing it was you that had put it in there.

jimmy snorted. “that just made my whole week.” he muttered through a mouthful of donut as he walked off.

clark watched him go, then turned the rabbit slowly in his hand. then he looked at the photo frame on his desk, the one of you and him from smallville, visiting his parents.

with careful hands, he placed the toy rabbit right beside it.

right where she belonged.

i wanna write more pediatric nurse! reader but i need ideas! send reqs

first time posting clark kent, kinda nervous 🥲

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

❝ papa!clark kent ❞ [1/2]

WARNINGS: fluff, pregnancy/pregnancy complications, mentions of nausea/vomiting, labor/birth, hint of a breeding kink, very minor angst, no use of y/n

A/N: absolutely no idea if this has been done or not! we’re defying gravity some laws of anatomy and biology fs but anything for this man, right? i’m a lot more of a marvel girl than dc so if there’s anything here that’s inaccurate…pretend it isn’t. i’ve got some smut coming soon for this cutie so stay on the lookout ;)

masterlist

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated!

clark kent who is wary of you being pregnant in the first place, especially if you’re human. he’s terrified his dna in the baby could harm you. if you were trying to conceive, it would take a lot of convincing. “we don’t have to do this, sweetheart, not if there’s any risk to you.”

clark kent who is speechless when you are pregnant. it’s your own little miracle. he’s still cautious but more elated than anything. he holds you for a long time. neither of you say anything—you just enjoy the moment knowing how beautifully your lives are about to change.

clark kent who is more aware of the pregnancy than you are. he can sense when a wave of morning sickness is about to hit before you even feel it. he’ll have saltines, ginger, a cold compress, water, and a bucket ready to go at your side. “shh, it’s alright, baby,” he rubs your back and holds your hair as it all comes out. “there you go, that’s it. i got you.”

clark kent who holds you close at night just the way you like. plays with your hair as you lay on his chest, his heart beating just under your ear. “you’re already doing so much, and it’s barely the size of a bean.” he’ll have so many of those fun facts, too.

clark kent who loves to see your bump once it starts forming. he’ll rub oil over it every night before bed since you’d complained about stretch marks. “love seeing you like this,” he murmurs against your growing stomach. “all swollen and full of me.” and he definitely loves to call you mama now that it’s fitting. “good morning, mama” and “how you feeling, mama?”

clark kent who talks in kryptonian to the baby through your belly. all you can do is watch with a soft smile as he whispers—and later translates—“now, you be good in there. your mama’s working real hard to take care of you. oh, we can’t wait to meet you. we’re gonna give you everything, just wait.”

clark kent who insists that it’s a girl, even when it’s too early to tell. “she’s gonna have your eyes and my smile.” “she?” “it’s just a hunch.” but he’s already dreaming about holding his little girl in his arms.

clark kent who will drop whatever he’s doing to get whatever you need. craving oranges? he’ll grab some from several different countries just to see which you like best. out of the tahitian body oil you like? he’ll be back in just a minute with a surplus of it. “clark, you didn’t have to go to another continent for peanut butter.” he just shrugs, “you said you wanted crunchy, and the corner store only had smooth.”

clark kent who doesn’t necessarily enjoy your jokes about ‘superman’s harem’…“well, you got me.” he furrows his brow, “what do you mean?” “and so the harem begins. who do you have planned next?” but your voice is dripping with lighthearted sarcasm, he only frowns. “that’s hilarious.”

clark kent who can’t bear to see you in pain. he was right to be worried about his kryptonian genes…when the baby kicks, it’s impossible to hide how much it hurts. and he’s instantly at your side, soothing it away. “she’s strong. just like you,” he smiles and presses his ear to your belly. uses his x-ray vision to check for internal bruising. “i’ll have to teach her to control it, just like i learned.”

clark kent who watches your body adapt to carrying his child and taking on some of his abilities (just a few) through the baby. you notice your senses are enhanced—your sight and hearing are better than normal and you start having almost prophetic dreams. “i think the bank’s gonna be closed tomorrow.” “why’s that, honey?” “not sure.”

clark kent who is more scared than you are once labor begins. he senses it too before you feel it. “your breathing changed.” he says while gathering everything for STAR labs, not the hospital. he’s calm on the outside, but on the inside, he’s a panicking, nervous wreck.

clark kent who refuses to leave your side once the contractions begin. he rubs your hand and insists you get an epidural. “it won’t numb all the pain, but it’ll be better than nothing, baby.” he x-rays periodically to check in to monitor the dilation and the baby’s position. “how is it?” you ask, trying to sound composed. “still a little more, hon. you’re doing amazing.”

clark kent who feels his heart twist each time you scream out in pain. naturally, complications arise mid-labor and there isn’t much to do besides wait. “she’s strong, i can feel it.” he wipes the sweat from your forehead. “but you’re stronger.” he’d do anything in the world to take this pain from you.

clark kent who breaks when you begin to push. he’s on his knees beside you now, as close as you’ll have him. you grip his hand and he winces—not because it hurts, but because you’re the one who’s hurting. “you’re doing it. you’re right there, baby.” tears stream down his face. he can’t block out your screams. “come on, sweetheart, one more push. just one more.”

clark kent who cuts the umbilical cord himself after you give your last push and a cry echoes through the room. his hands are shaking as they wrap the little baby up. he looks at you, tiredly but in awe. “it’s a girl.”

clark kent who lets you hold her before he does. puts her against your bare chest and watches the agony on your face disappear as you smile. he can’t make out what you mumble down to her, your voice slurred and exhausted. when they take the baby, he presses his forehead to yours, “i love you more than anything. i’m so proud of you, so so proud.”

clark kent who lets you sleep as long as you need to after. and while you do, he sits by the window with his little girl in his arms. she’s swaddled in a hospital blanket, eyes squeezed shut. “aren’t you perfect?” she smiles at his voice, having heard it for the past nine months through your stomach. “of course, you are. you’re just like your mama. we’ll give you the whole world and more.”

clark kent who thinks about his parents while he cradles his own daughter. his mother and father who sent him to earth. despite their true intentions, he loves them—they’re the reason he has you. he thinks of his ma and pa, who are already on their way, for raising him to be the man he is.

tags: @kentblvd @inbred-eater @sailor-moon-simp

© faestunna 2025.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

still i fall

pairing: Clark Kent x reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: vague descriptions of minor injuries/blood

author’s note: a little follow up to megaphone to my chest with a little bit of role reversal hehehe mostly inspired by the way i found him so incredibly attractive in that opening scene where his face is all bloody <3

When you return back from work, later than you’d prefer, Clark is already home, sitting on the couch with his head tipped back. Sleeping, you think, and the thought warms you, until you see the heavy sigh that inflates his chest before leaving him depleted. 

“You feeling okay?” You call out as you shed your shoes and coat and bag as quickly as possible, desperate to be by his side even if you’re being a little overdramatic, a little overeager. You see him nod, but that does nothing to quell your anxieties, so you cross over to the couch. When you finally see him, face to face in the remaining dregs of evening sunlight filtering through the window, your mouth drops open and fear fills your eyes. 

Clark had been incredibly stupid, and he’s been incredibly slow to realize that. He’d had big plans for this afternoon, plans that involved buying you flowers and ice cream and making you your favorite meal because he’d finally remembered to call your mom about the recipe. Plans that were immediately spoiled when some big, giant thing had decided to eat downtown Metropolis for dinner. 

It hadn’t been much of a fight, if Clark’s being entirely honest. Less than ten minutes, no major injuries, and no major damage to any buildings, besides that chunk of roof that had been hurled at his head. Still desperate to have a nice night ready for you when you returned from the office, he’d forgone a trip to the Fortress and returned to your apartment instead, confident he’d be healed by the time you’d gotten back, if not by the time it took him to walk home.

Instead, you’d wrapped up early, and he hadn’t even started dinner yet. 

“How the hell did this happen?” Your voice is dripping with panic, but when you reach for him your hands are gentle, holding his face like he’s something fragile, breakable. It’s not a feeling he’s used to, but it’s a feeling he’s started to crave the more time he spends with you. You disappear for a moment, returning lightening-fast with a damp washcloth and a box of band-aids and then you’re clambering onto his lap, propping yourself up onto your knees to see his face better, to take stock of all the cuts and bruises amid the blood that seems endless and shockingly red. 

“I fell,” he lies, hands coming to rest on your waist, “going up the stairs.” Really, it had been a building to the face, but that’s not something he can tell you, not yet. 

There’s something pulling him back from telling you the whole truth, and he’s still not quite sure what it is. Clark knows that you’re strong, sturdy, that you can handle the truth and keep loving him anyway, but even the tiniest thought that this would end things makes him hesitate. And he’d never do anything to put you in danger, to knowingly cause you to worry about him even more than you already do.  He’ll tell you soon, he decides, but not tonight, not when you still look so scared, so determined to make things better. 

He’d heal within the hour, if he wanted to stick his face out the window and soak up the last remaining golden rays of light. This, though, is much better. Clark would much rather have you perched in his lap, gently turning his face this way and that as you set your course of action. 

“My clumsy boy,” you murmur before quickly kissing the corner of his mouth, careful to avoid the blood or pressing on a cut while you shift your weight. His heart’s a riot, and he tries to smile up at you but it just makes his split lip push out more blood. He’s selfish, he realizes with a start, so incredibly selfish.

Really, there was no reason for him to go all the way to the Fortress, the extent of his injuries contained to a few cuts and a shoulder knocked out of place, which he fixed all on his own before returning home. Home, to you. Clark had practically raced back to the apartment, desperate to see you, unthinking in his determination about the pain this would cause you. 

The last thing Clark ever wants is to make you upset, to hurt or frighten you in any way, and yet here he is, dripping blood all over the place as his thumbs run soothing lines up and down your waist, as if he’s not the one causing you distress. Something along the lines of embarrassment and shame and disappointment course through him, all directed at himself. 

You can tell he’s gone off somewhere, somewhere where he’s probably senselessly beating himself up over nothing. Sometimes he gets this look in his eyes, and his eyebrows draw down, and you can tell even though he’s right next to you, he’s somewhere far away. As you continue to gently tilt his head to take stock of his injuries, you find a spot on his jaw unmarred by blood and press a soft kiss there. 

“‘M sorry,” he’s quiet, eyes searching your face for any twitch, any signal that you’ve crossed from worry to anger, or something worse. You just shush him, touch gentle but firm as you start to wipe away the blood that’s started to dry with a washcloth that you’ll definitely need to throw out.

“You’ll make your lip start bleeding again,” you’re laser focused, and it’s a strange sensation for him, to be taken care of in this way.

As Superman, he’s used to being revered, to be applauded and aided by people within Metropolis when he needs it. They don’t see him, though, not really. They’re not seeing Clark, they’re not helping Clark, they’re helping Superman, who sometimes feels like another person all together, especially in moments like this. Your touch is so soft it hurts a little, beneath the surface of his skin. It sets all his nerves alight, and all he can do is hold you a little tighter. 

There’s a band-aid gently applied to the cut on his forehead, hair pushed away with one hand as you cleaned it with the other. The bleeding has all but stopped, and Clark knows there won’t even be a mark on him in the morning, that all your care will be for nothing, but he still doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t want to, and that thought tears him up inside.

You move on to his nose next, wiping away the blood, before you do the same with the cut on his bottom lip, where the blood that had been oozing out has thankfully slowed to a trickle. 

“I think you’ll live,” you joke, although your voice is weighty, once all of the blood is gone, leaving only some red splotches and purple bruises along one of his cheekbones.

“All thanks to you,” this time when Clark smiles, the split on his lip doesn’t reopen, his body already healing itself, “I’m sorry, for scaring you. For making you fix me up.”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” you counter, hands coming to rest on the sides of his face, thumbs gently moving back and forth, fitting into the space just below his glasses, “I’m sorry you’ve hurt your pretty face.”

Clark lets out a quiet laugh at that, which is more of an exaggerated exhale through his nose than anything else. You feel his cheeks warm underneath your hands, and you grin down at him. Even after all this time, he still can’t handle the force of your compliments, your affections, and yet he craves them the way some might crave a stiff drink after a long day.

That’s why he raced back home to you, to your gentle touch and your soft words and that teasing smile you get when you know you’ve flustered him, the hero of the city putty in your hands. Maybe that makes him more human than anything else, the way even the mere thought of you manages to cloud his judgement, pushes him towards selfishness, although you’d bat that thought away without a second glance.

You’re so firm in your belief that he’s good and kind and perfect, that somehow you’re the one that doesn’t deserve him although Clark is firm that it’s the other way around. Why else would you have believed his stupid excuse about falling on the stairs, as if he’d fallen right on his face and nowhere else. Why else would you have dug your knees into the cushions beside his legs, bracketing him in so you could clean him up, so you could spend your time washing away the blood on his face when he knows you’ve got a million other things to do.

“Try to be more careful,” your voice is soft but there’s something heavy there, something that makes Clark feel like his breath is caught in his chest. Something knowing. Your eyes are searching his face, avoiding eye contact as you take in his features, the injuries marring the person you love so much you get worried your heart might actually explode. Clark just nods, and then you finally look into his eyes with so much affection that he’s the one worried about keeling over, right there on the couch. 

One of these days, he’ll tell you, and you’ll roll your eyes like he’s said something as obvious as pointing out the weather. You’ll be entirely unsurprised, because you can’t live with someone for months and expect them to never manage to catch a glimpse of you with your glasses off. For now, though, you wait for him to tell you, keeping your secret about his secret all to yourself.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

God this is the most relatable thing I’ve seen in a minute

thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really? tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot? god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive. you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

GOD HES SO ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

No fr— this is what post prison Reid should have been 😔💔

And Still I Will Live Here // Spencer Reid💙

Synopsis: spencer finds himself struggling with his identity and autonomy after being released from millburn and it’s beginning to affect your relationship. you do everything you can to help him adjust, but the hurdle of shaving seems to be one he just can’t jump.

Pairing: post prison spencer x reader

Genre: angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes/Tags: READ WITH CARE!! sad spencer, they fight just a tad, spencer is snappy for a sec, spencer struggles like a lot, panic attacks/prison flashbacks, accidentally cutting while shaving, blood mention, talks of luis delgado & nadie ramos’ murder, references to spencer stabbing himself in prison, BUT READER HELPS HIM HES OK IN THE END !! title from I Will by Mitski :3

masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy!! it helps promote the fic so so much !!

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To say it was difficult for Spencer to readjust to normal life would be a drastic understatement. Nothing quite felt as real as it did before nor as safe as it did before. Even moving through his own apartment felt like falling in a dream, that paralysing fear when you know it’s not real and you know you just need to wake up but for whatever reason you just can’t. The panic makes itself at home in your throat, squeezing the breath out of you as you rapidly try to chase after it, as you try to stop the fall but it’s hopeless. Eventually you wake up and think that everything should be okay now but it’s not, at least not for Spencer. It still feels like some kind of hazy trap to him, like he’s scared he’ll open his eyes and still be there.

Spencer tried to be his old self for your sake but you could tell that the walls had never fully crumbled down. He’d let you reach out for him, let you lace your fingers through his or let your arms wrap around him but you caught the way he’d flinch if you held too tight. You felt the way his body tensed, or the way he jerked like something in his gut was telling him to pull away. Logically, he knew he was safe with you but after months of sleeping with one eye open and obsessively checking over his shoulder his nerves had begun to lie to him. He’d engage when you spoke to him, but he would never start the conversation. There were no ramblings or fun facts, no casual conversations over breakfast or sweet whispers in your ear as you fell asleep. He’d smile at you the way he always used to, except now it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You thought having him back would feel different. Not that you weren’t grateful about it- God you prayed for this every single day, his name on repeat in your mind like a broken record- but it felt sometimes that all you’d gotten back was a body, a spectre, moving through your shared space like a puppet on strings. Seeing Spencer so fragile broke your heart more than you could have ever prepared for, and what was worse was you still had no idea what had happened to him in there to strip him of himself so cruelly. Occasionally you still caught glimpses of him; when his hand instinctively reached for you in his sleep before he woke up and hastily snatched it back, how his eyes lit up for just a second like a flame reignited when you called his name before it was snuffed out again, how for a second- just one small, blissful second- he allowed himself to lean into your touch before he stiffened and pulled away. The latter stung, you had to admit, the stab of rejection piercing through you with a sharpness that took your breath away, but you could see through him when the smoke cleared. In those short, serene moments before the walls shot back up you felt it. He was still in there somewhere- he was still your Spencer.

Shortly after his release you had woken up one night to use the bathroom, the bed cold beside you and the distance between you and Spencer feeling larger than usual. Shyly, you poked out a hand finding nothing but an empty mattress and crumpled sheets. A newly familiar feeling of panic clouded your mind like fog as you gently called his name into the darkness to no answer. You hopped out of bed, feet padding along the wooden floor and your heart sank as you slowly pushed open the bathroom door. There was Spencer, on the floor in the corner in a ghost-like state. His eyes were blank and his mouth was parted as he stared ahead into the shadows with his hands hovering near his head, like he had reached to grasp at his hair and malfunctioned halfway through the motion. Tears stung at your eyes, a wretched weight in your chest dragging you to the ground as you carefully crouched in front of him, your movements slow and tentative. He’d flinched when he spotted you and you bit so hard on your quivering lip you almost drew blood.

“T-the uh,” he began shakily, voice barely there at all, “the door closed.” His eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed his words, a heavy, shameful sigh leaving his lips.

His vacant eyes explained everything he couldn’t say. He’d felt trapped. In the darkness of the night the bathroom became a cell, every dreary drip from the sink’s tap had felt deafening as they echoed off of inescapable walls, the tiles were harsh and icy beneath his hands as he sunk to the floor and froze in place. He never spoke of it again, but after that night a nightlight was placed in every room, a doorstop in every doorway.

Since then you’d coaxed him out of the strict meal schedule he’s become accustomed to, a compulsion he still battled for a while after he was home. You’d put yourself in charge of cooking meals or ordering take-out to save him reaching for whatever was plain and simple as if he’d convinced himself he wasn’t worth the effort anymore. You even helped him pick his clothes out in the morning when you noticed he’d abandoned his colourful ties and patterned sweaters, realising he’d become overwhelmed by the choice after months of wearing the same thing- months of being the prison’s property.

Spencer was still avoiding talking about Millburn but you didn’t push or pry, rather you observed. You recognised what made him lash out, what made him shrink into himself without a word, you realised there were painful memories clinging to him like leeches wherever he went like his brain was never fully relaxed, interpreting everything around him as a threat. As much as you wanted- needed- him to open up to you, you were scared to push too hard and cause him to retreat entirely. And so you found silent ways to help him, a subtle hand on his shoulder to try and help him heal one day at a time, yet there was one thing you couldn’t quite figure out and that was why hasn’t he shaved yet?

Before Spencer had shaved almost obsessively, always complaining about the feeling of the stubble or the way it made him look. You’d assumed that he might struggle with that more than he already did after being made to grow it out but as time went by without it being touched you thought that maybe he’d just gotten used to it. However the way he itched and itched told you otherwise. The way he looked in the mirror like he didn’t even recognise himself told you otherwise.

“Spence?” You called gently from your spot on the armchair. Spencer was sat in the corner of the couch, tucking himself against the armrest like he was trying to take up as little space as possible while his hand absentmindedly made its way to his chin again.

“Yeah?” He responded, not looking up from his book. He hadn’t turned a page in 10 minutes.

You swallowed before you spoke, hesitant to bring it up again. “Why don’t you just shave it, honey?” You tried giving him a small smile but it didn’t help.

His brows furrowed as he lifted his head to meet your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s bothering you.”

“It’s not.” He replied bluntly, coldly. “I already told you it’s not.”

About a week ago you’d had the same discussion. Spencer seemed to be in a better mood than usual, much to your relief- it felt like you were finally making real progress. The two of you were sitting together on the couch closer than you’d been since his release, you sitting with your knees propped by your chest and angled in a way so that they leaned over him. Something was on TV that you weren’t paying attention to, engrossed in a conversation he’d started about a book he’d read lately. Truthfully you weren’t saying much back as you were far too enamoured by the warm sound of his voice that you’d missed so much as it flowed, bright and lively with an excitement and passion that had been all too absent from him lately. At some point he began to itch, more and more often over time you’d noticed. It had been the kind of evening you’d dreamed of since having him home, huddled up together in the candlelight talking about nothing in particular just like before, but as soon as you suggested shaving his voice froze over. His expression dropped. Almost as soon as the words left your mouth the atmosphere shifted- instant and harsh. Spencer had deflected it, but there was a sharpness in his voice, one that sliced a gap between the two of you again and left you baffled.

“You keep scratching at it.” You pushed hesitantly as his hand dropped on cue as if to prove you wrong.

“My skin’s just dry.” He said, his eyes returning to that same page in his book. “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on this.”

“It’s just that you never liked growing your hair out before.” Before. You regretted the word as soon as it left your lips.

“Does that mean I’m not allowed to like it now?” He finally flipped the page with a crisp thwack that filled the air.

“Of course not, it’s just-“

“I’m capable of deciding what I do and don’t like.” He bit back. Somewhere inside of your heart you knew it wasn’t really directed at you, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

“I know that, Spence. I’m just trying to help.” You sighed despite yourself, losing patience. You were understanding, of course. You’d been nothing but understanding- but elastic will only stretch so far before it snaps back.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed almost in offence but he kept them pointed downward. “Well you’re not.”

“Not what?” You asked louder than before, tilting your head as you blinked in surprise.

“Helping.” He answered, far too matter of factly for your liking.

With a bitter laugh you dragged your hands down your face in pure exhaustion and when they dropped back down to your lap you saw Spencer staring up at you in confusion like he wasn’t even aware of what he’d just said. “I’m not helping?” You echoed incredulously, your voice shaking slightly under the weight of everything you’d been holding in.

His lips parted and his expression dropped as his brain caught up and he promptly closed the book he’d been pretending to read. “I didn’t mean-“

“No, Spence” you began shaking your head, “I’ve done everything I possibly can to help you. My brain is working so hard trying to put the pieces together myself and figure out what you need so that I can help you because you still won’t tell me anything. You’re still shutting me out.” Biting your lip, you paused and blinked up at the ceiling before looking back at him. “I know I couldn’t possibly understand even a fraction of how you’re feeling and I know that it’s hard to talk about but we can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay. Why can’t you trust me with this, Spencer?”

He was silent for a moment as the cogs turned in his head, hands clenching and unclenching restlessly against the cushions of the couch. “I do trust you.” He almost whispered, though he didn’t even sound convinced.

“So talk to me.” You spoke back, voice gentler but cracking around the edges. “I am so grateful to have you back and I love you, Spence- so fucking much- but I don’t know what you expect me to do. How do you expect me to feel when I suggest something as simple as shaving and you shut down on me or lash out at me without telling me why?”

You waited. And waited. Like they were moving on their own your fingers began drumming against the armrest of the chair, their humble beat echoing in the otherwise empty room. You waited for the sound of his voice to join in, singing words of reassurance and comfort, but it never did. Instead he bowed his head, gazing at the floor like he was trying to hide from you entirely as he shrank even further into the couch- further away from you. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Can we please talk about this?” The silence deafened you, ears ringing as you nodded solemnly and rose to your feet. “You know what, there’s only so much I can do by myself, Spencer. I know you’re struggling but this isn’t fair- you have to meet me halfway at some point. Until then I’m going to bed.”

In his head Spencer thought about calling after you, about saying goodnight as you walked away. He imagined getting up and following you, gently grabbing your wrist to stop you in your tracks so he could apologise and tell you that he’s just scared. He’s scared that you won’t see him the same way anymore, or scared that maybe you already do see him different, scared that you’ll think Millburn sent home a burden and not your boyfriend. He pictures telling you that he’s sorry and that he’s ready to let you in. But his brain and his body are not one anymore. While his mind screams at him to do something, imprisoned behind the bars of his own guilt, his body remains paralysed. No matter how hard he wills it too it simply will not move, rather it seems to fuse further into the course fabric of the couch, adamant on watching you leave.

Spencer didn’t know how long he sat there, unmoving except for the hand scratching at his face. He wasn’t even sure if he realised he was doing it, numb to the feeling of nails against skin as the compulsion took over like a parasite. Behind the closed bedroom door he could hear you getting ready to go to sleep, the sounds so familiar he could practically see himself in the room. As he listened to the rustling of fabric as you changed into your pyjamas he remembered how he used to sit on the edge of the bed, listening to you ramble about your day with a soft smile on his face. When he heard the creak of the mattress as you climbed into bed he thought about how you were climbing into bed alone, becoming all too accustomed to sleeping beside an empty space instead of next to him. He heard the click of the bedside lamp being shut off and his heart clenched with something bittersweet when he heard the nightlight on his side of the bed being switched on and when he turned his head tears flooded his waterline as it’s warm glow poured out under the doorway.

With a weighted sigh his hand fell to his lap, his face raw and stinging- not that he noticed. His head pounded. A chorus of voices bickered over one another, all sounding completely foreign to him despite sharing his voice. His hands shook in his lap as he bounced his knees obsessively and when his eyes dropped down his breath stopped. Blood. Buried beneath his nails. Clinging to his skin, dark and sinister. Perhaps the Spencer of before would’ve brushed it off as anxiety, recognising his body was simply kickstarting whatever self soothing behaviour it could think of to distract itself, but Spencer now only saw blood drawn from his own hands. And it scared him.

Raggedly running his hands through his hair he replayed the spat between the two of you over and over again in his head. Spencer had tried to convince himself that he liked the hair he’d grown, he tried to believe it made him look more mature. He recalled a throwaway comment someone had made about how he ‘looks like a real man now’ and had told himself it was a badge to be proud of. Spencer told himself that maybe people will finally start taking him more seriously now that he looks the part, that the years of being underestimated and dismissed would finally be behind him.

But in reality it drove him positively insane. It was like a piece of Millburn had left with him, keeping him rooted there no matter how far he distanced himself. It drove him crazy the way his image in the mirror morphed into his reflection in the prison glass, his blue inmate clothes growing over his skin like a disease no matter how much he clawed at his body or rubbed his eyes raw. He could barely recognise himself nor could he easily remember how he looked before. Maybe it was dramatic or self pitying but he felt well and truly alien. Millburn had took him in, chewed him up and spat out someone else entirely.

Deep down he knew that you were right. You had a talent for knowing him better than he knew himself most of the time. Logically, he knew he was shutting you out for no good reason other than the fact he’d reached a new, terrifying level of vulnerability he didn’t know how to share with you and so he shut down. Or worse, lashed out. Spencer had tried to shave on his own a couple of times but each time the fear racked through him like a wave, crashing over him ruthlessly and taking his breath away with it. It would always play out the same: he’d stare in the mirror, eyes glassy as he forced himself to move. The blade in his hand felt like it weighed tonnes, anchoring his hand to his side every time he tried and failed to lift it to the mask staring back at him. The first time he’d panicked and given up, the second time he’d cut himself. The blade had clattered to the floor, slipping from shaking hands as he tried to soothe his shuddering breath, his head spinning so fast he thought he might throw up. Spencer hadn’t so much as entertained the idea since.

Truthfully, he felt too embarrassed to let you in. He felt like he was regressing, like Millburn had made him inferior. In an unlikely turn of events Spencer found himself mourning who he was when he was younger. Growing up he’d always thought of himself as wimpy and weak, and he still felt that way even once he’d joined the FBI with him being both the youngest and an exception to the bureau’s typical rules. But that Spencer had survived torture, addiction, poisoning, grief and loss of inexplicable degrees and more. That Spencer raised himself while supporting his mother alone and worked himself to the bone to get to where he was. This Spencer couldn’t even shave his face. He couldn’t help but feel pathetic. He felt he quite literally was not the man he was before and he feared he may never be again- his identity and autonomy had been left behind in that cold, dark cell. As he stared blankly at the wall ahead of him, still sunken into the couch, he recalled a conversation with Emily years ago in which she’d thanked him for being himself and he’d said with gratitude that he didn’t know how to be anyone else. With a lump in his throat, Spencer realised he didn’t even know how to be that anymore.

Eventually, he pulled himself up from the couch and made his way to the bedroom. There you were, in his shirt, curled up on your side with your back to his side of the bed. Your fingers twitched against the pillow and your eyelids fluttered in your sleep, the soft sound of your steady breathing the only sound in the room. You looked peaceful on the surface, but Spencer could see deeper than that. He saw the dark purple beneath your eyes, no doubt the result of the sleepless nights he’d caused you. He noticed how you were sleeping facing away from his pillow where you always used to sleep curled into his side. The glow of the nightlight you’d still cared enough to leave on for him highlighted dried streaks down your cheeks, puffy and flushed from the silent tears you’d shed into your pillow. His throat tightened as he realised just how much you’d sheltered from him and he felt the guilt creeping up through his body. You’d been pleading with him all this time while hiding just how much you were struggling and he’d simply ignored you. Worse, he’d been isolating himself so much he didn’t even notice.

Unbeknownst to him his feet had carried him to the bathroom with a quiet determination that took him by surprise. Frankly, he was fed up with himself and he’d decided it was time. Once again, he found himself planted in front of the mirror, blade in hand, eyes glazed over as he fought with his reflection. Before he could give it a second thought, he watched as his hand came up to his face, felt the cold metal against his skin as he began. Tiny hairs fall to the sink below and the blade keeps moving, repetitive movements propelled by pure muscle memory as Spencer’s consciousness fails him. He is merely a spectator, watching as his limbs move of their own accord and his eyes remain unblinking. The limbs seem to find a rhythm, working out pressure and direction on their own as their host remains stuck in place. After a while Spencer begins to feel himself relax, his eyes water and shake as they regain their focus and his breathing starts to even out. He can feel the weight of the blade in his hand again as it moves and he feels a small twinge of pride, just a small victory, somewhere in his chest.

Just as the feeling began spreading throughout him his hand shook. Just once, but it was enough. He saw it. Thick, red, instant- blood. Spencer didn’t react at first, he simple froze as his eyes followed it trailing down his chin in one clean undeniable line. Slowly, he began to feel the sting in his skin as it grew stronger and stronger, screaming for his attention as he swallowed his pride. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears the world around him seemed muffled, the sounds of cars rushing by outside and voices beneath the window sounded drowned, tortured. His heartbeat travelled from his ears to his throat, from his throat to the tips of his fingers until it was drumming under his skin all over his body.

Almost in slow motion his eyes dropped to his hand, except now he saw a knife and not his razor. There’s a cut on his hand, or at least he thinks there is- he doesn’t remember doing it and he can’t seem to feel it the way he can on his face. Everything feels slow and hazy, blurred around the edges and swaying with every breath he takes. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees something, a lump sprawled out on the tiles. It’s a body, a woman’s body, yet when he turns to face it it’s gone. Trembling, he rubs at his eyes hard, frantically trying to get the truth out of them but to no avail. With panic rising in his throat like bile he turns back towards the mirror, watching the sweat beading on his face mix with the blood and drag it down his neck.

In an instant he’s back there. The laundry room, Luis gasping on the floor behind his reflection. Spencer hears his voice calling for the guards, distant and echoing like it’s not even his, but his lips stay still in the mirror. A stabbing pain shoots through his arm, through his leg and suddenly he’s throwing the razor at the glass as his knees give out beneath him and hit the tiles below. His breath feels caught in his throat and he tugs desperately at the neckline of his shirt, the tear of the stitches cracking like thunder in the silence of the bathroom. A shaking hand moves of its own accord, running through his hair and sinking its fingers into the roots in frustration as Spencer’s eyes clamp shut. He can’t open his eyes, too afraid to face the blood now on his hands, but even the darkness behind his eyelids makes him feel trapped. Before he can stop it, a pained sob leaves his lips as his chest heaves.

Your eyes snap open and your ears prick up almost as fast as you rise to your feet. Not even fully awake yet, you automatically hurry to the bathroom, trying to peak through the gap the doorstop left but you can’t see anything. Carefully you pushed open the door and as your eyes land on him, crumpled in a corner half shaved and bleeding, you felt like your heart was being torn out of your chest. Tears pricked your eyes, fast and hot, but you blinked them back as you took in the scene.

“Spence?” You called out gently, trying to hide the wobble in your voice. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up. You try a couple more times, but he doesn’t even seem to hear you.

Taking a deep breath, you move further into the room. You didn’t need to ask. Without a word you pick the blade up off the floor, rinsing it and cleaning the sink before putting it away out of Spencer’s sight. Tentatively, you crouch down to his level, blocking his view of the rest of the room as he finally looks up at you with dazed eyes. You hold back from asking if he’s okay or from asking what happened, afraid of him shutting down again. Instead, you force a small smile, meeting his gaze with a warm expression.

“You didn’t come to bed.” You said softly, watching as he slowly blinked himself into focus.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” He croaked back, fingers twitching against his knees as he pulled them up to his chest.

You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but knowing to keep your distance. “Of course I wanted you to.”

He didn’t respond and you let the silence pass between you as you sat cross-legged on the floor opposite him. You watched as his breath deepened and his body stopped shaking. The blood had stopped atop his collar bone and was beginning to dry.

“Why don’t we get you cleaned up and ready for bed, huh?” You suggested lightly, half expecting him to protest but to your relief he nodded. “I’m going to stand up now but I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m gonna be right here.”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you padded over to the sink and ran a washcloth under the tap. Sitting back down in front of Spencer, you cupped his face with a feather light touch, rubbing a circle over his skin with your thumb before lifting the cloth to his chin. You wiped slowly and gently, careful to keep the rag angled in a way that hid the blood from his view before cleaning his hands. Neither of you spoke, but his eyes fluttered shut with a peaceful sigh as he relaxed into your touch.

“I’m sorry.” Spencer whispered after a while, his voice small and drained.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” You placed the cloth on the floor, still keeping his face in your hands. “At least not right now.”

“We do.” He took your hands in his, lowering them to your lap before letting go. “We should.”

You nodded back at him, leaning back slightly and letting him take the lead. “Okay.”

His brows furrowed in thought as he took a moment to collect himself, staring at the wall over your shoulder. He fidgeted with his hands, wringing them in his lap before licking his lips and turning back to you.

“I was frustrated with myself.” Spencer began, dropping his gaze back to the floor. “I was fed up of having this connection to prison every time I look at myself and being too much of a coward to do anything about it. And I was fed up of taking it out on you. I thought I could handle it but when I cut myself I-“ he paused, “when I saw the blood it-“

“It brought everything back.” You finished for him.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Everything that happened in Mexico, the things that happened to Luis because of me, the things I did to protect myself. Everything” He swallowed as his voice began to quiver. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said and about how much you were struggling without me even realising. I was spiralling so much that I-“ he cut himself off again, dragging his hands down his face as his voice threatened to break. “I didn’t even realise.”

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You soothed, but he shook his head.

“No, no it’s not.” He lifted his eyes to meet yours. “I shut you out because I was ashamed. I didn’t think I was good enough for you anymore, I didn’t think I was safe for you anymore. I was so scared to touch you, to look at you wrong, to talk to you wrong. I didn’t feel like the man you fell in love with and I was terrified that if I let you in you would realise it too. There was part of me that didn’t want to let you in because I thought you’d leave me, but I think a bigger part of me thought I deserved to be left.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, matching the ones that had poured down your own. Your heart ached with every word that left his mouth. Hesitantly you reached out a hand, pulling it back for a second before stretching it out again and resting it on his knee, and he let you. You wanted to jump in, you wanted to protest and tell him how wrong he was but you decided to let him continue.

“I just don’t understand why you stayed. I don’t understand why you still went to so much effort for me.” He whispered, recalling everything: the nightlights; the doorstops; the meals, everything you’d done in the shadows to help him adjust.

“Spencer, listen to me.” You said firmly, taking his hands in yours. “I could never regret taking care of you. I want to take care of you.”

He sighed deeply, tilting his head as his brows furrowed in genuine confusion that threatened to pull more tears from your eyes. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” You shrugged, plain and simple. “It’s not transactional. Whether we’re fine or whether we’re fighting, if we’re together or apart- I’m still going to take care of you. I’m still going to love you. Yes I’ve been frustrated and upset but I’m not going to turn my back on you when you’re struggling. Not now, not ever.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve it anymore.” Spencer tries to pull his hands away but you don’t let him.

You flash a tiny smirk at him, bringing one of his hands up to your lips and placing a gentle kiss to it. “Unfortunately that’s not for you to decide.”

“I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore.” He says, voice barely audible.

“Well, I do.” You respond, ducking your head to meet his eyes where they had dropped once again. “You’re Spencer Reid. My Spencer Reid. You’re the man who walked me home from every date even though I lived in the complete opposite direction to you because you wanted me to be safe. You’re the man who gave up your favourite sweater to me and pretended not to care because I said it was cosy.” You paused for a moment, laughing fondly before continuing. “You’re the man who hand picks all the tomatoes out of my instant noodle cups before boiling them just because I don’t like them. You are the single most loving, caring, doting man I have ever met, Spencer.”

“I just-“ He started, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s hard to believe I still am.”

“Hmm.” You hummed, cupping his face and leaning in to stare into his eyes as if you were scanning them. “I still see him in there. We just have to get to him, and I’m going to make sure we do, okay?”

“Okay.” He agreed shyly. “Thank you. So much.”

With a reassuring smile you moved your hand along his face, running it over the shaved half before switching to the stubble that still sat on his chin.

“Do I look ridiculous?” Spencer asked, the corners of his lips finally tugging upwards.

“Handsome as ever.” You giggled back. “Do you want me to help you finish it?”

As soon as you ask you noticed the way he shrank into himself, still unsure. He drew his lips into a line, breath hitching with hesitation at the thought of the razor touching his face again.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.” You push gently. “You can keep your eyes on me the whole time.”

Wordlessly, he agreed with the slightest nod of his head, gingerly rising to his feet as you followed suit. You led him over to the sink, lightly guiding him to sit on its edge with his back to the mirror. You grabbed the razor and some shaving balms from the cabinet before returning to stand between his legs. Like you were holding something fragile you took his face in your hands again, pressing a kiss to the shaved side of his face.

“Are you ready?” You asked quietly.

His hands found your waist, fingers bunching in your shirt as if to ground himself. “Yes.”

Spencer’s eyes never left your face as you worked, never drifted to the blade in your hand that now seemed so much more insignificant than it did in his. You moved delicately and precisely, taking the utmost care all the while murmuring words of reassurance between strokes. You felt his breath against your neck as he exhaled all his worries, his posture relaxing under the warmth of your skin on his. Soon after, like it was nothing, you were finished.

“You wanna take a look, handsome?” You asked, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“I um,” he began, grip tightening on your waist momentarily. “I think I’ll take your word for it for now.”

“Of course.” You nodded in understanding, helping him up with a smile. “Can you please come to bed now? It was lonely in there without my favourite pillow.”

With a breathy laugh, Spencer took your hand and followed you into the bedroom. That night you fell asleep side by side, curled into one another as if made from matching moulds just the way you used to. Of course this was just one bump in the road, the path to readjustment was unfortunately never going to be so simple. But as you fell asleep with his arm wrapped around you, his nose buried in your hair as he held you blissfully tight, you knew it would be the last bump he faced alone.

-

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant for to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

ANOTHER CHAPTER OF MY FAVOURITE COFFEE SHOP FANFIC 💃🕺💃

Coffe𝖾 on dark nights {5}: 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝖽 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗈

chapter summary; 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖤𝖣 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖩𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝖻𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌.

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x reader

rating: Mature

chapter no: Chapter 5/10 𝗈𝖿 𝖢𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌

wc; 7.3𝗄

tags/warnings; 𝖼𝗈𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖾!𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗉 𝖺𝗎, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇, 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽��� 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾/𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗇𝗈𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌

Author; @lucis-dove

a/n: 𝗐𝖾𝗁𝗈 𝗂'𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈🤭

Summer sickness. 

It barely made sense how so many people could get sick at the same time when it's warm outside. It's not like the flu evolved to thrive during both winter and summer. And yet, once people started their holidays, they dropped like flies. 

You have to ask Jack about what the godddamn correlation was, because at this point it's ridiculous.  

Two ordinary baristas are sick, and you sent home one of the bakers because they didn't look as happy as they usually do when they arrive at 5 in the morning. So, you were three people short in total. In summer. During the school summer break and holiday leave.

You're already dreading the coming twenty-four hours. You'll be working from opening to closing today, only to open again tomorrow. That's more than you would let anyone at the café work even if they wanted the hours, because you believed in regulations. But that didn't apply to you, not at the moment. 

Despite the sun being warm enough as you headed to work, it wasn't with a cosy feeling that you stepped into the café. No matter how beautiful the blueish-orange sunrise looked through the windows.

Any other week, you might have marvelled at the sight, feeling that happiness only a natural phenomenon installed in humans. That wasn't the case now.

A heaviness was already present in your bones. The kind that even your usual morning drink couldn't combat. The sips —rather occasional mouthfuls— felt lacklustre, like a habit more than enjoyable as you paced back and forth in the back of the café.

The bakery, which was as large as the front of the shop on the other side of the wall, was one you were familiar with. You opened the café yourself, after all. But, much like you told Jack, you were certainly not the head of the place, given your limited practical baking skills. You could form and bake the dough that the bakers prepared in advance, similarly to the easier Danish pastries. However, on days like this, when the head baker's sous chef was sick, your help was needed on more tasks than that. Especially to get ahead for the day.

You always learned a lot when you did, but you also realised how necessary both of them were for things to run smoothly.

By the time you exited the back to open, the sunrise you had arrived with was long gone. Your fingers were now also stained a reddish blue from the berries you'd fetched from the fridge and rinsed, and your apron was dusted with white specks of flour. 

Once outside, with the Open side beside you, you noted that it was considerably warmer now than it had been two hours ago. Yet the air was fresh, not the sticky toastiness only baked sugar combined with oven heat could produce.

For just a moment, you took the chance to breathe. Unconsciously, you tried to dust off your clothes, even though you knew any stains and powdery remnants would only disappear after a wash. You wonder if Jack would remark on your state, which is certainly different from how he usually saw you.

You glance down the street toward the hospital.

He should arrive any minute now.

Although you tried focusing on checking the status of scheduled deliveries and applications from summer workers, your eyes jumped with steady intervals to the door. There was still no sign of Jack, and it was nearing eight.

That he didn't arrive at his usual time wasn't weird. His shift probably just ran a little more over his schedule than normal. But when you glance at the clock again, about half an hour later, your brows knit together. He'd never been this late.

When the door finally opens for the first time around 8:30 A.M., your questions about his absence gives way to a greeting and a remark immediately. They're on the tip of your tongue, about to be said aloud, only to realise it isn't Jack who steps inside. 

You have to push down the disappointment as you welcome the customer.

There's a steady stream of people for the next hour, a quite even split between those wh take their drink and food on the go, and those who stay at the café. 

You postpone messaging Jack about his whereabouts. Postpone because, at first, you ignore the idea. But, once all of your other colleagues arrived and it was soon time for those in the opening shift to call it a day, you couldn't help but excuse yourself as you went into the back to retrieve your phone. 

You typed it out quick, sending the text without any added commentary or worry, despite wanting to express both at this point.

─Hey, did your shift run long perhaps?

Seconds after sending it, you cringe at the message. Run long was certainly an understatement when it was nearing 12 A.M. Then it was the added perhaps as if you knew you'd lowballed it and had to make it seem like you tried to play it cool. Jesus…

You shove your phone into your purse again, unable to look at the message any longer. 

Was it weird you asked that? 

You don't know, honestly. 

You and Jack had texted quite regularly since he let you know about his past in the military. That was a month ago. Your conversation was still quite superficial, primarily focused on working schedules and days off, with the occasional story about a particular customer or patient.

Of course, there had been that one time when Jack messaged out of the blue and said he saved a spot on the bench in the park for you. After you said you hoped he was still there when you got there, you'd snorted very undignified when he'd added 'I will, unless you bring anything edible, because the pigeons are obnoxious enough as it is.' 

That had made Alice shoot you a intrigued look before doing grabby-hands toward your phone, demanding to see what made you laugh like that. You'd been reluctant, but eventually sighed an 'Oh, whatever', knowing she could use the entertainment to power through until closing.

Much like you predicted, her eyes grew wide as she squealed in a sudden burst of energy. 

That day hadn't even been tough, just a regular hectic workday. But joining Jack that late afternoon made your whole day better, especially upon arriving and witnessing him with narrowed eyes and downturned mouth shooing away pigeons who jumped up to trot on the bench. Your laugh hadn't only scared the birds away, but also alerted him to your presence. 

You needed that kind of uplifting moment today. Would do almost anything to spend a few hours in the park with Jack again, talking about who knows what in hindsight. Could die for the opportunity to visit that favourite spot of his in town, which he suggested he'll disclose after you'd shown yours and as you shared a laugh about the pigeons disturbing your peace.

When you'd retold the afternoon to Alice, she complained that she also needed a date to look forward to during these busy weeks. In the same breath as you reminded her about the party she told you about, you also dismissed her statement.

It's not dates. 

You and Jack were friends. Good friends, you would even dare to say now that you'd started to meet up outside of the café. Just because you spent time together alone, that... that didn't have to mean anything. 

Yet being friends definitely didn't mean you could message and ask about his whereabouts out of the blue. 

You busied yourself with work so as not to overthink your message to him. You were simply a friend who was concerned about her friend's sudden absence. Yeah. That was it. You certainly didn't speculate if Jack simply didn't bother writing to you to say he wouldn't stop by. Or that the detour wasn't worth it in the long run. Did you perhaps take his suggestion of taking you to his favourite place in town too seriously, missing the joke?

Somehow, you lost track of time, forgetting your unanswered message. But around 2 P.M., your watch vibrates. 

As you glance down at your wrist between customers, Jack's name appears on your screen. Instantly, your heart beats faster.

Needed to come in earlier, last-minute change, couldn't stop by.─

You exhale something heavy, gnawing, from your chest after reading his message.

Right, of course, changes in schedules happened. You're experiencing the same thing. You don't know how you could've forgotten that was possible for him as well, and that it was an entirely feasible explanation for his absence…

Without your phone close by, you work through the line of customers that never seem to end. Not until an hour later, when you're tapping your foot and watching the customer whose name you just called mosey their way over, has the afternoon rush quietened down. 

Even if you usually have no difficulty being cheerful to customers, you have to force a smile as the woman takes her sweet time getting her drink. And once she's picked it up, you tell yourself to walk slowly rather than bolt to the small staff room to not seem rude. But every second, you pray that no other customer stops you in your tracks to finally answer Jack's text.

You've never typed out a text so quickly once you got your phone in your hands.

─You're not the only one. I had to jump in for my colleague; she's out with the flu or something.

To your surprise, you hadn't even left the conversation before your message was read, typing beginning shortly afterwards.

Same here, shorter staffed than normal. Both Robby and I shouldering doubles.─

─Shit, you managing?

Managing is the word─

─I could stop by with some coffee for you, get your spirits up?

The read, along with a timestamp, appears immediately as you both linger in the chat. But Jack doesn't answer instantly, which is enough for you to reconsider the offer. Was it silly to propose such a thing? His workplace doesn't feel like a place you casually visit, unlike yours.

All your thoughts screech to a halt and rewind when he finally does reply.

You mind?─

─No. How does it sound if I stop by after work?

Sure.─

─Alright, see you

Your last message isn't read, despite being sent directly after his. Together with the one-worded answer before that, you have a feeling he was pulled away from his phone.

You work with renewed spirit for the remaining time of your shift. Counting down the hours and soon the minutes until you get to close up and make the walk to PTMC.

Only, you realise it won't be those fifty-nine minutes left until you see Jack. Maybe until you close for the public, but not when you leave the café. 

A frustrated, exhausted, exhale leaves you when the company in charge of the delivery you should've received hours ago finally informs you they'll be late. Not late as in tomorrow. But an hour after closing late.

And just like that, your energy drops, shoulders rising. It's enough to reach for an energy drink even if you know the caffeine will fuck up your sleep to the heavens. But you need it. Working the last hour by yourself. Emigrating to sit in the back after locking up to wait for the delivery equally alone. The only thing keeping you from your thoguths to sour your mood is the music playing from your phone's speaker.

When the delivery finally arrives, you're rmeindd it isn't small. A few pallets, all stacked with products up to your chest.

Your throat closes up. A frustrated whine slips out. You feel on the verge of crying in frustration as you realise you have to unpack at least half of it because it's products that needs to be put in the fridge. And once you've started, you can just finish it altogether.

You almost don't regret drinking the liquid energy now.

Despite working as quickly as you can, it takes an additional hour before you leave work. Once you step outside, you find the skies are clear, and it's warm but not hot, just as it was when you arrived this morning. But compared to this morning, you feel lighter with every step, the nightly breeze doing just shy of the same for your mood as the Emergency sign getting closer.

Once you step into the hospital, locating the ER, you realise the nightly calm outside isn't reflected inside. There is a queue leading to the security control, and through the windows on the left, you can see that the waiting room is full of people.

Your eyes jump from the metal detector to the queue and then to the security guards. Suddenly unsure how you can get into the back, you timidly approach one of them.

"Hi, sorry," you gain his —Ahmad, you notice from his badge— attention with. "I have a delivery for the ER, first time, so I don't really know the routine for it." 

"Delivery, you say?" You nod. "One moment," he holds up a hand as he steps aside. 

You catch the crackling of his radio and wait as he asks for confirmation on the incoming order. After a moment, he receives it, returning to you with a smile.

"Have everyone made special orders?" He eyes the coffees in your hands with interest. 

You raise the tray slightly. "Without risking being accused of bribery, no, most haven't, so you're free to take one."

He chuckles at your joke as he picks one of the mugs closest to him. The ones with Jack and Robby's names are on the row closest to your chest and not in danger of being chosen.

"Just put them in a box and let the guys check for routine's sake," he directs you towards the security check with a tip of the to-go cup now in his hand. 

You smile appreciatively at him. "Thank you."

"Thanks for the coffee," he replies as you move away from him. The look he gives you is one of gratitude.

The whole security check went smoothly after Ahmad had given the heads-up to the rest of the security guards that you could jump the queue. However, you soon found yourself in the same situation once you were inside the waiting room. 

Knowing you have to gain access to enter the door, where you saw a doctor disappear with a patient, you join the shortest queue to ask the lady at reception how to proceed.

While waiting, you hear all sorts of reasons for the people ahead of you visiting. Headaches that have been going on for days. Tightness in the chest. Abdominal pains. The list goes on as you glance over to the other queue, then around the room. 

Hushed voices conjoin and create a steady hum that reminds you of the café. So does the occasional call of names after the doors open into what you presume is the actual ER. But the groans of pain and occasional coughs are a stark difference from your workplace.

"Miss?"

Your head spins forward, finding the lady on the other side of the glass watching you. 

"Oh, sorry," you shoot her an apologetic smile as you step forward. "I'm just here to deliver some coffee and whatnot," you inform her, rattling the pastry bag slightly. 

"Sure, can I get a name?"

"I- ugh…" You blink dumbly at her. 

You hadn't called ahead to brief them on your arrival. In hindsight, maybe you should've. But to be honest, you didn't know how to contact the ER's reception specifically. 

The lady must sense your internal panic as her eyes stray from the computer back to you. 

Her head cocks slightly as she asks, "Are you the new delivery, from the café a few blocks over?" 

You chuckle a bit awkwardly as you nod. "Yeah, yeah, I am."

"Dr. Abbot mentioned you were coming tonight," she sends you a smile before she types something into the computer.

"Sorry about running late, staffing shortage and late delivery isn't the best combo," you apologise. 

It pulls a chuckle from the lady as she reaches for a pen and a sheet of paper, writing something on it. "Don't we know about it."

She looks up at you with a faint smile, handing you what you realise is a sticky-tag she'd written your name on. You accept it and tape it onto your chest, putting the residue paper in the trash can along your queue-ticket.

"Just head to the doors and I'll open them for you," the lady says, leaning on her desk and pointing towards where you should go.

"Thank you, andd have a good evening," you say, receiving a bigger smile in return before you walk to where she directed you.

You catch the faint buzz of the electronic lock opening once you reach the door, pushing it open to slip into the ER. 

It's not as crowded as in the waiting room, but neither is it as… calm. People dressed in different-coloured scrubs hurry past you, some entering rooms where you see patients, others talking with each other as they turn down hallways and out of sight. Gurneys are rolling by, equipment being moved as people call out where they should go.

You're overwhelmed as you walk forward, cautiously entering what you guess is a central hub.

It's open, but with a circular desk divided into different sections in the middle. Facing you and haanging above it is a large screen, displaying a colour-coded scheme of some sort. A wave of relief washes over you once spot a familiar silhouette further ahead, looking up at said screen.

"Robby!" The man —now clad in scrubs and a navy zip-up compared to the jeans and t-shirt combo he wore last time you saw him— looks over his shoulder upon the call of his name. 

His eyebrows are raised as his eyes sweep the area, only to furrow and surprise flash across his face once they find yours. The expression remains even as his gaze falls to the stuff you carry.

"You do deliveries now?" Robby remarks once his attention returns to your face and you're close enough to hear him.

"Only on days it's desperately needed," you smile, seeing the exhaustion in his eyes as you stop beside him.

"Although I'm very grateful to see you, thank you-" He interrupts himself when you shuffle the stuff in your hands and give him the cup with his name on it. "-I don't recall making an order? No less for delivery over pick-up? Which I didn't even know you did."

"Don't worry, you're not losing it." He huffs in a way that feels like it isn't a far-fetched possibility. "Just reckoned with us being short-staffed due to summer sickness and all, I could only presume how it was for you guys. So I made an exception." 

You say it with an air of amusement that most would've overlooked, but Robby senses something behind the reason you stopped by.

His eyes flitted down to the coffee tray you set beside the bag you deposited on the countertop, noticing the only other name written amongst the cups.

"That's why he's grumpy," Robby remarks on the breath of a chuckle. 

With today's workload and how many wera hme sick, he'd been busy when Jack arrived. They hadn't met until well after an hour when they cooperated on a collapsed trachea after a car crash in Trauma 2. 

He hadn't had enough time to consider whether Jack arrived with his usual cup of coffee or not. But what Robby did know was that the other attending hadn't had any for his duration here. What the cup he now looked at confirmed was that neither had he stopped by the café nor seen you because of the quick schedule change.

Robby notices your eyes follow his down to the tray of drinks.

Once realising what he's looking at and connecting his previous comment, you let out a short chuckle as your eyes rise to meet his again.

"That you know better than me."

"Believe me." 

Jack didn't wear his heart on his sleeve. But not even he could withstand making a remark after being called in early. Today, it held a bit more bitterness than usual. Robby beat down a smirk as he raised the coffee you personally stopped by to deliver.

"By the way, I took the liberty of giving you something with caffeine this time." Robby's dark brows rise in acknowledgement while he takes a sip.

You remembered what Jack had mentioned he likes. The lovechild of caffeine and diabetes. Compared to last time in the café, you'd focus more on the former today. Which is precisely why you chuckle when his expression swiftly changes once you presume the drink hits his tongue. 

"You shouldn't shot it. I have only seen those below 21 do that."

His eyes shift to you after having fallen to send the coffee cup a look. "Calling me old?"

"You've got greys coming." Robby cocked his brows, unimpressed.

"Have you seen, Jack? He's got a head full of it". 

Just as your laugh rings out at his comment, a blonde woman walks up to you and Robby from the other side of the desk. She looks between you, a smile tugging at her lips.

"And what's going on here?"

"Dana, meet our new coffee delivery." You cock a brow as Robby motions towards you with the same hand he holds the coffee, his other hand shoving into the pocket of his hoodie.

"That's how I'm introduced, huh?" You turn your head to catch him shrugging, hiding his entertained smile behind the cup he'd raised to his mouth. 

Rolling your eyes, you redirect your attention to the woman, introducing yourself properly, despite the name-tag on your clothes.

"Nice to meet you, honey." Her voice carries a calming warmth. Her eyes shift from you to Robby, then back to you as she asks, "So, how do you know each other?" 

The question is innocent in your ears, but Robby cocks his head, cup stilling halfway to his mouth. He sends Dana a look, one she answers without her friendly smile wavering. But he knows that particular glimmer in her eyes. 

The silent exchange goes unnoticed by you.

"I'm your neighbour down the street, from the café. We ran into each other there." 

Her brows jump up, lips parting in understanding ah as she nods between you and Robby. "Look at that, small world." 

"Seems like it," you chuckle slightly, shaking your head at the perfect time as Dana's eyes linger on the man —who has abandoned his drink at this point— beside you with a raised brow.

Robby holds the coffee cup motionless and close to his chest as he cocks a brow at the charge nurse in return, sending her a silent 'Are you serious?'. She only rolls her head sideways, smile still pinned high on her cheeks, before her eyes fall on you again.

"I actually got a recommendation about your place, just like this one-" she juts her chin towards Robby, "- from our Dr. Abbot." 

"Oh, I know him." Robby notices how your lips twitch a little higher as you speak. His eyes move to Dana to see if she picked up on it. Apparently not. 

"When you get the time, go ahead and have a taste-test of what we offer for future reference." You invite her to the things you brought with a wave of your hand.

"Oh, don't worry about me. I should be on my way any second now; it's better to leave it for those who need it, like him." 

"Yeah, I heard something about being short-staffed." You look at Robby shortly, noticing how he tilted his head and redirected his attention to you, eyebrows knitting together.

"When aren't we?" Dana's voice and the following soft scoff pull your eyes back to her, not having time to read into Robby's expression. 

Entirely unaware how Robby's attention remains on you — all because he knows he didn't give you any information about the sickness running rampant in the Pitt— you give Dana a cheerless smile in response to her rhetorical question. 

She notices, looking at you with a weathered kind of expression as she reassures you, "None of that, kid. Kind souls like you stopping by with this makes it a little more worth it."

"Please, be my guest then." You nod to the bag you'd filled with a small array of baked goods that would've been thrown away otherwise. "And, I know it isn't much, but… if any of you stop by, there's a discount on behalf of the owner."

"Oh oh, and there your sales just went up with all the caffeine addicts at this department," Robby chimes in, rolling on the soles of his feet.

You chuckled at his comment, feeling how the serious topic is abandoned by his simple addition to the conversation. 

Just then, a phone rings. Dana expresses her appreciation through a soft pat on your forearm, which you've come to rest on the desk, before she excuses herself.

Simply smiling in return, you follow the blonde as she walks to the stationary phone.

The call is relatively short, and she mostly listens and nods along to whatever the person on the other end is saying. Once she puts down the phone again, she turns to Robby.

"Middle-aged man, shortness of breath when lying down, coughing with mucus, possible respiratory heart failure, ETA two minutes," her voice has changed, taking on a serious, professional edge.

"No rest for the wicked," Robby mutters, already moving as he glances back at you. "Thanks for the coffee." 

As he says it, he puts it down on a desk a bit further away. By the closeness to the black thermos already placed there, you guess it's a place he'd either claimed as his or favoured.

As you wave off his thanks, your attention is side-tracked to the person walking towards Robby. Jack, although seemingly heading in the opposite direction beforehand, stalls just as he is about to walk past him.

"Take your break." Jack had noticed the hurried last sip Robby took of the coffee before he put it down. Which was enough to tell him another incoming was en route. But with his fellow attending closing in on his fifteenth hour without any real breaks, a five-minute coffee pause was well-deserved, if not heavily needed.

Yet Robby shakes his head, which turns into a backwards jerk of his head as he says, "I'll handle it, entertain the delivery instead." 

Jack's eyes follow his nod, not until his eyes locks with yours catching on to what his friend meant.

Without having to look at Robby, Jack knew he carried an entertained expression. The chuckle he departed with towards the ambulande bay only confirmed it.

Your attention remains on him up until the point when the noise of a rolling gurney make you glance backwards. As he cuts through the nurse station to reach, he notices how you press yourself a bit closer to the desk to let the people pass.

"There's less of a crowd over there." Jack voice is close, making your head whip forwards again. He's closed the distance between you, now standing on the other side of the desk.

You blinked up at Jack, caught off-guard by his voice. It was rougher, laced with a distinct graveness you hadn't heard previously. Still, when you give him a gentle smile of gratitude for noticing how you feel too out of place, he doesn't remain as stoic; his lips twitching upwards.

Before following him to the section of the nurse station he'd motioned to, you look at the blonde nurse behind him.

"Hey, Dana?" Her eyes are quick to meet yours when you say her name. "None of the other coffees are for anyone in particular, so whoever wants one can just check to know what's in them. And make sure people eat, if it so means they bring one home with them." You inform her as you take Jack's mug from the tray.

"Will do, kid." 

"That includes you, as well." Her smile pulls higher at one side, and you mirror it back to her before you follow Jack, who'd stepped around the desk to lead you away from the crowds.

It definitely can't be considered far, just to ther side of the nurse station. But it was enough to be considerably calmer. No gurneys rolling past as frequently, nor the same flow of people.

As you stop by the corner of one of the desks, resting the closest arm on the high countertop, Jack stand just at its edge, hand settling on the desk, thumb beneath the rounded countertop.

"As promised." You stretch your other arm towards him, offering the coffee you brought.

He takes it from you, appreciation shining in his gaze even though he didn't verbalise it as a thank you. 

"You didn't have to come here; it's well past closing," he remarks after taking a sip of his drink. You shrug.

"A delivery ran late", you explain as he nurses his drink. "I'd rather stay to spare the hassle of booking a new one anyway. Besides, I don't want to arrive tomorrow morning and realise I have to unpack it."

"Also on a double shift, huh?" He comments drily, referring to his and Robby's hastily changed schedules.

"It's not only in the medical field overtime exists, Dr. Abbot." Your mouth twitches into a smile, and his does something similar as you jokingly use his professional title. "But caring for patients beats hauling bags of coffee beans. 

He releases an amused sound through his nose, watching as your eyes stray from his, smile lingering on your lips at his repressed way of chuckling. They flicker around the Pitt, inspecting the place he works at, not too unlike he'd done at the café the first time he stopped by. 

Although Jack got t know what your first impression of him had been, he doesn't know whether you thought he'd stuck out like a sore thumb. His scrubs and miltiary backpack didn't fit the aesthetic of the café. If you had, he guess you'd grown used to it by now. But he could never grow used to seeing you here. Not... because Jack didn't want to. You simply didn't fit in. At all.

The Pitt is sterile. Smells of antiseptic and chlorine. Bright in that too-much and not for anyone's good fashion. You are the exact opposite, reflecting the same warm softness from the café. 

Your clothes are made of soft nature materials and not the blend of plastic-organic compounds like his scrubs. Their white colour leans more towards something warm, like vanilla, close to cream, compared to the walls around you, which are painted in pure white and appear cold and blue-ish. 

You smell of coffee —which Jack knows is from your workplace— and something sweet. It could be from the pastries you serve, or a perfume. He's leaning towards the second as he catches notes he doesn't recognise from the café. 

He guesses your it probably blends in with all the things you brew and bake throughout the day, and that's why he hasn't picked up on it before. But when you visit places like this, where everyone smells of nothing but hand disinfectant and faint traces of soap, yoru perfume stands out. You stand out.

However, as Jack watches you, his brows furrow. You don't seem as at ease as you usually are. Not only because you're unused to the Pitt, he realises.

The slouch in your posture, the way you lean heavily on the desk, how you shift on your feet, and the seemingly unconscious way you roll your neck and shoulders when you look around are certainly not a result of unfamiliar surroundings. 

Jack doesn't know if it's his harsh exhale or the way he steps closer that catches your attention. Whichever of the two options it is, your eyes move to focus on him again.

Surprise flickers across your features when your gaze meet his, before the look fades swiftly into a curiously raised brow.

"What?" You ask, head tipping to rest against your shoulder.

"You really didn't have to," he says, gesturing with his coffee cup to clarify what he meant.

"It's nothing, Jack." You smile, but he scoffs, noticing the way your lips almost pull downwards from the strain of such a little action.

His neck cranes a little lower as he stares at you, speaking slowly as he states, "You are exhausted."

"And I can't imagine what you would've been without that," you quickly retort, pointing at the paper-cup in his hand. 

He shakes his head, not wanting to fight you, but you certainly should've been home already, especially if you're scheduled to open tomorrow as well. Yet he doesn't get the chance to say something before your attention is diverted.

What caught your attention was the man you'd spotted around Jack's frame. He'd walked past the place where you'd left the coffees, only to do a double take and walk backwards. Currently, he seemed particularly interested in the iced coffee you'd brought.

You don't know if he felt you looking at him, but his head jumped upwards, looking around until his eyes connected with yours. Apparently, he was quick to notice you didn't fit in with the rest of the scrub-wearing medical workers and immediately picked up one of the cups to ask a silent question.

The second you sent him a thumbs-up, Jack glanced over his shoulder. You both held off on your conversation as the man brought the cup with him and walked over.

"I haven't seen you around before, but I do recognise the best coffee in town." He announces himself by stopping beside you and Jack, eyes moving to the latter. "Why didn't you tell me you got coffee for us? I would've come running."

"That's why," he deadpans, making you chuckle. Jack's eyes flitter down to you, then back to his colleague. "And it would be there after you were done anyway, no one voluntarily chooses an ice-cold coffee."

"More to me." Even though Jack lets out a light scoff, the other man ignores it with a smile as he turns back to you with his hand outstretched. "I'm Dr. Shen."

You shake it, giving him your name in return before you say, "The guy ordering an iced cramael latte, I remember, made that one in case you were around." You point to the one in his hands.

"Were you the one who made it last time?" He cocks his brows more than his head as he raises his drink to take a sip, managing to answer his own question before you get the chance. "Mhm, oh yeah, you did, the same amount of caramel in this one." He nods, satisfied.

"Can't cheap out on it, can you?" Jack glances at you, shaking his head slightly. As if his action reminded his colleague of his presence, Shen tipped his head.

"Yeah, I reckoned he hadn't asked for extra and I was probably right about that."

"Of course he didn't." You confirm. 

While it makes Shen chuckle, it earns you a cocked head and look from Jack. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You take your coffee black, of course I don't peg you for the type to add something that would make a drink even sweeter." You tease him, tacking on a sweet smile as you bump his forearm with the back of your hand. 

It isn't big. No extraordinary action. Not from how close Jack is standing. Not even from how he didn't react more than the creases growing around his eyes. 

Nonetheless, when you look back at Shen, his eyebrows are perched high as he sips through his straw, eyes jumping between the two of you.

"So, I got to be on my way," he extended the letters of the last word, going from pointing at you to Jack with his straw as he continued, "Thanks for the coffee and see you around."

"No worries", you give him a smile as he turns, returning to where Dana and the coffee tray are. You notice how he presses his forearms on the countertop, jumping between the screen above him and the charge nurse herself.

While you followed Shen with your gaze, you realised Jack didn't, as once you turned back to watch him, he was staring at you. "So that was who you bought that drink for?"

"Yes," he nods.

"I guess he also had to come in early?"

Jack shrugs as he drops his arm to hang alongside his body and leans against the counter. His scrub top brushes against your fingers. "Not too bad, closer to the actual start of our shift than me."

"When did you arrive?" 

He tips his head, hovering the cup close to his lips without drinking as he answers, "Twelve."

Jack watches your mouth purse. "How has it been so far?" 

He takes a swig of his coffee and swallows before he answers. "Calm." 

You're outright frowning now, your gaze sweeping the surroundings momentarily. When it returns to him, he sees your question.

"This is about as calm as it gets."

"Ah." 

Jack knows that you want to say something, your mouth opening only to rapidly close and turn downwards. In the end, you decide to change the topic, the serious, bordering troubled, furrow in your brow dropping with your sigh.

"You ever get used to the sound?" You wave your index finger around at nothing in particular.

"Barely hear it." Your eyebrows raise, mirth dancing in your eyes all of a sudden. Something about your look reminds him of Robby and his witty comments, so he beats you to it. "And it's not because of age."

Your chuckle reveals you were about to comment something along the same lines.

"If you say so," you concede. However, your voice is too light and teasing, which counteracts the sincerity of your words. He dips his chin, sending you a chastising look that does nothing to hamper the smile you give him.

Suddenly, someone shouts, calling out multiple incoming ambulances. Jack watches as you jump in place, not more than a twitch of your body. But it's enough to hint at how unused you are to the suddenness of the sound. Meanwhile, Jack registers the details even as his gaze remains on you.

"Guess that's my cue to leave." Your arm slides from the desk as you push away from it.

Jack nods, surprised that you stayed this long after what was obviously a long day and that he got so many minutes to spare with you. 

"Make the coffee count." Even if it's not your intention to create the closest thing to a non-stress-induced adrenaline rush, the wink you send him after you sentence beckons the same reaction. 

He has to angle his head down to hide the way he swallows to force the feeling away, along with the little burst of emotions they roused. Like it always did.

"Thank you again-", Jack begins, taking the opportunity of his ducked head to hold your gaze even as he also pushes himself to stand straight, "-really."

Your grin turns into a soft smile. "Again, don't mention it." 

"Drive safe, message when you get home so I know you didn't fall asleep behind the wheel."

It was your time to not verbalise a reply; simply giving him a slight nod. If Jack only knew how you did it because you were too concentrated on the way your heart had jumped, only to thud hard in your chest, to string together a reply to his request.

He spares just a few more seconds following your retreating figure, attempting to stay out of the way of people by keeping close to the walls. 

Jack doesn't need his name to be called to break his stare and move towards the trauma rooms. But if his attention had lingered a little longer, he would've caught you looking over your shoulder just before reaching the doors into the waiting room. Instead, now you get to see the version of Jack, Dr. Abbot, you hadn't before.

A sense of admiration grows for him as he steps into the role you know he carries heavily on his shoulders, yet had never seen in person. He moves differently, more assured as he meets the EMTs. If you concentrate, you can even hear his voice from where you're standing. 

He wasn't barking orders, but stayed calm and collected, voice commanding those around him to get a move on with a cadence that demanded respect and action. If you could've, you would've stayed, but as doors opened before you —held open by a kind-looking doctor as she noticed you— it marked the end of your stay.

While going your separate ways, even before then, Dana had kept an eye on you and Jack. She'd observed you while holding a phone to her ear, her shoulder pinning it in place, as she called what additional staff she could possibly convince to come in until the night-shift charge nurse arrived and took over. 

She didn't catch your conversation. But she didn't need to; the way you interacted, watched each other when the other wasn't looking, was enough. When Shen had joined you briefly, only to come back with intriguingly raised brows combined with a 'So, what's that about?' Dana knew.

It's not long after you left that Dana catches Robby by the nurse's station, hand rubbing his eyes from exhaustion as he left the latest incoming in Jack's hands.

"So, the girl?" She inquires, joining his side with her stuff collected from her locker.

Robby's eyes linger on the screen above them as his hand drops, now clutching either end of his stethoscope. Something in her tone immediately makes him realise she's talking about you.

"What about her?"

"She was here for Abbot." That makes him peel his eyes from the screen, the charge nurse already watching him. "Wouldn't have guessed." 

There's a slight smile on her face, implying she initially thought you would've been visiting because of him rather than the other attending. 

"She works in service, it's in her profession to hit it off with everyone." Robby chuckles. "Besides, you nurses get so easily blinded by the slightest possibility for gossip."

"That's what you doctors say about us now, huh?" She counters, sarcasm far outweighing the offence someone without decades of experience or friendship would express.

A call for Robby rings out, who's already moving to the patient upon noting the commotion stirring in one of the trauma rooms Jack didn't occupy.

"Saved by the bell," Dana calls after him.

"And you should be home by now," he retorts just as he pushes through the doors and joins the rest.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

baby, it's you!! ( clark kent )

you're the one i love! you're the one i need! you're the only one i see! clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.

pairing: clark kent x journalist fem reader (no use of yn)

themes: angst, fluff, implied cheating (more so accusation)

the voicemails started off polite, poised and then four missed calls later you were bordering into unhinged, murderous woman who had been stood up on her first date territory. which you were- so that take is completely true.

you've known clark kent for a few months since you joined the daily planet as a journalist for their women's health section. separated by the plastic wheels squeaking as his bumps his chair into yours and the sweet cups of coffee he starts your mornings with, it wasn't long between your smiles at him became softer. you let yourself look at him a little longer, hanging on to whatever slivers of himself he'd let sneak past his usual charming and boyish front.

he returned those feelings pretty quickly too, through the holding of hands under the desks, him learning a little over your shoulder purposefully to read over your work, the intensity of his closeness throwing you off- how when he'd speak it was as if he had reserved a separate tone just for you- one that felt a little more breathless, thoughtful, pooling heat in your stomach instantaneously and laced with a feeling a lot like love.

it took him weeks to work himself up to ask you on a date. your first date, you mused. clark kent was clearly a man who did things by the book and you had hoped that after tonight, he'd finally meet you in the middle of this strange dance you're stuck in and kiss you silly already.

you'd imagined it in your head a million times; so often that you had once unintentionally started typing out the scene like a true novella; how he'd wine and dine you at the little italian place a few blocks over, dance with you in the dark on the walk home and kiss the remenants of sweet dessert off your lips on your doorstep- instead of filling the column with your recent musings on the importance of gut health in retaining a balanceful mood. you had never smashed the backspace so hard in your life- the angry crushing of keys and the rosy pink flushing the tips of your ears and neck drawing attention to your best friend, lois who stared at you amused.

"he's obsessed with you," she assured with you once, the very first time he looked your way and sent you spiralling. it was the same day he asked you out, a casual question for dinner and maybe it was your fault for overthinking this. he gave you one look and you went running straight into his heart, demanding entrance and free rent.

"hey this is clark! leave your message and i'll try and get back to you-" and you can imagine his obnoxiously gorgeous face, slight chirp in his voice and suddenly the alcohol buzzing war in your veins is giving you the confidence.

"you know clark, if you wanted to just embarrass me you didn't have to take me out to dinner to do that," you grit between your teeth, "oh wait, you didn't even take me out to dinner! call me NEVER." the breath of anger is hot on your phone, steaming the screen. the phone hangs on by a thin thread of misplaced hope and largely embarrassment as it sits between your collarbone and ear.

it's a contrast to the chill air of the apartment stairwell that bites at your bare skin. the off white slip you paired with a soft knit cardigan that was a sweet butter yellow seemed incredible in the moment but right now, only the breeze- bordering wind territory is getting a treat of it tonight. your kitten heels clatter on the stairs up because your friend's stupid elevators are out of service. like mystery man, lois lane had also not returned your calls tonight. you figured she was going through her usual work phases, her perfectionism and hyperfixated need for the chase of a story stealing most of her time. you let her do her thing, its what she loved and you loved supporting her.

when you first moved to the daily planet she was the first to show you around and became the sister you never had; an instantaneous friendship that made the world spin a little slower for you to keep up.

and that's why tonight: three sweaty flights of stairs and two more voicemails that ended with the escape of sniffles has you knocking on your friend's door- in need of an ear to lift this heavy burden of embarrassment of your shoulder.

"lois!" you don't even knock, just throw the entirety of your body weight at her door. your figure is slumped against it when she opens it just by the smallest of inches and maybe if you were intoxicated less, that could've been the first sign.

"he stood me up," the tears stream and before you know it you're sobbing in her hallway- loud wails that widen her eyes comically in fear you're going to wake up the whole neighbourhood.

"i waited," you throw your arms around miserably, like a toddler having a tantrum, "and he never showed."

something instantly freezes in her and what looks like guilt flashes over the sympathetic smile she sends your way before she crushes you into a bone-bending hug. "oh honey," she soothes into your skin and you let the tears soak up her tank top and then you pull back.

"can i come in now?" your voice quiet and lois decided she'd rather the earth swallow her whole.

"i'm a little busy," she winces, trying to close the door a little bit more behind her but you peer through nonetheless anyways, blood freezing cold at the sight of soft black curls you know from the memorisation of how they've felt under your fingers.

"clark," you breathe. its not exactly a question, more so a snot fuelled statement of betrayal as your eyes flicker between him and your friend. you don't know which one to settle on, shift all your focus and blame on because you're so tired and the alcohol is making you drowsier as the minutes tick by.

"honey," he gets up from his spot on the sofa and tries to meet you at the door but the wrinkle in your brow and fury laced in your frown tells him to stop exactly where he is.

"don't you dare come near me," shame rises in your throat and you feel flushed as hell. the heats on the back of your neck, tinging your cheeks in a rosy fire of embarrassment. "god, how could i have been so fucking wrong?" your voice stretches out with a strain and you take a step back in defeat, "i knew i was in over my head," and then you decide no. this is not a pity party for one, you will not take the blame. you were stood up!

"yeah!" you shout with a growl and the two of them look between themselves in concern, unsure of how to approach you.

"honey, wait," a warm and heavy wrist reaches out to grab your arm as you make a sharp turn on your heel- ready to end this night of drunken shame and theatrics.

"oh i did!" you fight the empty laugh with a scoff, "for a whole hour, no texts no calls, nothing," your voice gets quieter, thudding in clark's chest like warning signals blaring disasterously. this is all on him, he thinks. he's fucked up majorly.

you shrug yourself out of his hold, throwing your small purse in the direction of the two of them and hobble away in a huff. the stiletto heels swelling at your ankles as you shift the weight. the air is heavy as you leave it and face the chill of the outside air swimming around you.

the walk back to your apartment isn't far- you live pretty close to lois and when you reach your door, you sigh heavily. leaning your head onto the wooden frame, and as the tears start to well up all over again you bite them back down. in your fit, throwing your purse at the two traitors you forgot that you left your phone and your keys in there. however, sober you is smarter and you use your excellently hidden spare key to unlock the door and crash inside.

it's safer in your home- no one can reach you here, you think. the kitten heels are abandoned at the entryway, and your body collapses straight onto the sofa, not even making it to your bed before sleep chases you and claims to you a life that was kinder to you, where you ate donuts for breakfast and didn't gain a pound, wrote about things that interested you instead of the latest shopping trends and where you could fall asleep in the arms of someone who let you in all the way and just liked you back enough to choose you first.

...

he softly places your purse on your desk infront of you, shifting his weight back and forth, rocking gently on his feet as he waits behind your chair. at 6'4, his height looms over your area, like a cool of shade on a warm summer day, you normally welcome his presence instantly. usually you notice him in a second, with a soft sweet smile in which your nose scrunches a "good morning" and clark kent knows the day is going to be a good one.

instead, he's met with silence.

pure, heavy, lonely silence.

you were thirty four minutes late this morning- he was absolutely counting as he watched the door open and close, hoping it'd be who'd pass in. and when you did you were quieter than usual, hair tied in a messy knot at the back of your head, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose and the same damn yellow cardigan wraps around your frame. only today it sits on top of a black satin slip that sways in the breeze as you take the furthest seat from him. he's instantly tortured with the memories of last night, how undeserving he was to see you in such a fragile but gorgeous state and he blew it completely.

your eyes narrow in on the purse to the side of your computer.

he watches carefully as you poke your tongue in your cheek in thought and prays like hell that you'll just say anything. instead what he soaks up is your snail- like movements who takes all the time in the world to open your purse, not bother checking whether all your things are still there but unlocking your phone.

"i charged it," he has to clear his throat but the earnest rumble still peeks through. you nod slowly, switching it off within a moment and letting it clutter on your desk with a gentle thud- a careless offhanded movement and he winces.

he still waits, hoping you'll throw another crumb his way. he tries not to let the fact that you've not touched the cup of coffee he left steaming at your desk this morning sting his chest like you've poured gasoline over his heart and are just waiting to set it alight.

"not hungry?" he asks, fighting back a stutter. you look over to the muffin he left by the side of your mug and then back at him, a bored expression on your face and clark wishes he could make this whole thing right again. it was a misunderstanding- hard to explain to someone who's drunk- not that he'd ever blame you. it was his fault for getting caught up in his interview with lois he didn't realise the time. he planned this date, he knew about it, scheduled it weeks in advance and he had let it all go to shit because there was someone out there who knew him. and that changed everything, scared him more than anything.

but seeing you so detached, god that's got to top the list for sure.

"no thanks," you deliver flatly, turning your attention back to the screen. your fingers hover lazily over the keyboard and in the reflection of your glasses, clark can still see his reflection fading to the background.

"listen, about last night-" he starts the story he's practises over and over again with great precision but the nerves in his stomach threaten to rip him open still.

"i said no thanks," you repeat more firmly, "look i get it, you're not interested and it's my fault for dragging this on but for the love of god, please don't make this any more awkward for me i will actually die," you don't take your eyes off the screen once but your fingers are frozen. no words typed out but everything said in the open.

"that's so far from the truth-" he begins and you cut him off with a glare sent with pure edge. he stands firm and watches the ice melt with a softened stare. he thinks he has you for a moment and then all the light fades from his eyes when you give him a reassuring nod.

"clark, it's okay. please just go now," and just like that, your focus is taken back to your computer screen and clark is frozen behind you. he stands for a couple more seconds before jimmy places two hands at his broad shoulders and diverts him away.

"i don't know what you did kent, but it's best to wait this out maybe?" he suggests but clark's mind screams the opposite. he has to fix this and quick or the best thing to happen to his life is going to disappear- and he would've just let it all happen.

...

lois gives him a nod across the room and he delivers one exactly the same. at his side, jimmy crosses his fingers and says a prayer which clark thanks him quietly before getting up and walking with such stealth a few feet behind you.

it's lunch time- later than you usually take it but you've grabbed your work bag and have it slunched over your shoulder and make way to the elevator. clark keeps his steps purposefully measured- slower than yours but quick enough to keep up with your momentum. he stops at your side and presses the button to call for the elevator and feels you still beside him.

it's comical how statue-eque you've transformed that clark has to look extra closely to check the rise and fall of your chest to make sure you're breathing.

"hey, do you wanna grab a bite fro-" he can hardly get the question out before you've darted in the direction of the stairwell, taking off at such an incredible speed that clark has to beg for a few huffs of breaths to keep going.

"honey!" he calls out and growls lowly when you do not pause for a single second, jumping down the flights of stairs like each step is burnt straight from hell. clark uses the last of his strength and ounce of caffeine to pull through getting slighter ahead of you and knocks you against the wall.

his hand shoots out in a razor sharp reflex, cushioning your head from where it was moments from meeting the wall as the other pushes itself gently into your abdomen, holding you still.

"stop running from me please," his voice is dangerously low, a plead heavy in the subtle vibrations

"oh," you whisper stupidly at the hand placement, heating pooling in your stomach at the sudden proximity. you hate yourself for how easy it is for him to break your stony resolve. you planned to give him a whole day's worth of the silent treatment but had already broken your pact by charging your stupid phone like a nice human being. ugh.

he stumbles out an apology and pulls back gently, enough to give you some more room to breathe. his hand covering your stomach travels to the side of your hip instead and squeezes it gently in comfort.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, hanging his head low. "lois and i got paired for a new article and we just ran over time. it was my fault, i thought i'd make it to you on time but as we got deeper in the work i forgot to even call or text and," he breathes out slower, "i'm worried i've blown this all because i'm fucking stupid."

his breaths are heavy, slicing the air as it settles thicker with emotions and regrets of last night.

"so you and lois are not?" you can't get the words out and he shakes his head immediately.

"no," he firmly puts, "god, no," theres more emphasis this time, "she's amazing but she's not you. there's only ever been you- there will only ever be you and it fucking kills me that you thought i wasn't interested anymore. honey you hang the stars in my sky and rotate the damn earth, it could never not be you," he whispers again and you nod, staring straight into those gentle eyes.

"i got all pretty for you," your voice cracks, the shards worming its way and seeping through clark's heart. he watches how your eyes glass with a fresh batch of tears and he reaches out to catch the strays intimately, fingers cupping your jaw and he presses his forehead against yours.

"i know baby, and god i'll be sorry till i die,"

"bit dramatic," you ease to break the tension and he huffs out a laugh, "but i appreciate it nonetheless."

"let me make it up to you?" he asks hopeful and you bite your lip, the insecurity and fear of being left behind still making its way into your bones. he can feel that you're inside your own head and curses himself for making you feel this way.

"i don't know clark," you get out honestly, "i felt real stupid sitting there, you also owe me fifty bucks for all that wine," you face the floor, unable to keep eye contact.

he uses a finger to hook under your chin and lift your eyes to him, "i broke your trust," he speaks gently, as if being any louder might scare you away, "i'm so sorry for making you feel forgotten and alone last night, you are important to me more than anything and i'll show it to you. i'll prove it to you, i'm here," he pleads and you sigh, resting your head into his chest and he melts under your touch.

"one chance," your voice heats at his heart. "as long as you promise to delete all those voicemails- i went a little bit overboard," and you flush with sniffle of embarrassment once more. he promises with a chuckle and soft kiss to your temple, holding you in the stairwell for moments that stretch into an eternity.

you don't know that clark cried so hard to each voicemail, he threw his phone in anger, almost breaking it. that he followed you home last night from a distance to make sure you made it back home safe even though he was probably the last person you'd have wanted to see. you don't know that now as you stand in his arms, every bit of honour he has to fight and hang on to desperately when he wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss you stupidly.

he wants forever with you.

and he'll spend the rest of his life working towards it- one dinner, three glasses of wine and eight raging voicemails at a time.

note: i dont think im a dc girl, i think im just a david corenswet girl im ngl the press run hes been on lawddddd

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

not our universe ── . ✶ c. kent

summary: you've had a complicated relationship with being a metahuman, but after taking a look into the multiverse—you've never hated having your powers more.

pairings: established!clark kent x gn!reader, clark kent x metahuman!readerノ wc: 7.9k warnings: no use of 'y/n, buckle in bc it's a long one!, fluff in the beginning, then there's angst, reader is a metahuman who can see through the multiverse, reader's nose bleeds a lot, insecure!reader, avoidant!reader, reader is described to be shorter than clark, clark gets frustrated, fluffy/happy ending, the ending is so sappy, and i love it, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: saw an edit on my feed about all of the iterations of clois and i was like...this is primetime for some angst for the reader LOL :p. also sorry for taking so long to write this i was waiting until i rewatched the movie to finish this but enjoy!! oh and a simple comment or reblog goes a long long way for writers!! clark kent masterlist

IT STARTED OFF SMALL, YOUR POWERS.

You didn't even realize you had powers at first. In your young mind, you thought you were having really vivid dreams at first. Your parents thought you had an overactive imagination when you ran into their room in the morning and blabbed about your dreams with them at the ripe old age of eight. 

It was only when they turned on the news that morning that they realized what had happened across the globe was the same scenario you had described in your dream that morning. Your parents were at a loss for what to do with you and your newly developed powers (even if you had no idea that you had them).

After a lengthy discussion between the two of them, they took you to a specialist in metahuman powers (who was a metahuman themselves) to try and figure out what powers you actually possessed.

After weeks of going to several appointments with this specialist, you found out alongside your parents that your powers consisted of a form of astral projection, but would manifest and grow in power over time to the point where you didn't need to sleep anymore to see into different areas of the globe at any time you wanted. 

And oh, did your powers grow indeed. By the time you were in high school, you could see alternate dimensions in your sleep. You hadn't quite mastered being able to travel places and dimensions awake. Though that skill wouldn't have developed until you graduated from college.

Your doctor was an essential instrument for you to not only control but also understand your metahuman ability. If it wasn't for them, you would not have found out that you can't actively affect the events you're witnessing or be seen by the average person. 

You had yet to find a person to "sense" you while you were in your 'ghostly form' besides your doctor (how else did you know that you had a transparent form when you were using your powers). That was until you had projected into Superman's apartment one night while you were asleep. 

It happened purely by accident. You were up thinking about Clark Kent of all people before you fell asleep. He was your really kind and very attractive friend who happened to work at the Daily Planet alongside you. You couldn't help but think about how he had gone out of his way to grab you coffee that morning since you hastily texted him to get him to cover for you as you ran late (granted, if he wasn't late himself). 

So, your subconscious decided to transport your astral form into a familiar-looking apartment that you've been to a couple of times when you guys would have your movie nights.

Superman had his red boots kicked off when he turned around abruptly and saw you in the hallway leading to his apartment. 

You looked around at the familiar hallway of Clark's apartment when you saw Superman(sans boots) standing in his living room and staring directly at you. You were used to people looking through you—some even walked through you like you didn't even exist. 

But Superman didn't look through you, but he looked AT you. You stood there, shocked. What the hell was Superman doing in Clark's apartment, and how the hell could he see you right now? 

Clark called out your name breathlessly, and it snapped you out of your stupor. You realized that Superman could see you. You got scared and vanished out of his sight. You immediately shot up out of bed, panting, and you could feel liquid dripping down your face. You groaned, getting out of bed and rushing into your bathroom, turning on the faucet and cleaning your now bleeding nose. 

You hadn't gotten one in years since your freshman year of college. As you cleaned your face, your mind was racing. 

I mean, I knew Clark knew Superman, but I didn't think they knew each other on an intimate level. However, now, how Clark got all of those interviews makes sense.

You cleaned your face of the blood and exited your ensuite bathroom when there was rapid knocking at your door. Your heartbeat caught in your throat as you walked towards your doorway. You looked into the peephole and saw a disheveled Clark. 

You opened your door hesitantly and confused. "Clark? Are you okay?" You asked as you took in his rumpled white t-shirt and joggers. Your brows were furrowed. How did he get to your apartment so fast? 

"M'fine. How did you get into my apartment?" Clark asked, ducking into your apartment. Suppose he was going to air out his secret identity to you. In that case, he'd prefer the privacy of your apartment to having the discussion in the hallway. 

"What? Clark, I wasn't in your apartment." You closed your door and said as you followed him into your living room, turning on the lamp on the end table near your couch. You were still a little drowsy, so Clark got into your place without much protest from you.

Clark looked unimpressed by your confusion. "I saw you in the doorway and then I blinked and you were gone. How did you do that?" 

In your sleep-addled brain, you barely registered his words. "What are you talking about? Superman was the one who saw me, and he was in—" You cut yourself off. The realization hit you like a lightning strike. 

You were fully awake now as you looked at Clark in shock. "You're Superman." He wasn't wearing his glasses, and the similarities between Clark and Superman were uncanny. 

Clark swallowed thickly. "Yeah." He admitted after letting out a breath. "So, can you answer my question? Since you kinda just appeared in my apartment and then disappeared." 

You couldn't help but let out a delirious giggle, confusing Clark slightly, but the corner of his lips couldn't help but twitch up at the sound of it. You really didn't think your night was going to turn out like this, hence the random giggle (or was it the sleep deprivation? You couldn't tell anymore). 

You shook your head. "It's a long story." You sighed, walking over to your couch and throwing yourself into the well-worn cushions, gesturing for Clark to sit down. 

"I've got time." Clark said softly as he sat down on the cushion next to where you were sitting. 

So, you told him everything. You told him about your metahuman abilities and the process you went through in order to get a handle on your powers. Clark listened intently, his eyes never once straying away from your form. 

"Any questions?" You asked after letting out a breath and sinking back into your couch as you finally looked at Clark, meeting his intense gaze. 

"Do you usually 'project'," Clark mimed air quotes, making you smile, "into your friend's apartment?" 

"No, I've got a good handle on my powers eighty five percent of the time." 

"So, the other fifteen percent is room for error?" 

You laughed softly. "Yeah. I guess tonight was just one of those nights." 

Clark nodded. "I see. Can I ask another question?" 

"Are you going all journalist on me now? I think you forgot your notepad and recorder Mr. Kent." You teased Clark. 

"I don't think an interview with you will make the front page." Clark played along and shot you a smug grin. 

You scoffed. "Right, because your favorite person to interview is yourself ironically enough." You shot back, a sarcastic smile on your face.

Clark was fighting the smile that was trying to grow on his face. "Shut up." But his words had no real bite to them. 

"Oh please, you love hearing the sound of my voice." 

You'd be right. He thought, but Clark bit back his real response. "Why tonight? You mentioned that you don't usually project at night right before you sleep." He asked his question instead of continuing the banter that was usually thrown around between the two of you. 

That was the thing with your powers. Once you had gotten them under control, you never wanted to use them.

You were warned that the older you got with having your powers, the more dangerous the places you find yourself in, both asleep and while you use your powers on purpose. Yeah, your physical body would be fine—but you didn't want to sacrifice your mental health to satiate your curiosity for other parts of the world or alternate dimensions.  

You bit your bottom lip. Clark's eyes flickered to how your teeth were pillowed by the fullness of your lips. You sighed, making Clark's gaze meet your own. 

"Sometimes, when I don't use my powers for a long time, I project without meaning to—it doesn't happen often. But when it does, it means I have a lot on my mind." Yeah, you had a whole lot of Clark Kent on the mind. You tried looking away from Clark, but his eyes always seemed to pin you in place. 

Clark could hear the rapid beat of your heart, almost mirroring his own, and it filled his chest with hope as his lips stretched into a tender smile. He shifted on the couch and closer to you. Warmth radiated off of him—even through the material of his sweatpants as his thighs brushed against yours. 

"Can I admit something? Since we're airing secrets out and all." Clark's voice was gentle as he looked down at you with soft eyes, filled with affection. 

You nodded. "But if you tell me that you're Superman, well, I know now." 

Clark chuckled at your playful words, and a surge of confidence went through him, channeling a little bit of Superman into his actions. One of his hands found your own. "I am Superman. And it makes this easier for me to say, but I like you. A lot." He tacked on at the end as he stared at your face, trying to read your expression. Clark felt his ears turn red, and a warm blush climbed down his neck. 

"Really?" You asked in disbelief.  

Clark looked away for a brief moment. "Yes." 

A giddy feeling started to course through your body as you squeezed his hand. "You're in luck. I like you a lot too." 

Clark looked back at you, his lips split into a blinding grin, his dimples appearing, and you couldn't help but mirror his smile. You were practically turning into putty at the sight of his adoring grin.

Clark leaned in, and the sharp sting of ozone and the fading scent of his cologne emanated from him and filled your senses. The close proximity of Clark and his scent was almost dizzying—you barely knew your left from your right at this point, but you knew you wanted him closer. 

Clark used his free hand to gently cup your cheek, his eyes darting between your lips and your eyes. "You're so pretty." He muttered almost absentmindedly, like being this close to you, disengaged his filter, and was unable to resist telling you now that he was this close to you. 

And you were. The warm glow from the lamp behind you gave the illusion that there was a halo behind you. Your cheeks immediately flooded with heat at the sudden praise—you were torn between ducking away from Clark's adoring gaze and leaning into his palm. You did the latter, Clark's hand was warm, and you couldn't help but let it lead you closer to his face. 

"You're not so bad yourself." You murmured softly as the warm light washed over Clark's face, making his blue eyes even more intense as he stared down at you. 

Clark's nose scrunched at your words. "And here I thought you liked me." 

You chuckled, rolling your eyes in amusement. "I'm sorry, but have you seen Superman? He's gorgeous. A real God amongst men." You quipped playfully. 

Clark shook his head at you, clearly exasperated, but the smile on his lips said otherwise. "You're ridiculous, I thought you didn't like Superman?"  

"Opinions can change." You shrugged. "But considering that I know you and him are one in the same, he doesn't seem all that bad anymore." 

"Oh, so he's not a reckless hero with no spatial awareness when it comes to the destruction of the city?" Clark raised an eyebrow at you, amusement coloring his tone as he quoted a line from the one article you did write on Superman. 

"Well, if the shoe fits…" You trailed off, pursing your lips in mock thought. 

Clark scoffed. He thought for a second about how to retaliate verbally before a mischievous smirk grew on his lips. You barely caught it before you erupted into shocked giggles. 

"Take it back!" Clark laughed alongside you as he poked at your ribs and tickled your sides. You fell backward on your couch, trying to get away from his hands, but it was fruitless against the man of steel. 

"N-Never!" You exclaimed through your laughter, trying to curl in on yourself, but Clark wasn't having it. He managed to straddle you and doubled down on his actions. 

The room was being bathed in yours and Clark's laughter alongside the soft glow of the lamp and moonlight filtering through your curtains. The sounds of joy and love swirled around the two of you as you slowly forgot the exact circumstances that led the two of you together. 

"UNCLE! Uncle, uncle!" You gasped out desperately. Joyful tears wet your cheeks as your stomach began to cramp from the laughter. 

Clark stopped tickling you and let his hands rest on your waist. You looked up at him. He was slotted in between your open legs, hovering over you with a lingering smile playing on his pink lips. Clark's head was slowly ducking down, getting closer to yours. 

"You know," You started to murmur, eyes flipping between his lips and blue eyes, "Superman is great and all, but I like Clark a hell of a lot more." 

"That's good to know." He replied in a soft tone. Clark's forehead landed against yours, a sliver of space between the two of you. 

Clark let out a stuttering sigh. "Can I kiss you?" 

Instead of answering, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips against his. It felt like the world went quiet as soon as your lips connected with Clark's. A surge of warmth shot through your body as you sank into the cushions, as Clark's body blanketed yours. Your hands made their way into his dark curls as your lips moved against each other. 

You felt like you could stay in the bubble you and Clark had made for eternity. Trading soft kisses and caresses until you physically couldn't anymore. Every unspoken feeling and desire was poured into each kiss the two of you pressed against each other's lips, keeping them soft and tender until Clark pulled away—his hand caressing your cheek as he looked down at you adoringly. Affection was written all over his face as he smiled softly at you. 

"Be mine?" You asked quietly, looking into his slightly blown-out gaze. 

"You have me. You've had me for a long time." He admitted, reverence in his tone as his thumb moved against the apple of your cheek. 

Everything shifted into place after that night. Clark was the most thoughtful and attentive boyfriend you ever had. If you had trouble thinking about him all the time before, the problem (not that you consider it one) got a whole lot worse when you guys started dating. If you had a dime for every time you thought about it, you'd be rivaling Lex Luthor in terms of money.

Clark was just so endearing. He'd text you randomly throughout your day, even though he was no more than fifteen away from your desk at work. He'd send silly pictures that reminded Clark of you or what he thought you would like. You don't even know how many conversations you've screenshotted. But there were a lot more pictures of him in your camera roll than the screenshots. 

Sometimes, Clark would show up at your door with flowers because they reminded him of you before your movie nights. Or he would grab takeout for the both of you when you're working late on your article at home and has to practically feed you as you type furiously away at your laptop. And without fail, he texted you before and after he'd go on his Superman duties and more often than not, found refuge in your apartment after a battle.  

Things were going great for a few months, until your powers acted up while you were asleep again. 

You could hear the faint rush of traffic from a street enter your ears before your eyes opened. You were standing outside, on a terrace of sorts. You looked around and saw the city. The buildings looked familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place where you recognized them from.

The doors to the terrace opened, making you turn around. You saw a woman in a white dress with a sheer blue overlay draped over it holding a pencil and notepad, going to sit down at the table positioned right in front of the open doors. 

The woman was a little nervous, as you could see in her expression as she poured herself a glass of wine. But as she was taking a sip of the wine, you felt him before you saw him. 

"Good evening, Miss Lane." You turned around the same time she did. 

It was Superman. You were shocked to see a more vibrant and more form-fitting version of his suit.

You could barely wrap your head around this entire dream? But you knew deep down this wasn't one of your regular dreams. It was your power at work. And right now, you're seeing a version of Lois and Superman—you mean Clark interacting right now. 

This version of Clark didn't seem to notice you at all, staring directly at the version of Lois that was sitting down right next to you. She got up from her seat, clearly a little flustered and surprised that he dropped in so suddenly. 

Lois, in her very familiar Lois Lane fashion, started to interview Superman, and you could tell that there was tension between them. They were both flirting with each other as they flew through the questions, making something inside of your chest twist. It didn't make any sense to you. Why were you seeing this now? 

You stopped listening to their banter and questions as you started to spiral into your thoughts, only being broken out of your stupor when Clark grabbed the notepad and pencil out of her hands and led her to the more open spot of the terrace. Your vision blurred as they shot off to the sky—a flash of white blinding you. 

You shot up from the bed with a start, falling off the bed in your shock. Clark woke up from your sharp, but loud gasp as you fell. 

He got up from the bed and quickly made it to your side, flicking on the lamp to see your wide eyes. They were filled with confusion as they darted around the room. It was like seeing a cornered dog trying to find its way out of the situation they were in. 

Clark fell to his knees beside you, using a gentle hand to turn your face towards him. His gaze dropped to the nosebleed you were having. 

"Sweetheart, look at me." Clark softly commanded.

Clark's voice filtered through your ears, making your shoulders relax as your eyes finally met his. Your breathing was still labored as your mind tried to process the images you saw, feeling the brewing headache beginning to form. 

"Can you take some deep breaths for me?" Clark's voice was a soothing balm, and you nodded in response. 

You took deep breaths, exhaling shakily until your breathing became even. Clark's warm hands were on your face—grounding you even further until you calmed down. 

Clark's eyes were zeroed in on the drying blood on your face. Wordlessly, he picked you up from the floor and went into your ensuite bathroom. Sitting you on the counter, he picked up a spare washcloth, wet it with some warm water, and started to wipe off the blood from your nose. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" He murmured quietly, breaking the silence that had settled in the bathroom. 

You sighed. "I think I projected." You said, inadvertently answering his question.

"You think?" Clark asked carefully. He finished cleaning your face and went to rinse the blood from the towel. 

"It was different this time. I thought it was a dream at first, but everything looked familiar but it wasn't the same. Not like here." You swallowed thickly. "I think I saw a different version of you." You admitted quietly. 

The neutral expression on Clark’s face fell. "How?" His forehead creased with confusion.

You shook your head. "I don't know. He had a similar suit to yours, but he looked different. Like completely different from you." 

Clark dropped the towel in the sink, grabbing your hands with his own as he saw yours start to shake. "Hey, we don't have to figure it out right now." He consoled as one of his hands cupped your cheek. "Let's go back to sleep," Clark suggested, tugging you off the counter. 

You followed him with no complaints. Your hazy mind would have gone more insane if you had thought about it for a second longer. Once you and Clark settled back into your bed and in his arms, you spoke up. 

"I'll have to call Dr. Parker in the morning." You whispered into his chest.

Clark kissed your forehead. "Sounds like a plan." He muttered into your skin before kissing your hairline—wrapping his arms around you a little tighter. 

You decided to take the day off and recover while you tried to wrap your head around what you saw last night. 

Clark went back to his apartment to get ready for work, but not before leaving you with a sweet kiss on the lips and a promise to give him an update after you call your specialist. 

You called Dr. Parker, and after exchanging some pleasantries, you explained what you saw the night before to them, in extreme detail (besides revealing the fact that Clark was Superman, for obvious reasons). 

They sighed into the receiver. "I was afraid this day would come." Their tone was grim. 

Your eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean? Do you know what's happening to me?" 

Dr. Parker sighed. "After discovering that you could see into alternate dimensions, I figured that one day your ability would grow powerful enough to see into alternate realities." 

"H-how is that possible? I try not to use my powers at all when I can." You couldn't believe what you were hearing. 

Dr. Parker said your name in a soothing tone. "I've been tracking and studying your ability since we've met, and this was going to happen regardless if you used them or not." 

You felt like the rug was pulled from beneath your feet. You sat down on your couch. "What do you mean exactly when you say 'alternate realities'?" 

"I don't think that is some-" 

"Dr. Parker. I need to know." You pleaded as you cut them off, gripping the edge of the cushion you were sitting on and trying to ground yourself in the moment. 

They were silent for a moment. "To put it simply, you can see into the multiverse." 

You've vaguely heard about this theory before when interviewing scientists from Star Labs for an article you were writing on the expansion of Star Labs to Metropolis. 

"I thought the multiverse was a theory." You breathed out in disbelief. 

"I don't think we can discount the impossible here. You know the world that we live in." Dr. Parker said knowingly. 

If aliens and metahumans can exist naturally, who's to say scientific theories aren't actually true? 

You shook your head, blowing out a harsh breath through your mouth. You leaned back into your cushions. "Okay then, why didn't Superman sense me when I was on the terrace with him and that version of Lois? I mean, he should have, right?" 

Dr. Parker hummed in thought. "The only idea that I have is that the distances between the universe you saw and our own is far enough to where any metahuman's enhanced senses couldn't detect you."  

"Is there any way to prove that idea right?" You asked jokingly, but it sounded flat in your ears. 

"Not right now. It would take multiple years to just try and prove the theory outside of your powers." 

You sighed. "I figured. But thank you again Dr. Parker." 

"It's no problem, my dear. Please remember to call me if anything else like this happens. Preferably right after they do." 

You chuckled. "I'll try." 

The two of you exchanged goodbyes before you hung up. You stared at your phone blankly. You're only hoping that you don't project to any more universes right now or in the near future. 

Well, you were completely and utterly wrong. You thought that your projections into different universes would be different each time. You thought you would see various aspects or perspectives of what other universes would look like. While you did, you saw the same dynamic each and every time. 

It was always about Clark and Lois. 

If you thought the first time you saw them together was just a fluke. You'd be sorely incorrect. 

When you first came to the Daily Planet, you weren't blind. You saw the banter between Clark and Lois they had as they parried back and forth on article ideas or random topics you guys would talk about on your lunch break. You would try to ignore the sharp sting to your heart each time you saw them interact. 

You weren't even that mad at seeing them together—they meshed well together despite how different they were. You are admittedly envious of Lois Lane. You were a big fan of her work before you came to work at the Daily Planet, and once you got to know her, you could see anyone falling to their knees for her.

Lois was unabashed and unashamed about her pursuit of the truth, was incredibly smart, and quick with her wit. Yeah, she was a bit abrasive, but Lois had a confidence that you couldn't fake—it came naturally like breathing for her. 

Lois Lane seemed like everything you weren't and what you wanted to be. 

You tried to squash the growing crush you had on Clark. Hell, you even thought they were dating at one point and just keeping it a secret from the office until you went out with them one night, and Lois had brought the girl she was seeing to the bar you guys were at. 

Each time you closed your eyes, you saw a different version of Clark/Superman and Lois, and the seed of insecurity only flourished when you woke up. It gnawed at you endlessly. 

It was borderline cruel. Having to witness each iteration of Clark and Lois being together. Like they were destined for each other in each universe, and they were taunting you. You had wished that you had learned how to wake up in the middle of your projections, but once you were there, it was practically impossible to snap out of it. 

With each projection into a different universe where Lois and Clark were together, you started to retreat into yourself and slowly extracted yourself from Clark. 

It started off small.  

You'd reply to Clark's text messages that he sent hours after he sent them, being dry as you texted him, not stopping by his desk during your downtime at work, and giving him smiles that he could see through—but you knew that Clark would be too kind to say anything about it. 

You'd make up flimsy excuses to avoid spending time with him when he asked to come over or have date nights together. He let them slide, but you could tell he was worried about you and your attempts to blow him off. 

It got to the point where you stopped talking to him altogether, practically ghosting him in your texts and avoiding him at work. The only time you spoke to him was short and clipped one-word responses when Jimmy and Lois would pull you into discussions before getting back to work. 

Was acting this way rational at all? Absolutely not, but how else were you supposed to react when you were forced to see your boyfriend be with someone else in multiple different universes? And at the same time, you seemed to cease to exist in all of them.

Clark was rightfully frustrated and confused. He thought you guys were doing well and going steadily. He didn't like the 180 you did in attitude towards him when you seemed to act normal around everyone else. 

He tried to be patient with you, but you were icing him out of his life, and he wanted to know why. 

So, he pulled you into a storage closet at work one day when you were coming back from the bathroom. 

Clark quickly flipped on the light. "Why are you avoiding me?" He wasted no time and started to question you. 

You blinked up at him, a little confused and dazed from being abruptly pulled into a dusty storage closet. "Huh?" 

Clark, the usually patient guy you knew, looked anything but. "Please," He sighed out your name. "You're avoiding me. Was it something I did?" He asked quietly, almost folding in on himself, insecurity written in his icy blue irises. 

Your heart twisted as a lump grew in your throat. You never meant to make Clark feel this way. "No! No, not at all." You shook your head, trying to swallow down the persistent feeling in your throat. 

Clark looked down at you, waiting for you to continue. You met his gaze, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized how close you were to him. You hadn't been close to him in some time, and all you wanted was to lean into his warmth and cocoon yourself in it. Then the flashes of the other Clarks and Loises flashed into your brain, reminding you of why you were avoiding him in the first place. 

"I've just been focused on work." You said, looking away from him. 

Clark said your name in a low tone, like a warning. "Please, don't lie to me."  He sounded tired as he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

You looked at Clark, really looked at him. He seemed visibly defeated—his shoulders were sagging like he had stayed up all night and was dragging his feet in his exhausted stupor. His clothes were more rumpled and wrinkled than usual.

"I'm not." You were. "This article has been kicking my ass and the deadline is too close for me to think about anything else." 

"You could have asked for my help. You still can." Clark was practically pleading to try to spend time with you in any place he could. 

You shook your head. "I don't need it. I gotta go back to work, Clark, and so should you." You shut down the conversation and, faster than he could anticipate, you left the storage closet. 

Clark cursed under his breath and put his glasses back on. He rubbed at his forehead as he exited the closet. The one thing that bothered Clark the most was leaving important conversations unfinished.

He made his way back to his desk dejectedly and in a bad mood. Clark shot a glance your way to see you actively trying not to look over at him, typing aggressively at your desktop. 

You were staring hard at the Word document as you typed away at it. Your eyes were getting dry, and you realized you hadn't blinked in over five minutes, so you did. 

You opened your eyes, and suddenly, you were standing near your desk instead of sitting down. The time of day was no longer mid-afternoon, but it was morning. You looked around and noticed that everything was the same. So why the hell was it morning? Then you looked at your desk, which was adjacent to Lois's. 

Why the hell was it empty? 

You were completely oblivious to the conversation happening between your coworkers until Lois stood up and switched the channel on the surrounding TVs on the pillars. 

"Yeah, Superman did say that he thought that the hammer might be faking a Boravian accent." Clark said as he stared at the screen, leaning back in his chair. 

"Superman said that?" Lois asked skeptically. 

"Yeah, I interviewed him right afterwards. Great guy." He said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, his eyes never once straying from the screen. 

"You know, it's funny you keep getting all these interviews with Superman, Clark," Lois said, almost knowingly, but played it off as a question. 

"Huh, I don't think there's anything funny about good journalism Lois." Clark threw back at her, brushing off her question. 

"Uh huh." Lois stared at Clark for a brief moment before going back to her desk. 

You squinted at the interaction. The question of how Clark always managed to get an interview with Superman was a recurring conversation between Lois and Clark. But now there was an undercurrent of tension you picked up on. Before you could dwell on it even further, your vision blurred. The scene had changed, and you were suddenly following Lois back to her apartment. This hadn't happened before. Ever. 

It felt like something was tethered between you and Lois as your feet mindlessly followed her into her apartment. There was a clatter coming from her kitchen, making Lois alarmed. Lois reached through you and grabbed the bat situated near the door and inched closer to the kitchen. She relaxed when she saw who was in the kitchen. You looked over her shoulder and saw Clark. Your Clark. 

"What are you doing here?" Lois asked as she dropped the bat, but still had it in her grip. 

"3 months ago, we had our first date. And so to celebrate, I am making you your favorite. Breakfast for dinner." Clark said, moving around Lois's kitchen as if it were his own. 

"That's your favorite." Lois set the bat right next to the fridge. 

"You love breakfast." 

"Yeah, for breakfast. You love it for dinner." Lois said as she approached Clark.

He turned off the burner and faced Lois. Without any hesitation, Clark grabbed her by the waist, and Lois pulled into a passionate kiss. You crumpled to the ground, falling to your knees—your eyes never leaving the intertwined pair in front of you.

You could faintly hear someone calling your name, and you could feel a phantom hand on your shoulder, shaking it. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and with a flash of white, your eyes shot open. 

You were met with the ceiling of the Daily Planet, and you felt the cold temperature of linoleum seeping through your clothes. Clark's and Lois's worried faces hovered above you, making you blink hard at the sight of them, looking identical to the ones you saw kissing in an alternate universe that seemed to be exactly like the one you were in now. 

Their words were muffled in your ears, like you were underwater. They helped you up from the floor, but you immediately ripped your arms out of their grip, confusion flashing through their concerned expressions. 

You could feel the eyes of everyone in the bullpen as you tried to rein back in any dignity you had left in your body. A handkerchief entered your eyeline. You grabbed it, knowing that it was for the wetness you were feeling under your nose and down your chin, seeing that your own boss had given it to you, with an uncharacteristic soft look in his eyes. 

"You alright there kid?" Perry asked. 

You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you wiped your face free of blood, staining the patterned fabric with it. "Yeah." You rasped out. "I just overworked myself, I guess." 

"Take the rest of the day off, and matter of fact, the rest of the week." Perry said, but you heard the worry underneath his stern tone. 

You nodded in response—it was only Wednesday. You could handle missing two days of work.  

"Get back to work!" Perry's voice boomed through the bullpen, making the crowd that surrounded you disperse, and the chatter around the office started back up again. 

You couldn't bear to look at either Clark or Lois as you left the Daily Planet, despite Clark's attempt to try to talk to you—but Perry yelled at him to work. You used the opening to leave the office as swiftly as you could. 

Later that night, you were lying in bed, just having gotten off a call with Dr. Parker. It made you feel marginally better, having an impromptu therapy session with a medical professional who was definitely not qualified for therapy—but it was good to get the images that were burned into your memory out of them. 

You heard a knock at your door, but you made no move to open it. You knew exactly who was at it. You immediately slowed down your breathing, and hopefully, your heart rate would follow in its footsteps, trying to mimic the fact that you were asleep. 

Clark called out your name softly, but you still heard him through the thin walls of your cheap one-bedroom apartment. "I don't know what you saw, and you probably don't want to see me right now, but I made some soup for you. I'll just leave it outside your door." Clark paused before he continued. 

"Just don't push me out anymore, please. You really scared me today sweetheart and I just want to know that you're okay." You heard Clark linger at the door until his footsteps could no longer be heard from your spot on your bed. 

You stayed still as you could as you took in his words. The lump in your throat was massive, and tears gathered in your eyes as his earnest and honest words hit you harder than you expected. You missed Clark. You missed him a lot. But seeing what you saw today solidified the fact that you and Clark weren't meant to be together. 

In any universe. 

Tears fell from your eyes at the thought. Clark and Lois are meant to be together—it has been proven to you time and time again.  Fuck, you hated your powers. It effectively ruined the one good thing you had going for you, and now you had to tear it down for the universe to right itself. 

Your weekend was spent wallowing in bed and trying to build up the courage to text Clark to come over to talk—and to break up with him, as much as you didn't want to. You were making a plan to transfer (escape) to Central City because you couldn't bear the thought of being in such close proximity to the love of your life when you weren't his. 

Can we talk? You sent the text to him on Sunday morning. 

Yeah, what time do you want me to come over? He responded instantly. 

Give me twenty minutes. You texted back, knowing Clark could be at your apartment within the blink of an eye, and you needed to get cleaned up and mentally prepare for the irreparable damage you were about to cause. 

You took the quickest shower ever, opting out of washing your hair and getting dressed in a new set of pajamas to wallow in after the conversation that was about to take place. Twenty minutes later, on the dot, you heard a knock on your door. 

You took a deep breath before answering it. Clark stood in front of you, an awkward smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. 

"Hi." Clark greeted you with a kind smile. Oh, that smile is going to make you crumble and chicken out on your plan. 

"Hey Clark, come in." You gestured for him to come in. 

You closed the door and followed behind him into your living room. 

"How are you?" Clark asked you, albeit it came out a bit awkward as he fiddled with his glasses. 

"I've been doing fine. Haven't projected at all since Wednesday." You told him. 

He nodded, his eyes brightening at the news before they dimmed. Clark cleared his throat. "What was it about?" 

"What?" You were slightly taken aback by the blunt question. 

"What you saw while you projected. What did you see?" 

"I-why do you want to know?" You weren't at all comfortable telling him what you saw. 

"Because I know it had something to do with me and Lois." 

You cursed yourself out in your mind. Clark was perceptive when he wanted to be, and it was obvious that he noticed your reaction to both him and Lois earlier that week. You stayed silent, avoiding his eyes. 

Clark pressed his lips together, trying to quell the growing frustration. "Sweetheart, please, I just want you to talk to me." 

"I am." 

"You know that isn't what I meant. You've been so far away from me for a while now. I gave you your space, but a man can only take so much before he starts to feel unwanted." Clark stepped forward and tried to catch your gaze. "Please honey, talk to me." 

You let him pull your hands into his. You closed your eyes for a moment, relishing in his familiar touch since you've deprived yourself of it for so long. 

"I learned that I can see into the multiverse." You admitted. You had a written script in your mind, and now you were going off of it. Damn it, curse Clark and his addictive touch. 

Clark furrowed his brows. "Multiverse?" 

"I can see into alternate realities. Some look similar to ours, or completely different. And for the past month and half, I've seen god knows how many, but my powers have shown me the same thing every time." You looked down at your conjoined hands. 

"What did they show you?" Clark asked quietly. 

You gathered the courage to look him in the eye. "You. and Lois. Together." 

Clark's eyes went wide with surprise. You let his hands fall from yours as you wrapped your arms around yourself. 

You let out a bitter chuckle at the lack of response he gave you.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. But in each universe I saw, you and Lois were perfect together, the power couple of the century. You know what I saw on Wednesday? The universe I projected to was nearly identical to ours. I mean, that Clark looked exactly like you and everyone else here. But the only difference was that you two were together and I didn't exist at all." You spared him the details of what you saw, because you weren't keen on reliving it at all. 

Clark was speechless, but he managed to find his words. "Why didn't you tell me that this was happening?" He said, a hurt expression on his face. 

"Because I didn't want to bother you. I thought after the first one that it was a one-time thing." You shrugged off his concern. 

"You could never be a bother." He promised, bringing his hands to cup your cheeks, getting you to look at him. "You should have told me." 

"And what would you have done about them, Clark? If I can't stop this from happening, what makes you think you could have?" You lashed out, ripping his hands from your face. 

"Do you know how it feels to have the power to see through realities, to only be taunted by the fact that the man you love is meant to be with someone else? That there's proof that you don't exist in every universe, and you can't do anything about it. T-that you aren't good enough for your boyfriend because you've seen the evidence that he and Lois are destined for each other?!" You ranted, tears falling from your eyes as you expelled the frustration that had been brewing since you've been seeing different universes. 

"I don't care about the other universes!" Clark exclaimed, cutting you off before you could continue. 

You looked at him stunned. You've never heard him raise his voice in the two years that you've known him.

Clark stepped forward again and took your face in his hands once more, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks. "I don't care about the universes, because you're not in them." He repeated again softly. 

"I'm eternally grateful that you're in this one. I will always want you in this one. Not Lois. She doesn't know how I like my coffee in the morning, or how I always manage to lose my wallet, or how I'm addicted to having sweet sugary cereal in the morning, or how I get really cranky when I don't get enough sleep."

"She isn't the one I call sweetheart, honey, or any other ridiculous nickname I come up with. She isn't my personal ray of sunshine. Lois isn't the one that I trust with my whole being or who knows my greatest secret. That's reserved for the one that owns my heart. I don't care what you saw, because it isn't true. You and I are destined for each other in this universe." 

Clark's gaze was steady as he spoke, and his words were filled with sincerity and laced with love and passion, striking you hard in the heart and rattling around in your ribcage. 

"I hate how good you are with your words, Clark Kent." You said wetly, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love that you felt swell in your heart, but there was a smile on your face as you leaned into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

Clark's chest vibrated with his chuckle, letting you sink into his figure as he pressed a kiss to your hairline, adjusting his grip, and wrapping his arms around your waist. The afternoon sun filtered through your curtains as the two of you stood wrapped around each other, the cracks in your relationship mending with each stream of sunlight that illuminated the two of you. 

You eventually pulled back, but stayed in his arms. One of Clark's hands left your waist and caressed your cheek. 

"I'll spend the rest of my days showing you that it's always going to be you. No matter what. I'll love you until the sun burns out." Clark promised, looking deep into your eyes. 

You couldn't help the loving smile that stretched on your face. "That sounds like an awfully long time. You sure you can put up with me for that long?" 

"Yeah, and even then some." Clark said with a smile on his face, his dimples making an appearance before he leaned down and pulled you into a kiss that sent a warmth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. You couldn't help but smile into the kiss as you poured all the promises you'd make to each other for the future. 

Forever sounded nice when it was with Clark. 

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

THIS IS SP DARN SWEET WHAT THE FRICK 😭🫶🫶❤️❤️

Hiii 🫶🏻 could you write something about James and reader who are fiancé, and James comes home and notices reader isn't wearing her ring ?

(Sorry for any orthograph fault English isn't my first language 🥲🫶🏻🫶🏻)

no apologies necessary, sweetness! thanks for your request <3

James Potter x fiancée!reader who isn't wearing her ring [1.5k words]

CW: implied firefighter!James on account of his shift work though he could just be in another profession that has 48-hour shifts, fem!reader, miscommunication, fluff

James knows that he has a tendency to see the world through rose coloured glasses, but he doesn’t think that his proclivity for positivity lends itself to leaving him ignorant to reality. 

He’s perhaps disturbingly optimistic, but he likes to think he has a relatively accurate finger on the pulse of his life. His relationships.

You.

Which is why he feels like the carpet has been ripped out from under him, like the ground has given way and he’s free falling into the depths of hell, like he’s been thrown overboard into the icy ocean surrounded by eerily silent nothingness as he stares at your engagement ring sitting like a flashing red light on your bedside table. 

His brain is whirring and overheating, misfiring as it tries to recall any moments of discontent between the two of you, whether he’s ever seen you take it off since he proposed (he hasn’t), whether or not you’ve given him any signs that you’ve been at all unhappy. 

He called you last night before you got into bed. He thinks you sounded worried but he figured that was typical; you often express a certain longing – a loneliness – when he takes on 48-hour shifts at the station, but he’s lucky enough that he only has to do that once a month. You hate the idea that he could get called away in the middle of the night, worrying you’ll wake up to terrible news.

But what if it wasn’t worry he heard in your voice last night? Or, what if it wasn't a worry at his expense, but rather because of him? What has he done?

And what can he do?

This is ultimately the thought that motivates him to abandon his work bag in the middle of the bedroom floor and go out in search of you, still in his work clothes, still desperate for a proper shower in his own bathroom, but neither of those were nearly as dire as righting whatever wrong he has caused with you.

He has to fix this; he’s going to fix this.

But his heart stutters and falters when he finds you in the kitchen, kneeling on the counter – despite the step ladder that James had purchased for you in hopes that you’d stop climbing the counters and save his poor, weary heart the worry of you falling – as you pull every single mug down from the highest cabinet.

Oh God, he’s too late, you’re moving out. You’re separating the mugs – the house’s prized collection – into his and hers. 

“Angel.” He nearly whimpers; the moniker escaping his lips on an exhale as he catalogues the scene before him. “Wha- what happened?” 

You startle at his sudden appearance, though your face quickly crumples int0 a terribly guilty and ashamed expression that has James’ stomach doing somersaults in anxiety and pre-emptive grief. 

“Oh, James. You noticed…”

“I noticed?!” He huffs as he gestures at you vaguely as though the nakedness of your ringfinger was glaring to even the most casual observer.

“What happened?” He presses again, urgent this time as he wars with the prospect of pulling you off of the countertop to safety (solid ground) and wondering if that’s his place anymore. 

He’s going to throw up.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie, honest.” You insist, sliding off the edge of the counter to stand in front of him; you wring your hands together in front of you looking terribly small and contrite. 

“I…I don’t want you to be sorry, Y/N, I want to understand what happened?”

“It was an accident!” The confession seems to burst out of you, shocking you and devastating James. “It was an accident, Jamie, I’m so, so sorry. I know, I know I should’ve been more careful, but-”

“Careful!?” James nearly shrills, his mind running away from him as it concocts images of all the possible accidents and reckless behaviours you could possibly be apologising for. The protein shake he had at the end of his shift churns unpleasantly in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry, James.” You murmur quietly, hands pressed together in a silent prayer migrating to your chin as tears threaten to fall from your lashes. “I thought there was room for them all up there but, clearly we have too many and when I turned around it just came crashing down.”

James' brain – and heart and lunch threatening to evacuate through his esophagus – stutters to a halt. 

“Room for what?” He manages to get out, rubbing his chest with one hand as though he can convince his heart to return to its normal cadence. 

“The mugs.” You admit miserably. “I know it was your favourite mug, but-” 

“The one with the polkadots and hand painted heart?” James confirms breathlessly. You nod your head yes, a single tear finally escaping your waterline and leaving a treasonous streak in its wake. 

“I know it’s not the same, but I stopped by the ceramic studio downtown and they helped me make a new one, but the drying and firing process takes a lot longer than I thought so I pulled every mug we had down so you could find one to use in the meantime and maybe we could display some of these somewhere else or pack them up but I didn’t mean to break it, James; I’m sorry.” 

The silence following your spiel sits in the room like a physical weight as the pieces slot together in James’ mind; his stomach slowly comes to a rolling stop. 

“You’re apologising to me because…my mug broke.” He confirms, the end of his sentence lilting up with a silent question mark. 

“It was an accident, Jamie, I promise.” You whisper, eyes navigating James’ face as though trying to deduce whether it might be safe to approach.

His shoulders fall suddenly, both in relief and acquiescence; you seem to accept that as a sign that you could manage a cautious step in his direction. 

“Are you mad?” You query. 

“Not even a little.” James admits, though he does take a moment to mourn the mug he’s loved for years. He doesn’t know if you remember, but you had pointed it out to him on one of your very first dates, laughing at the sheer size of it and calling it ‘absurd’. The sound of your laughter when he insisted he was going to buy it is what pushed him to the conclusion that he loved you, that he loves you. He loved that mug.

But he’s happy to lose it if he was keeping you. 

“No?”

James laughs; a breathless, disbelieving and relieved sound that has your brows rising and the corners of your lips threatening to turn up hopefully. “Angel, I saw your ring in the bedroom and, well, I-”

He doesn’t have a chance to explain to you the anguish he felt at the thought of you leaving him when you slap your hands over your mouth and stare at him in shock. 

“No!” You holler, the denial muffled behind your hands which then migrate to your chest as though you’re convincing your heart to stay put beneath your breast bone. “Oh my God, no. No, I took it off before I went to the studio! I knew I’d need to take it off at the wheel and didn’t want to put it down somewhere and forget about it! I got home and showered and, well, apparently forgot about it anyway. But at least it was at home and, oh Jamie.” 

You’re equal parts fond, equal parts chiding, and equal parts sympathetic at your poor, lovesick, dramatic fiancé. Your fiancé, for his part, is beaming at you. 

Flooded with relief at being wrong and chuckling at his own expense, James opts to close the distance between the two of you and holds you tight to his chest like he’s been longing to do for the past forty-nine hours. 

“I can’t believe you thought I was leaving you.” You laugh into his chest; James rubs his cheek into the crown of your head like he’s trying to infuse his love for you through your roots. 

“I can’t believe you went to a pottery class without me.” He volleys in turn, rewarding him with the bubbly, tinkering laugh that solidified his love for you all those years ago. 

“The lady took pity on me on account of my red-rimmed eyes and gave me a discount; I’m sure she’d be very happy to hear my plan worked if both of us showed up for a class together.” 

“I’d love that.” James agrees, rocking you to-and-fro at the thought of his poor sweet girl showing up anywhere distressed at all let alone on his account. 

“We can make you a whole set of mugs with polkadots and hearts.” You continue, lips brushing against his collarbone like a guileful kiss. 

“Thank you, angel.” He smiled, scanning the collection of mugs for one he might be happy to use until he gets his hands on your specially made one, “I can’t wait.”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Jack Abbot x fem reader. Gala event. Jealous Jack, beautiful dress, suggestive, kisses, the Pitt. Do whatever you want to. Thanks!! :))

At the Gala — Jack Abbot x F!Reader

Notes: Hi! Soo I completely missed the "suggestive" and "the Pitt" portions of this ask, but I hope you still like it nonetheless haha. It's 3 AM man I can't see nothin rn--

———

“Brother,” Michael says, barely able to contain his laughter as he looks at his best friend with amusement dancing in his wrinkled gaze. “Jack, your eye is twitching.”

It’s true, his eye is twitching, but that’s because he can’t take his eyes off the quite frankly offensive scene unfolding before him. You were just trying to get a small plate of hors d’oeuvres when the man had sidled up to you with all the grace of a weasel, a sly grin on his sleazy face and a triangular champagne glass in his hand.

The man is one of the biggest donors in Pittsburgh to hospitals all around the city, and PTMC was no different. He has smug green eyes and bright ginger curls, and it made Jack’s gut churn violently, because were this a different life, he would almost say the man reminded him of himself, at least phenotype-wise.

You were dressed beautifully for the gala, clad in a beautiful body-framing navy blue satin dress, the cowl neck giving you a regal aura of elegance and maturity. Your hair was pulled up into a messy bun of curls to contrast the put-together look of the dress, and your shiny dangling earrings and sparkly choker drew attention to the gorgeous skin of your neck, which the hospital donor had certainly not been shy about ogling.

Jack almost doesn’t blame him, but only almost, because at least he’s not being a fucking creep with his staring problem. His patience is already at its end when the man suddenly reaches for your hand and leans down into a bow, pressing his stupid lips to the back of your hand like he had any right to touch you at all.

In a flash, Jack’s crossing the room at a frightening speed, ignoring the sound of Robby’s cackling coming from behind him as he races to your side with a frivolous, frantic energy. His hand meets your waist before he’s even at your side, slipping around your slim frame and possessively settling above your hip.

The donor looks startled by his presence, the smarmy grin on his face faltering slightly, and it makes Jack adorn one of his own, tight and venomous and warning. “Hey, sweetheart,” Jack murmurs into your ear, perhaps lowering his voice a few more octaves than he needed to, putting a little rasp to it just to feel you squirm in his embrace. “Got your appetizers?”

“Hi, hun,” you reply innocently, leaning into his touch and smiling brightly at the donor, who was looking between the two of you like you’d both shot his childhood pet and were tap-dancing on its grave. “Meet mister Markus Reid, one of our hospital donors.”

“I know who he is,” Jack says bluntly, and you have to nudge him in the ribs and hide your snort behind a cough, because you knew why his stupid ass was behaving this way and were incredibly entertained by it. “My pleasure, man.”

The donor, Markus, scowls openly at Jack, like he’s ruined his non-existent chance in getting in your non-existent pants. He mutters some sort of excuse about seeing someone he recognizes across the party and faster than Jack can blink, he vanishes.

You can’t help your laughter, and it makes Jack’s eyes go impossibly soft to hear you so happy over him being a jealous idiot, rather than being put off by it as any rational woman would be. “You’re silly,” you tell him, not needing to press up on your tip-toes to kiss him thanks to your thin high heels finally giving you a small boost of height.

Jack smiles against your lips, wrapping his arms around your middle and kissing you deeply and passionately right there in the middle of the party. As you giggle in amusement against him, he can’t help but feel triumphant, almost like he’d won at life.