stormybugg

[stormybugg]

touch starved bob reynolds who starts hugging you after every mission because it’s a reasonable and justified reason to do it, and an excuse to be able to hold you without it seeming weird

touch starved bob who gets startled when you put your hand over his to stop him from nervously fidgeting, and who feels it in his stomach when you rub your thumb back and forth over his hand to calm him down

touch starved bob who drifts off during movie night and unconsciously ends up with his head resting against your shoulder, apologizing when he wakes up, flustered when you tell him you don’t mind and he can leave it here if he wants and feels comfortable

touch starved bob who reaches for and holds onto your hand for dear life whenever he feels anxious in public settings, because it’s something you’ve established and encouraged him to do

touch starved bob who visibly melts when you push away the front pieces of his hair when they're falling in front of his eyes

touch starved bob who has to make sure his mind is not playing tricks on him when you take his face into your hands and press your lips against his for the first time

touch starved bob who, with all the confidence he can gather, has to kiss you back twice as tenderly, making sure to commit the feeling to memory just in case you wouldn't want to do it again and would think it was a mistake

touch starved bob who always asks if it's okay before touching you when you start dating because he’s scared he’s being too clingy and that his need to touch you might be suffocating

touch starved bob who is nervous the first time you sleep together because he has barely ever had sex sober and he’s unsure how to handle it without the extra confidence

touch starved bob who constantly needs to be kissing you in hope it can be a distraction if he's not doing something right, asking you how you're feeling a bit too often

touch starved bob who whimpers a little too loud when you affirm and praise him, telling him he's doing a good job

touch starved bob whose face turns red when you tell him to sit back and relax when you take the upper hand, feeling he might be a bit too nervous to really fully enjoy the moment if he keeps being in charge

touch starved bob who needs to be held and to be as close to you as possible when you’re done, his head resting over your stomach and your fingers running through his hair as he falls asleep

touch starved bob who attentively watches you sleep beside him when he wakes up the next morning, fighting the urge to push back the strand of your hair that is falling over your face, not wanting to wake you up

touch starved bob who presses himself against you and slides his hand under your shirt to ground himself when he can't sleep because the warmth of your skin brings him back to reality when he overthinks and when things get too tense inside his own head

touch starved bob who always rests a hand at your back when he comes up behind you, resting his chin over your head if he has to stay here

touch starved bob who, no matter how long you've been dating, will always blush under your compliments, and even more over you covering his face with kisses when you want him to believe those

touch starved bob who doesn't even realize how much he smiles every time he touches you or you touch him, as if unconsciously, his body is finally learning what it means to be wanted

—

thunderbolts taglist: @majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon @sillymilly17 @yyiikes @snazzynacho

[stormybugg]

when the author starts describing some fuck ass outfit that i’m supposedly wearing

[stormybugg]

i'm yours

request: no

summary: romance (soft, but ever so slightly angsty) - you and robert “bob” floyd share a secret romance, stealing quiet moments behind the bar and in hidden corners. but when hangman flirts a little too boldly, tensions rise, forcing your relationship out of the shadows.

warnings: a little jealousy, tension, alcohol consumption, squaring up (like pre-fight, but there is no actual violence described), kind of aggressive flirting from hangman (not sure if this is a warning, but i'll add it anyway - as always, if you feel i have missed anything, please let me know and i will add it

pairing: bob x reader (gender neutral)

word count: 1,507

the hard deck was already alive with noise when you started your shift. the screen doors swung open and shut with a steady rhythm, letting in the salty rush of the california evening. pilots laughed too loudly at the pool table, voices sharp with the first burn of beer, and penny’s playlist was cutting through the chaos with an old classic. you wove through it all with a tray balanced on your palm, slipping in and out like you belonged there—which, by now, you did.

the uniform of a bar hand wasn’t anything glamorous—dark jeans, a hard deck tee, sneakers scuffed from rushing across the floor—but it made you part of the furniture, unremarkable. that was useful. because he was here tonight.

bob floyd.

you noticed him the second he stepped inside, though he always tried to make it look like he wasn’t worth noticing. he trailed behind the rest of the daggers, tucked into the shadow of hangman’s confidence and phoenix’s easy authority. his baseball cap was pulled low, glasses catching the bar’s warm lights, the corners of his mouth carrying that almost-shy smile you had memorized.

he caught your eye once, briefly. to anyone else it was nothing, a flicker in the haze of bodies and chatter. but you felt it—the quiet anchor of a look that belonged to no one else in the room. you set a glass down a little too hard in front of a customer and pulled your gaze away. you and bob had agreed. no one could know.

--

“two pitchers, back table,” penny called over the bar.

you nodded, stacking glasses with practiced ease. as you filled them, you could hear the daggers already working themselves up—hangman’s drawl cutting sharp, coyote’s laughter, payback’s clapping echoing across the wood. and then bob’s voice, softer, threading beneath theirs like calm water.

carrying the drinks out meant brushing dangerously close to his table. you balanced the tray steady, rehearsing the neutral look on your face. bar hand. server. nobody special.

you slid the pitchers onto their table with a smile. “anything else?”

hangman leaned back with a grin too slick for his own good. “another round in about ten minutes, darlin’. we’re thirsty.”

phoenix smacked his shoulder. “you’re always thirsty.”

you laughed politely, but your eyes betrayed you, drifting—just for a moment—to bob. he didn’t meet your gaze, not directly, but his fingers tapped once against the condensation of his glass. a signal. you’d made a hundred of them, coded in subtlety.

i see you.

you didn’t let yourself linger. Instead, you turned away, weaving back toward the safety of the bar. but your heart betrayed you, too—it beat too fast, thrumming with the knowledge that he was right there, less than ten feet away, and you couldn’t touch him.

--

later, when the noise had crested and settled into a hum, you slipped out onto the back deck for air. the ocean was dark, tide folding in on itself in silver streaks. you leaned against the railing, breathing in the salt and night.

the door clicked open behind you.

you didn’t need to turn. You knew.

bob stepped out quietly, cap pulled lower now, his shoulders hunched like he was apologizing to the night for taking up space. he lingered a few feet away, cautious, hands shoved in his pockets.

“you okay?” his voice was soft, careful—like it always was when it was just for you.

you smiled faintly. “i’m fine. just needed a breather.”

he nodded, eyes darting toward the door, then back to you. and then he shifted, closing the space, until the distance shrank to something dangerous but necessary. his hand brushed yours along the railing—barely a touch, but enough to light sparks under your skin.

“i hate this,” you whispered.

“i know.” he didn’t move away. his shoulder pressed against yours now, hidden in the shadows where no one would look. “but it’s safer this way. for now.”

you tilted your head toward him, catching the curve of his jaw in the starlight. “you don’t deserve to be anyone’s secret, bob floyd.”

he finally looked at you then, properly, and you saw it in his eyes—the ache, the longing, the quiet steadiness that had drawn you in the first place. he reached up, pushing his glasses higher on his nose in a nervous habit, then let his hand fall, brushing yours again.

“i don’t mind being a secret,” he murmured. “as long as i’m yours.”

your throat tightened. for a moment, you let yourself lean closer, just enough to feel the warmth of him. just enough to pretend that no one else in the world existed outside this small, hidden place.

--

the hard deck was packed again. you’d barely walked through the back door before penny tossed you an apron and a grin that said good luck out there. you’d learned by now that on navy nights, there was no such thing as a slow shift. the air smelled like salt, beer, and summer—heady with music and laughter. and of course, the daggers were already here.

you spotted them near the pool table, phoenix chalking her cue with the kind of confidence that turned heads, hangman lounging with his usual cocky sprawl, and bob—quiet, steady bob—hovering just behind them, cap tilted down.

it was dangerous, how quickly your chest eased just seeing him.

you slid behind the bar, slipping into the rhythm: pour, serve, smile, repeat. but it didn’t take long before hangman’s voice carried over the crowd like it always did, smooth as honey and twice as sticky.

“darlin’,” he called, leaning over the counter as you set down fresh pint glasses. “you got a smile that could distract even the best pilot in the room.”

you blinked, caught mid-motion. hangman’s grin widened at your silence, like he thought he’d won a round.

before you could answer, phoenix rolled her eyes. “for god’s sake, hangman, not everything is a competition.”

“sure it is,” he fired back, still watching you. “and I play to win.”

you gave him the kind of polite smile you reserved for customers who thought they were clever. it was safer than ignoring him completely, safer than showing how little effect his words had on you when the only person who mattered was standing a few feet away, trying not to look like he was listening.

but you felt it.

the weight of bob’s gaze.

every time hangman leaned in a little closer, every time he cracked another line, you felt the air shift behind you—bob’s stillness like a storm waiting on the horizon.

later, when you slipped out onto the back deck with a tray of empties, you heard the door open and close softly behind you.

bob.

he stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. he wasn’t looking at you, not yet. instead, he stared out at the water, glasses reflecting the bar’s warm glow.

“you okay?” you asked gently, echoing the way he always asked you.

he hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. “why do you let him talk to you like that?” you blinked, surprised by the steel under his usually quiet tone.

“hangman?” you asked, setting the tray down.

“yeah. he’s—” bob’s fingers twitched, like he wanted to gesture but didn’t know how. “he doesn’t… mean half the things he says, but—he doesn’t stop, either. not with you.”

your chest softened. it wasn’t often you saw bob ruffled; he was usually steady, even when the others were loud and chaotic around him. but here he was, shoulders tense, words sharper than usual—all because of you.

you stepped closer, careful. “bob,” you said softly, “he flirts with everyone. and I don’t care what he says. you know that, right?”

bob finally looked at you, properly, and it nearly knocked the air out of you. his blue eyes were darker in the low light, full of something he couldn’t say in the open.

“i know,” he murmured. “but I don’t like it. not when it’s you.”

your heart twisted, warmed. you reached out, letting your fingers brush his where his hand gripped the railing. a tiny rebellion in the shadows. “i’m yours,” you whispered. “even if no one knows it yet.”

he swallowed, gaze softening, shoulders easing just a little. his fingers curled around yours for half a second, brief but grounding.

and then—like fate had a cruel sense of humor—the door banged open again. laughter spilled out, followed by hangman’s unmistakable drawl. “darlin’, you hiding out here? i was about to order another round and—oh. bob.”

you and bob both froze, hands slipping apart so quickly it almost hurt. hangman raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his mouth like he’d stumbled onto something. “didn’t know you two were so… chatty,” he said, voice laced with amusement.

bob adjusted his cap, cleared his throat, and muttered something about fresh air before brushing past Hhngman and back inside. you stayed frozen by the railing, pulse hammering. hangman’s smirk lingered, sharp with curiosity. and in that moment, you realized—keeping this secret might get a lot harder.

--

hangman had decided, for reasons only he understood, that testing bob’s patience was the game of the evening. every joke, every sly glance, every 'accidental' brush against your arm seemed designed to provoke him.

you were juggling orders behind the bar when it started:

“careful, darlin’,” hangman said, leaning in as you set a glass down. “don’t spill anything on that uniform of yours. Iid hate to see you ruined.”

you smiled tightly, keeping your tone light. “i think i’ll manage.”

hangman chuckled, leaning closer than necessary. “i bet bob wouldn’t mind a little… distraction.”

you froze, heart stuttering. the distraction was him. not you. but bob, who was across the room near the pool table, had heard every word. you saw the change immediately—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the hardening of his posture, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. his calm, reserved exterior was cracking.

you took a deep breath, trying to stay in your bar-hand rhythm, hoping he could hold it together until the night ended. but hangman was relentless.

he leaned against the bar beside you, voice low enough for only you to hear. “you’re awfully cozy with bob, aren’t you? bet he doesn’t mind sharing, huh?”

your stomach dropped. you could feel bob’s glare from across the room, sharp and dangerous. he wasn’t moving toward you yet, but every inch of his body was coiled, a spring waiting to snap.

you tried to laugh it off, brushing your hands over the counter nervously. “you really need to watch your mouth tonight.”

hangman smirked, clearly enjoying the show. “or what?"

"or, i'll have to cut you off for the night." you said, a serious expression on your face, glancing at the beer in his hands.

bob didn’t speak. he didn’t need to. you could see it in the tense line of his shoulders as he finally stepped forward, closing the distance between him and hangman. the crowd around the pool table seemed to fade, the air narrowing until it was only the two of them, and the silent storm brewing in bob’s blue eyes.

“you got a problem?” bob’s voice was low, controlled, dangerous.

hangman’s grin faltered. “just trying to have a little fun. no need to get all tense, floyd.”

bob’s hand shot out, grabbing hangman’s shoulder. “i said—”

you didn’t wait. you rushed between them, hands pressed against both of their chests, pulling them apart.

“stop!” you shouted, voice carrying over the crowd now gathering. every eye turned toward the escalating scene. “enough!”

both men froze, startled by your sudden authority, but you didn’t let up. you looked directly at bob, then hangman, letting your words land hard.

“i’m not going to watch you two fight each other over this,” you said, chest heaving. “because the truth is… bob and i—” you stepped closer to bob, letting your hand rest on his chest where you could feel his rapid heartbeat. “we’re together. and it’s not a secret anymore.”

the room went silent. murmurs bubbled up from the surrounding crowd. hangman’s jaw dropped, smirk vanished, replaced by surprise and—unexpectedly—a hint of respect.

bob blinked, shock flashing across his features, then slowly the tension left his shoulders. his hands fell to his sides, and he reached for yours, intertwining fingers with a softness that was almost reverent.

“you… said it,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

“yes,” you said, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “i’m done hiding. done letting him get under your skin. you don’t have to hold it in anymore.”

hangman held up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning faintly. “well… didn’t see that coming. fair play.”

bob didn’t smile—yet—but there was a warmth now in his stance, a calm returning as he leaned slightly toward you. you could feel the quiet intimacy threading between your hands, stronger than any words.

the bar slowly returned to its usual noise, but the undercurrent between you and bob was undeniable. you had crossed a threshold together—public, undeniable, and completely yours.

and hangman? he might still tease, but tonight, he’d learned there were lines not worth crossing.

you squeezed bob’s hand, leaning your forehead against his shoulder for just a moment. no one else could see it, no one else could touch it. it was yours. and for the first time that night, both of you could breathe.

credits for the dividers: @cafekitsune

[stormybugg]

thinking abt loser!pornstar!clark..

18+ MDNI; “just the tip”, needy!clark, noisy!clark.

part 2

Clark Kent is the kind of performer nobody bets on. Nerdy glasses, shy smile, fumbling posture — he looks more like a cameraman than the guy anyone’s here to watch.

Which is exactly why you love ruining him on film. The director calls action, and Clark’s already hard before you’ve even touched him. He tries to cover it with his hand, stammering, “S-sorry, I just—y-you look—” and the cameraman zooms in on his red face.

The audience will eat it up. You shove him gently back onto the bed, straddle him, and make a show of grinding over the bulge in his briefs. His breath stutters, glasses crooked, a raw moan ripping out before you’ve even pulled his cock free.

“Pathetic,” you murmur for the mic, wrapping your hand around him. The viewers at home can see every twitch, every bead of precome. “This is your job, Clark. And you’re falling apart already?”

He babbles something incoherent, cut off with a gasp when you guide him against your entrance. You only sink down on the tip, stretching slowly over the head.That’s when he breaks. The camera catches his mouth falling open, his eyes rolling back.

A shout tears out of his throat, wild and unfiltered. He slaps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed, but it doesn’t help — the noises just keep coming, loud and ruined. You tease him with a smirk in your face.

“What’s that? That’s just the tip. You even earned the rest yet.”

Clark’s entire body bucks beneath you, glasses sliding off his face as he moans again — louder, filthier, his voice cracking like he’s begging for mercy.

“P-please,” he gasps, nails digging into the sheets. “Need more, I c-can’t— don’t tease me, I’ll—”

You slam the rest of the way down, and the room fills with the kind of noise that makes post-production editors debate whether to mute or amplify it.

Clark’s scream is half pleasure, half agony, his cock twitching violently inside you. He’s already coming — ropes spilling hot, his chest heaving, sweat glistening under studio lights — and you ride it out mercilessly.

Clark is wrecked beneath you, twitching, babbling apologies, still hard inside you despite the orgasm he couldn’t hold back. And you lean forward, pushing his glasses back onto his nose. “Don’t worry, baby. We’re not cutting. They’re gonna watch me break you again. And again.”

divider by @strangergraphics & @cursed-carmine

TAGLIST

@bowxs, @castielsonlyangel, @kentblvd, @hel-lhound, @aileen1237

[stormybugg]

hands on! (18+)

boyfriend!clark kent x reader blurb, 600 words

summary: your boyfriend Clark just can't seem to let you out of his grasp...

content: smut (mdni!), soft!dom Clark?, this man is basically obsessed with you

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

From the minute Clark finally got you in his hands, he knew he’d never be able to let go.

His reach for you is constant. It doesn’t matter where you are, if you’re in his vicinity, Clark’s hands are on you. 

In the kitchen, he’s cutting onions at superspeed with one hand, caressing the softness of your waist through your robe with the other. In the grocery store, he’s guiding you through the aisles with his palm splayed across your lower back. If you’re walking down the street, his fingers are entwined with yours, pulling you close every time you pass anyone, refusing to separate even to make way for passersby.

On the rare occasions you do get separated, his hand is immediately reaching out for you, a silent command - come back to me. You never defy him, just as addicted to his touch as he is to yours.

Sometimes, it’s purely out of affection overload. Pinching the plush part of your hips to tease you. Tracing his fingertips up the curve of your spine like he can’t believe he actually gets to touch you. Rubbing the back of your neck to pull your lips to his, smiling into the kisses as his tongue darts out to drag across your bottom lip, just as obsessed with your taste as your touch. It’s magnetic, his pull to you, a temptation even super strength can’t fight. 

Other times, it’s straight up possessive. Not out of ownership, but need - a fire in his belly that threatens to consume him if anyone else even thinks about touching you the way he does. And he knows they do. On the rare occasions the two of you decide to leave the apartment, he accompanies you to bars and parties, not taking his hands off of you for even a second. He stares down the guys who inevitably check you out, his secret identity hanging by a thread as he resists launching them across the room. Instead, he stands silently next to you, eyes glaring holes into them as his hand stays firmly around your waist or splayed across your stomach, holding you to him from behind.

In bed, it’s even worse. Or better, in your eyes. When you’re bare beneath him, his hands are finally able to be be everywhere and anywhere he wants, no barrier of fabric or watchful eyes to hold him back from you. His palms squeeze your flesh as he holds you down, surely leaving marks that you’d see in the mirror later, a monument to his desperation for you. He’s rocking into you with barely contained force, hands on your tits, pushing down on your stomach, pinning your wrists above your head, sliding through the slickness of your joined bodies to circle your clit.

“God, you’re everywhere,” you moan, no idea how his hands could possibly be in six places at once. 

But the feeling of your skin against his has him moving at superspeed, desperate to feel every inch of you, to trace the goosebumps flaring up across your body, his mouth attacking any spot his hands couldn’t.

And when he grabs your jaw, the pulse of absolute power under his fingertips - not crushing you but making sure you know he can - he forces your eyes on his and grunts out, “you’re mine. Only mine, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, Clark, only yours! Just don’t stop touching me like that, please.”

“Never,” he promises, forehead pressed to yours as his hands and cock work in tandem to drag you into orgasmic oblivion. “I’ll never let go of you, baby.”

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

a/n: new to the supes fandom but I think I'm gonna like it here <3 more fics in the works!!

[stormybugg]

he's all that.

clark kent x reader. (3.2k)

summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.

content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance

author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏

“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”

Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.

Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.

“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”

“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."

“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”

“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”

“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.

He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.

“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!

[stormybugg]

Dark Captain Hook X Peter Pan's Mother! Reader

The ocean was not kind to a woman alone, your small boat had been ripped from its course during a violent storm.

Rain, wind, and waves had taken everything but your desperate will to find your son.

You clung to the mast as the waters swallowed the horizon, whispering his name again and again like a prayer.

"Peter… my Peter…"

Darkness took you.

And when you awoke

There was warmth, and the creaking of wood, with the scent of sea brine and smoke.

You blinked blearily, finding yourself wrapped in heavy wool, laying on an old cot within the quarters of a grand ship.

The floorboards groaned, a shadow crossed the threshold.

He entered like thunder.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in crimson and obsidian, a dark hat perched atop long black curls.

The gleam of his hook caught the firelight. But it was his eyes that frightened you most, intense brown eyes with dark lashes.

"Well, well," he purred, his voice smooth as velvet yet edged with danger.

"What have we here? A mermaid without her tail?"

His crew chuckled, but you barely registered them, your mind still on Peter.

"I need to find my son," you gasped, desperation clawing at your chest.

You hesitated, but the truth spilled from your lips before you could stop it.

"Where am I?" you managed, setting up.

"You are aboard The Jolly Roger, my dear," he replied.

The captain tilted his head, intrigued. "And who, pray tell, is your son?"

You hesitated, but the truth spilled from your lips before you could stop it, doubting that the stranger could possibly know who your son is.

"Peter Pan."

Silence.

Then, the captain’s expression shifted, surprise, fury, then something far more unsettling fascination.

A slow, wicked smile paints his lips.

"Peter Pan's mother" he mused, crouching down to your level.

His hook traced the air near your cheek, not touching, but close enough to make your breath hitch.

"How ironic."

"You have been searching for him, haven't you?" he asserts.

"That wretched little boy who refuses to grow up, who abandoned you for years." His voice filled with venom, not for you, but for Peter.

"Years? it has only been a month, and he has not abandoned me!" You exclaim, feeling frustrated by his words.

Hook's eyes narrowed, studying your face with an intensity that made you shiver.

"A month?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"My dear woman, time moves differently in Neverland, what feels like a month to you has been years here, years of that boy's reckless games, his cruel pranks."

You shook your head, refusing to believe it. "You're lying."

"Am I?" He stood, towering over you.

"Tell me why I would lie to you?"

When you keep silent, Captain Hook seizes the opportunity, curling his gloved fingers around your hand with unsettling gentleness.

He lifts it slowly to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Well now, since we are family, why not become better acquainted?" he murmured, his tone rich with mockery and charm.

"I find myself most intrigued by the woman who birthed that insufferable wretch who haunts my days like a curse."

You pulled your hand back sharply, the warmth of his lips still burning against your skin. "I need to leave. I need to find Peter."

But as you moved to stand, Hook's hook shot out, the curved metal pressing against your shoulder with just enough pressure to keep you seated. His smile never wavered, but his eyes hardened like winter storms.

"Oh, but my dear, you misunderstand your situation entirely." His voice remained silky, but underneath lay steel.

"You see, you are not a guest aboard my ship. You are a leverage."

Your heart beat against your ribs.

"What do you mean?"

"That boy has cost me a hand, my dignity, and countless sleepless nights, but now..."

He gestured grandly with his good hand, "Now I have something he values more than his own eternal youth, his mother."

"You can't keep me here!"

Hook's laugh was rich and dark.

"Can't I? Look around you, love. We're surrounded by endless ocean, and my crew is extraordinarily loyal, should you attempt to leave..." He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"...Well, let's just say the sharks haven't been fed in days, and they do so enjoy fresh meat."

The threat hung in the air like smoke.

You felt tears prick your eyes, but refused to let them fall.

"Now then," Hook continued, straightening his coat,

"You will find your accommodations quite comfortable, you'll dine with me each evening, and perhaps you'll tell me stories of young Peter's childhood, I also find myself curious about you."

﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏

Months Later...

The routine had become sickeningly familiar. Hook would visit you daily, bringing meals and engaging in what he called "civilized conversation." He spoke of literature, of the sea, of everything except letting you go.

Slowly, horrifyingly, you began to understand his lonely existence, even as you despised him.

He never harmed you physically, but his presence was a constant reminder of your captivity.

The hook that had once threatened now traced patterns in the air as he spoke, a nervous habit you had come to recognize.

That night, you heard it, a familiar sound that made you hopeful.

The distinctive crow of a rooster, Peter's signal.

You rushed to the small porthole, and there he was, hovering outside the ship, his green outfit unmistakable against the star-filled sky.

Still a boy, still your Peter, but his eyes held a fury you'd never seen before.

"Mother!" he called, his voice carrying over the water.

Captain Hook appeared beside you with predatory grace, his hook glinting as it curved around your waist.

"Ah, right on schedule. Tell me, Peter," he called through the window,

"Did you miss your dear mother? Because she's been such delightful company these past months."

Peter's face twisted with rage.

"Let her go, Hook! This is between us!"

"Oh, but it's so much more interesting now, isn't it?" Hook's voice was honey over poison.

"You see, your mother and I have become quite close. Haven't we, darling?"

Your stomach churned as Hook's meaning became clear.

"Peter, don't listen to him!"

But Peter's eyes widened in horror as Hook produced a simple gold band from his pocket, sliding it onto your finger despite your struggles.

"Congratulations, my boy," Hook said with malicious satisfaction.

"You may call me stepfather now."

[stormybugg]

ah my favorite zelda game *looks at smudged writing on my hand* Wind Baker

[stormybugg]

Takes Time

Pairing: Max Rockatansky x Reader

Prompts: “For the hundredth time, I’m not your babysitter.”   & “That wasn’t very subtle.”

          It was such a change from the way things used to be. With the leadership no longer under one, let’s be honest, piece of shit man, order was being restored to everyone, not just to those who were “chosen”. The limit of knowledge and resources was gone, instead, now, spread amongst those who had survived, so everyone had a chance. 

         It was the reason that the den of the wives, where Immortan Joe’s brides had once been locked away to “safe keeping”, was turned into a schoolhouse, all the children - and any adults who wanted - seated around the board and the chair as you took turns with a few of the Vuvalini, as well as some of the older people, teaching the things that were important to hold onto - history, science, math, as well as growing crops, and building things, whether it be machinery or living structures. 

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[stormybugg]

New episode made me think of this

[stormybugg]

putting on chill strokes music to sleep and immediately getting hit by heartache so strong i can't sleep

[stormybugg]

[stormybugg]

POV: you meet Clark Kent in the University and he invited you to his hometown Smallville

[stormybugg]

copper stained. || bruce wayne x f!reader.

There are very few people that are allowed to see Bruce at his most vulnerable.

Hurt and Comfort. Smut. Friends to Lovers.

NO SPOILERS FOR ‘THE BATMAN (2022).’

WARNINGS: 18+ ONLY; Explicit Sexual Content; Descriptions of Blood & Injuries; Likely Inaccurate Medical Care; Slight Blood Kink; Breath Play; Oral Sex (F! Receiving); Reader Has Long Hair - But No Other Descriptors Used; Not Beta-Read.

Word Count: 5.9k

PART TWO || DCEU || MASTERLIST

Comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!

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[stormybugg]

The True Dark Knight

Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Batman x fem!FBI Agent!Reader

(GIF by @dcmultiverse)

Rating: T

Summary: A marriage to Gotham’s Dark Knight only worked if you accepted and loved both Bruce Wayne and Batman. It was as if they were two separate people sharing a body, and some days, that was hard to accept. 

A/N: Okay, so I’m crediting this to @madworldwaynes whose idea I totally stole and ran with. I’m still procrastinating on graduate school, so you all get fed once again. ALSO THERE IS SO MUCH SLOW BURN ANGST IN THIS ONE I AM NOT SORRY

You banged your head on the steering wheel of your car, letting out a long groan. It had been about four hours since this stakeout had started, and you were no closer to figuring out where the shipments of Gotham’s newest drug craze were coming in from. And most importantly, who was doing the shipping. If someone didn’t do something soon, you were going have an aneurysm. 

Being on a four-hour stakeout in the middle of the night, by yourself, was never anyone’s idea of fun. And it was only natural that you were started to get exhausted. 

Quickly, you checked the clock on your dash, finding that it read 2:30 am. 

Great. 

If you left now, you might catch 4 hours of sleep before having to haul your ass out of bed, and report to your supervising agent the next morning with a steaming hot pile of nothing. You let out a frustrated sigh and slumped back in your seat, surveying your surroundings once more. 

Perhaps you’d give it one more hour. If nothing happened, you’d call it a night. 

Crossing your arms, you stared out of your windshield and let your mind float to other things. Namely, what your elusive husband must be up to right now. 

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[stormybugg]

I have no idea where this came from I’m all icky sicky today and needed some Nanami comfort. ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა♡

tags: a bit of smut, mostly fluff, domestic king Nanami Kento

➽──────────────❥

Nanami isn’t ever a boyfriend he literally starts acting like a husband from day zero.

Nanami finds out your favorite flowers, because he asks u like a grown ass man, and he is getting you flowers every 2 weeks on the dot as soon as the old ones are needing to be thrown away.

Nanami is making sure he’s got the kind of soap/lotion/toothpaste you like at his place for when you sleep over. Nanami loves watching you do your nightly skincare routine, sitting up in bed barely paying attention to the book in his hands because he’s just so enamored with you.

Nanami is truly addicted to the pussy. He spends hours down on you, lapping and sucking and fucking his thick tongue into you. From the jump, too. He’s eating your pussy the night of your first date. He’s getting you off more than once that night— the first one wasn’t for you, not even the second, those were just for Kento, because he is a greedy man. By the time he’s rolling a condom on to fuck you, you’ve cum more times from just his tongue than any other man has cumulatively.

Nanami’s learning your love language and showing you his own. He’s big on acts of service and quality time. He prefers a quiet night in and cooking a meal together. He likes ordering in on lazy Friday nights. He likes going grocery shopping with you. He likes the way your fingers brush his as he hands you a dish to dry. You dry, he washes. The soapy water would chip your manicure.

Nanami asks your friends to figure out what kind of engagement ring you want. He wants it to be a surprise but he also wants to ensure you get exactly what you want. He proposes on the beach, the same one you walked barefoot on after your first date. He gets down on one knee where you stopped him that night to admire the sunset and pulled him into a kiss. Kento took a mental note as to exactly where you were standing because in that moment he knew he was going to marry you.

Nanami is a wife guy, through and through. He is at his best when you’re beside him. He takes care of you, but never gets in the way of your goals. He dotes on you but knows you are his equal and his partner. He asks you for your opinions when he’s got a big decision to make at work. He is vulnerable with you, he’s patient, he’s so kind.

Nanami ensures that you are dressed to the nines, as a couple, at any work parties, friends wedding, fancy dinners. He always wears something that compliments the dress you pick out. He’s always there to zip you up, moving your hair delicately to the side and putting it back after. He insists to lean down and help you into your heals before walking out the door.

Nanami, of course, opens every door for you, he always has a hand at your back to keep you steady. He always introduces you as his wife with so much pride. And he’s always going to drape his suit jacket over your shoulders before walking outside, even if it’s not really that cold.

Nanami is fucking you deep and raw the second you mention you think it’s a good time to start trying for a baby. He’s got you almost upside down when he’s cumming in you, to make sure you’re pregnant asap. He knocks you up on the first try and is fucking you good throughout your entire pregnancy. One because you swollen and round with his baby makes him feral and two because regular sex and frequent orgasms are important for a healthy pregnancy.

Nanami is committed to his work, but is never home a minute late. Especially after the birth of your first child. As soon as he walks through the door, you’re clocking out and taking a nice luxurious bubble bath while Kento gets some 1:1 time with your infant. He knows how exhausting it is being a new parent, especially when he went back to the 9-5 a few months after your daughter was born and you’re at home with the baby all day. So he leaves work and clocks in for the night shift, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder if you try to get up when the baby’s fussing, telling you that he’s got it. It’s his turn. You’ll cook dinner together while Kento has the baby strapped to his chest. Because the golden rule in Kento’s head is ensuring equitable partnership, making sure that the brunt of childcare doesn’t default to you because of some tired gender-norms, and of course spoiling you and his baby girl every second he can, for the rest of his life. ૮꒰˶ฅ́˘ฅ̀˶꒱ა

[stormybugg]

Calling all Nanami fans! We’re cooking up a hot new project…

Announcing the interest check for The Nanami Cookbook: Chop It Like It’s Hot 🔪🔥

If you’d like to see this project come to life then please fill in our form, open until April 5!

👉 Form: click to fill out interest check

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