sugugori

[sugugori]

Clark fiddling with his pants

[sugugori]

clark is the kind of guy to be so desperate for your praise, even in regular day to day situations ✧.*

he walks up to your desk holding a stack of papers, cheeks pink and eyes flicking nervously toward yours. “i… finished the report” he murmurs, voice small and hesitant. when you look up and smile warmly, saying “clark, this is really good, i’m proud of you,” his whole body lights up. he lets out a little happy hum, and you catch him biting his lip almost shyly as if he’s trying to hold back a grin.

later, he hovers with a few photos he’s taken for the article, cheeks flushed and hands slightly trembling. when you lean down and whisper, “this one’s beautiful, clark, you did so well” he grins sheepishly and lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “r-really? you think so?” he says, voice bright and giddy, holding the photos closer to his chest. he can’t help the small bounce in his step as he moves back to his desk, peeking at you with a smile that’s all shy pride.

even tiny things make him light up. opening the door for you, straightening your chair, or handing you coffee, he glances your way with hopeful, sparkling eyes. when you murmur, “thank you, clark, you’re so thoughtful,” his grin stretches wider, cheeks reddening even more, and he hums happily, nearly floating with giddy delight. he leans a little closer, eager for more of your warmth, every soft word from you making him glow like a teenage boy who just heard the nicest compliment in the world.

[sugugori]

family recipes

jason todd x gn!reader

wc: 1.3k

summary: jason todd can’t figure out his mom’s recipe. you do your best to help.

tags: angst, grief, fluff, baking

“hey jason?” you call, setting down your bag and keys by the front door. “something smells really good!”

it’s true. warm melting chocolate, a hint of vanilla and brown sugar rounding out the sweetness. the aroma fills the apartment, wafting from the kitchen. mouth watering, you follow your nose straight to the source.

“jay?” you call out, still hearing no movement in the apartment. it’s strange. usually he’s the first to call out a greeting, the first to meet you at the front door with a kiss.

suddenly you turn the corner and there he is. curled up on the floor leaning against the kitchen cabinets, a plate of mostly untouched cookies sitting on the countertop above him. his eyes are red and swollen.

“jay?” you call out gently, crouching to a kneel beside him. “what’s going on?”

“sorry,” he says roughly, shoving at his face with the back of his hand. “it’s nothin’ i’ll just clean up the mess, yeah?” he sniffs, then makes to get up.

you lay a hand lightly across his forearm. “doesn’t seem like it’s nothing to me.”

he stares at you for one long, loaded second before collapsing back against the cabinet. “it’s stupid,” he says, eyes fixed stubbornly at the floor. there’s still a scratch on the wood from when you dragged a chair over to get out a measuring cup that was just a little too high out of reach and nearly broke your neck when you overbalanced.

sitting down, you scoot up next to him and nudge him with your shoulder. “can’t be any worse than that time artemis forgot that you’re not indestructible and can’t fly.”

a smile ghosts over his face at the memory then fades. he picks at a hangnail, a habit you know he’s been trying to kick. you don’t point it out.

“i was tryna make cookies,” he starts slowly, mind still not entirely in the room with you. “the way my mom used to make before— well before.”

you glance up at the uneaten pile of cookies.

“i knew she got the recipe off the back a pack of chocolate chips,” he continues, voice still hushed with emotion. “she liked to joke it was our family’s secret recipe. and i thought— well today was her birthday.”

carefully you reach around and squeeze him tightly, head coming to rest on his shoulder. one of the cabinet door handles digs awkwardly into your upper arm but you ignore the discomfort.

“i’m sorry,” you tell him. “i forgot.”

“s’okay,” he says, eyes still fixed on the floor. “i didn’t tell you.”

it burns though, to not have known he needed you. you squeeze him a little bit tighter as he lapses back into silence. the cotton under your hands is still dusted with flour.

“they weren’t right,” he says, breaking the silence. “i don’t know what i did wrong, they just weren’t right.”

“oh jason, i’m sorry,” you tell him as he melts into your arms. softly you press a kiss to the top of his head.

“told you it was stupid,” he scoffs, curling further in on himself.

the cookies don’t get eaten that day. not by either you or jason. instead you distribute them to grateful neighbours and begin to hatch your plan.

“i’m home!” jason calls, eager to ditch his gear and return to being as close to normal someone like him can manage. it’s been a few weeks since the cookie breakdown but shame still pinks the tips of his ears if he thinks on it for too long. he shouldn’t have gotten so worked up over a few cookies. they had still tasted good just— not how he wanted them to. he’s screwed up tons of other recipes before figuring them out and none of them had sent him into a sobbing fit on the floor of his kitchen. something metallic clangs in the next room.

“jason?” you call out, voice thin and frazzled. “i thought you weren’t coming home until the day after tomorrow?”

“got lucky!” he calls, toeing off his boots at the front door. “dick didn’t need me in blud anymore so i thought i’d come home and—”

jason draws to a halt in the doorway to the kitchen, jaw agape. it looks like a bakery threw up. scratch that, it looks like various baking ingredients had gone to war and the winner still hadn’t been crowned yet.

“surprise?” you say weakly, hands fidgeting with the strings of your apron.

“i— what?” he sputters.

the dinky plastic kitchen timer he’d brought back from a trip rings and you dive for the freezer. hissing and cursing you pull a metal tray out of the freezer and set it on the counter. jason simply watches in confusion.

“here,” you say, carefully using a spatula to pry a cooked and now chilled cookie from the tray. “try this.” jason reaches for it but suddenly you pull back with a frown. “actually, wash your hands first.”

with a good natured roll of his eyes he does as he’s told. drying his hands off with one of the hideous towels you’d insisted were actually adorable, he asks, “now can i know what’s going on?”

“try it,” you insist, brandishing the cookie at him again. with nervous eyes you watch him take the first bite.

jason smiles, humouring you, then registers the actual taste of the cookie. suddenly he’s six years old and badgering his mom for treat for getting an A+ on his spelling test. she’s smiling at him, telling him to wait just a little bit longer, ruffling his hair until he gets all puffed up and indignant. the cookies taste better straight out of the freezer, he remembers suddenly.

“jason?” you ask worriedly. “is it okay?”

jason slams back into his adult body to tears streaming warm down his face and a cookie chilling his fingertips.

“how?” he asks, still not sure this is really happening. they’re exactly the same.

“well,” you say sheepishly wiping your hands down the front of your apron. “it meant a lot to you. you weren’t wrong about the recipe— it’s still from the same brand of chocolate chips, only the company changed the recipe printed on packages four years ago.”

“i didn’t get it wrong,” jason says wonderingly.

you use the spatula to peel away a cookie of your own and start to nibble at it.

“then there was also the specifics of how your mom made it. you know she didn’t actually use the chocolate chips she got the recipe from?”

jason furrows his brows trying to recall. he can see a piece of shiny plastic, the recipe clipped from the packaging, but the colours don’t seem to match the bag his mom is holding in her hand.

“they weren’t the same,” he says slowly. “i remember that now.”

you nod, satisfied at the confirmation. “you know i had to trade so many favours to babs to get her to go through decades old cctv footage to check what your mom bought for groceries, it really made me feel like a stalker.”

“but the freezer trick?” jason asks. there are only crumbs left, chocolate embedded in the ridges of his fingerprints. another cookie appears in his hands.

“that,” you tell him, hoisting yourself up onto the countertop to sit, “was a combination of asking around your old neighborhood and strong arming a food science major at gotham university to help me.”

“i love you,” jason says, words spilling out of him in a flood. “please tell me you know that because i do. i really, really love you.”

you pretend to think about it, one finger tapping at your chin. “i could stand to be reminded again.”

jason steps between the v of your legs, the edge of the countertop digging into his tips. gently he cups your cheek, smearing chocolate over the flour and sugar dusting your skin.

“yeah?” he says strangely breathless.

“yeah.”

[sugugori]

★﹐ㅤhey, i love youㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ── jason todd ₊˚⊹♡

≧﹒the tiktok trend where you hang up on your bf without saying ily ﹐📩 i love love love him so much! how have i never mentioned him or any dc on this blog oh my golly i feel like my entire existence is a lie. also holy rushed + maybe ooc.

“i love you” “i love you too”

you doubted there was ever a day that went by in which you hadn’t said those words to jason before hanging up–like second nature, or a habit that you’d been practicing since childhood, the words came easily before you’d have to part ways with him.

this time however, you decided to have a little fun with him.

the call went as normal. he asked about your day, you asked about his. then, some light talk about a movie you watched recently, and about what you should have for dinner. his voice was husky on the other end, full of genuine affection, and you almost felt bad about what you were about to do. 

not enough to back out.

“i’m gonna go now, ‘kay?” you said, smiling with your screen pressed to your cheek.

“alright, babe, i love you,” he responded. you could hear the smile that graced his soft lips.

“okay, bye.”

you clicked the red ‘hang up’ button, and held your breath as a small laugh bubbled up your throat.

there was a long pause in which you stared at your blank screen, leg bobbing up and down. jason was sure to be confused on the other end–you always said ‘i love you’ before hanging up.

not even thirty seconds later, his name lit up the screen. amusement in your smile, you picked up. “hiya,” you said in a sing-song voice, “miss me already?” “are you feeling alright?” concern laced jason’s soft-spoken words.

“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?”

“it’s not like you to not say i love you. is something bothering you?”

your heart melted a little at that. “no. nothing.”

“come on–tell me. have you eaten today? drank all your water? been sleeping well?” he asked with a small exhale that traveled down the line and straight down to your toes.

“yes, yes, and yes.”

“i know something’s wrong, babe. talk to me. i’m always here for you.”

“i know.” you shuffled on your bed, catching your lower lip in between your teeth.

“do you want me to come over? no, wait, i’m coming over. stay put.”

you laughed loudly, the sound rich like honey as your heart did the macarena in your chest. how did you get so lucky with him? “you really don’t have to…” the truth was that you’d love that, to spend some time with the man you had the privilege of calling yours.

“i’ll be there in ten.”

“mm-kay.”

“i love you.” the words were firm, settling. a pause right after as jason waited for your response, and possibly disappointment.

but this time, you said it back. “i love you too, jason.”

   —★ cherryribbcns 25

[sugugori]

Need a hand? [ Jason Todd x Reader]

rating: 18+. mdni. content: bsf!jason, fingering note: i'm gonna make this a series UGHH ovulating so bad rn

You should’ve known the second Jason leaned across your bed, red in the face but determined, that he was about to say something stupid.

“Okay, don’t laugh,” he said, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “But… I want you to teach me how to finger a girl.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I said don’t laugh! I just—look, I don’t wanna be that guy, you know? The one who’s all talk and then… sucks at it.” His voice dropped, muttering, “And you’re the only one I trust not to roast me forever.”

That was a lie. You were absolutely going to roast him forever. “So your master plan,” you said slowly, “Is to ask me—your best friend—to let you practice sticking your fingers up my—”

“Not like that!” He shot upright, ears flaming. “I mean—yeah, maybe like that eventually, but I thought—” He broke off, swallowing. “I thought you could just… show me? On yourself. Like, what feels good. And I’ll watch. Then I’ll know what to do.”

The air went electric between you. Jason, trying to look calm, was anything but—his leg bounced against the mattress, his lips pressed thin like he was holding back a thousand words.

“You’re serious,” you said, studying him.

“Dead serious.” He finally met your eyes, and something about the rawness there—the need—made your stomach do a flip. “Please. I need to know how. And… I want it to be you who shows me.”

God help you, you shifted back against the headboard, heart thumping. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, already sliding your hand under the waistband of your shorts. His eyes widened, tracking every movement like he’d never seen anything more important.

“Holy shit,” he breathed when your fingers skimmed lower, pulling off your shorts and then your panties.

“You’re staring like a creep,” you teased, but your voice was soft, your other hand bracing on the sheets as you let two fingers trail through your folds. Heat spiked low in your belly, and Jason leaned closer unconsciously, breath shallow.

“Talk me through it,” he said hoarsely.

You bit your lip but nodded. “Slow at first,” you murmured, gathering your wetness and circling your clit with the lightest pressure. A quiet sound slipped out of you. “You don’t just dive in. You… warm her up.”

Jason’s pupils blew wide, chest rising and falling quick. His knuckles were white where he gripped his knee.

“Then,” you continued, sliding a finger inside yourself, “You curl your fingers. Not straight in and out. Curl—like you’re beckoning.” You demonstrated, a gasp catching in your throat.

Jason groaned low, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. “Fuck. Okay. Curl. Got it.”

You added another finger, pushing deeper, showing him the slow rhythm. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “You angle up—toward the front wall. That’s where it’s sensitive.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jason muttered, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His hoodie bunched at his hips, doing nothing to hide the obvious strain in his sweats. “You’re… fuck, you’re so hot.”

“Focus, Todd,” you teased, though your breath was shaky as your thumb pressed against your clit in time with your thrusts. “Pay attention. You asked for a lesson.”

“I am,” he swore, voice cracking a little. He leaned in closer, hanging on your every movement. “You look—shit—so good like that. Gonna make sure I get it right. Swear it.”

Your hips stuttered as you felt the coil tighten, your moans slipping free before you could swallow them down. Jason was nearly panting now, his voice rough and desperate when he whispered, “Please, let me try. I can do it. Just—fuck—please.”

You let out an involuntary whimper at his voice, your body arched as you worked yourself open, every nerve ending alive under his gaze.

“Please,” he said again, almost broken now. “I wanna try. Need to feel you—need you to tell me if I’m doing it right.”

You let your fingers slip free, coated in arousal, and almost cried at the loss. He watched them withdraw, throat bobbing.

Gently, he grabbed your wrist. His fingers trembled, larger than yours, calloused from too many nights swinging crowbars and guns. “Can I?”

When you nodded at him, he let out a shaky breath, bringing your fingers to his mouth and licking them clean. A guttural noise ripped from his throat.

“Come here,” you murmured, guiding his hand. You brought it between your thighs, pressing his middle finger against your slick entrance.

He exhaled sharply. “Fuck—you’re so warm.”

“Slow,” you whispered, gripping his wrist to steady him as he pushed inside. You both gasped at the stretch—him at the way you clenched, you at the way he stared, awestruck and reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him do this.

“Now curl,” you instructed softly, rolling your hips just enough to show him. “Not straight. Curl toward me.”

He obeyed, tentative at first, then firmer when your sharp inhale encouraged him. “Like this?”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you moaned, nails digging into his arm. “Right there.”

Jason’s face lit up, pride mixing with hunger. “Oh my god, I felt that. You—your whole body—” He shoved another finger in beside the first, clumsy but eager. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s perfect,” you groaned, head falling back against the headboard. He curled and thrust, his breath ragged in your ear as he built a rhythm.

“Jesus, you’re squeezing so tight,” he rasped, pressing his thumb experimentally against your clit. You gasped, and his eyes widened like he’d just uncovered treasure. “That—yeah? That’s good?”

“Don’t stop—oh my god—don’t stop.”

Jason’s jaw flexed, his focus razor-sharp despite how his hips were jerking restlessly, his cock straining against his sweats. He leaned in close, his voice rough: “C’mon, show me I’m doing it right. Please—come for me.”

Your body seized as he curled just right, thumb grinding clumsy, relentless circles against your clit. The wave hit you hard, your moan spilling raw into the room as you clutched his wrist, hips bucking into his hand.

Jason swore under his breath, watching you unravel. “Holy shit—holy shit, I made you—” He slowed only when you flinched, but kept his fingers inside, awed at the way you pulsed around him.

When your breathing finally steadied, you cracked an eye open to see him looking completely wrecked; flushed, panting, pupils blown wide.

“Well?” you teased weakly. “Lesson learned?”

He gave a shaky laugh, pulling his fingers free, sucking on them without shame. “Learned it. Memorized it. Probably dreaming about it for the rest of my life.”

Then, bolder, rough-voiced, “But… maybe I need a little more practice.”

[sugugori]

Like best friends do. [ Jason Todd x Reader]

rating: 18+. mdni. content: bsf!jason, dry humping, cumming in his pants note: you can rip this trope out of my cold dead hands

Your best friend’s couch had been through a lot—beer spills, ramen accidents, and more Gotham dirt than you wanted to think about. But this? This was definitely a new low.

“This is a dumb idea,” you muttered, straddling Jason’s lap anyway, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him.

Jason smirked, leaning back against the armrest, arms spread lazily across the back of the couch like he hadn’t just suggested the stupidest thing you’d ever agreed to. “C’mon, you’re telling me you never wondered?”

“No,” you said immediately, even though your palms were already pressed to his chest for balance, feeling the hard muscle under his t-shirt.

“Liar.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jason, we’re best friends. Best friends don’t—”

“Dry hump?” He grinned wider, all teeth and trouble. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s not like we’re fucking. Think of it as… stress relief.”

You should’ve said no. Instead, you shifted forward, and suddenly his cock was a hot, obvious line under the rough denim of his jeans, pressing right against you through your thin shorts. Both of you froze, eyes locking, breath caught.

“See?” Jason said finally, voice lower, rougher. “Not so dumb.”

You meant to shove him, but when you pressed your hands harder against his chest, your hips shifted with the movement. His breath hissed between his teeth, and his hands were suddenly on your hips, holding you there.

“Jay—”

“Shut up,” he muttered, rolling his hips up slow, dragging himself right where you were already sensitive. The friction was sharp, raw, too much and not enough all at once. “Just move.”

And you did. Hesitant at first, rocking against him in jerky little shifts until his grip tightened and guided you into a steady rhythm. The scrape of denim against your clit made your thighs tremble, heat crawling up your neck.

“This is so stupid,” you managed, biting back a sound when he lifted his hips to meet yours.

“Yeah,” Jason rasped, smirking even as his pupils blew wide. “Totally not sexy at all.”

Your laugh came out strangled. Especially because he was hard, really hard, straining against his jeans, and every grind made you feel it more. He saw the realization hit your face and smirked wider.

“You feel that?” he murmured, thumbs digging into your hips. “That’s all you, baby.”

“God, you’re disgusting.”

“And you’re soaking through your shorts,” he shot back, his voice thick with arousal.

You shoved his shoulder, but your hips never stopped moving. The tension coiled tighter with every drag, every sharp little rut of his cock against your clit. When his hand slid lower, over the curve of your ass, squeezing you tighter to grind harder, a whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

“Fuck,” Jason groaned, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut. “Keep doing that, keep—”

The pace grew sharper, more desperate. His chest heaved under your hands, his thighs flexing beneath you as he thrust up to meet every roll of your hips. Your shorts were soaked, clinging to you, and the pressure against your clit was almost unbearable.

“Jay—” you gasped, clutching his shirt, nails digging into the fabric.

“Yeah, I know,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “Me too, baby, me too—fuck—”

The last push came when he slid a hand up under your shirt, hot palm pressing against your bare waist, anchoring you down as he bucked up hard. The friction slammed into you just right, white heat snapping through your core.

You came with a sharp cry, hips jerking against his, thighs trembling around his lap. Jason cursed loud, grinding up through your orgasm, chasing his own until his whole body went taut and he spilled hot into his jeans with a ragged groan.

Silence followed—except for your mingled panting, the wet sound of fabric against fabric as you both slowed to a stop.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, forehead against his shoulder. He laughed breathlessly, hand still stroking over your hip.

“This never happened,” you said, voice muffled.

“Sure,” Jason drawled, grinning against your hair. “Until next time.”

You smacked his shoulder weakly. He only laughed harder, dissolving into a moan when you ground your hips down viciously.

[sugugori]

❆ FINALLY HOME

PAIRING : jason todd x fem!reader

ONESHOT : he dispears for a while and your anxiety can't help but blame yourself

A/N : my abandonment issues were acting up and i got sad... can you blame me???? also happy birthday to jason ig taglist : @6000-fandoms

masterlist

      Jason hadn’t messaged you in days. No “good morning,” no jokes about how coffee should be federally mandated, not even a dumb meme sent at 3AM. Just silence.

    Well—  Silence and a final message that felt like it had been ripped from a spy thriller. Vague. Ominous. A warning:“Gotta ghost for a while. Don’t freak. I’ll come back. I promise.” And then nothing.

     He disappeared like he said he would. Quiet. Cold. Complete. But promises don’t make beds warmer. Or dinner cook itself. Or stop the way the evenings seemed to stretch, long and thin and aching, until you started talking to the shadows like they might talk back.

     He didn’t tell you why he had to go. Didn’t say it was your fault. Didn’t give you a list of mistakes to obsess over.

     But your brain? It built them anyway. Stacked up every quiet moment and every half-finished sentence, replayed them like a skipping record, and convinced you maybe— just maybe— he left because of you.

     Because you needed too much. Because you asked him to stay safe. Because you made him feel soft in a world where softness gets you killed.

     You tried not to be angry. Really, you did. Because deep down, you knew this wasn’t a betrayal. It wasn’t abandonment. It was Jason—being Jason.

      A man who’d rather be bleeding in an alley than admit he’s scared. A man raised by grief and war and Gotham, who still somehow made you eggs in the morning like he’d always had a home.

     So you stayed quiet. Came back to the same apartment every night. Let the silence keep you company. And pretended you weren’t checking your phone every time it buzzed.

     But tonight? Tonight the silence broke.

     You knew something was different the moment your key turned in the lock. There was light—soft and golden—pouring from the kitchen like it had missed you. And something was humming… not a song, not quite. Just… warmth.

     You froze, halfway in the doorway, fingers brushing the bat by the umbrella stand, just in case. Then a voice… gruff, low, familiar. Like someone trying to remember how to speak again.

    “Hey, mama’s home.” You dropped the bat before your brain even caught up.

     Jason was standing at the stove, back to you, hoodie slung over his broad shoulders, hair still wet from a shower he’d definitely taken in your bathroom. Like he’d never left. Like he’d just gone out for groceries.

     “You’re outta everything,” he said over his shoulder, voice casual but scratchy like he hadn’t used it in days. “Seriously. I opened your fridge and it was just… sad. Tragic. I don’t know how you survived. Chips and spite?”

     He laughed, and it hit you like a sucker punch. Because it was him. Because he was here.     And because suddenly, your chest was breaking open and your eyes were already full. Jason must’ve heard your breath hitch. He turned fast, eyes catching yours— sharp, blue, always too observant. His expression dropped.

    “Hey—hey, baby, what’s wrong?”

     He was already in front of you, hands on your arms, scanning your face like he could decode it. Like maybe the answer to everything he was afraid of was written in your tears.

     You couldn’t even answer. Your lip just trembled, and then you were gripping him like he might vanish again if you didn’t hold tight enough.       He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease. Just wrapped his arms around you like armor, hands running slow circles across your back. Letting you fall apart.

      “Hey, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”  His voice was softer now, buried in your hair. “I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere. You hear me?”

      You didn’t mean to say it.  You didn’t even know the words were waiting. But they came out anyway. Small, splintered, terrified.

      “Was it my fault?”

      Jason froze for a second. Then pulled back just enough to see your face, his expression softening like melted asphalt.

      “What?”

     “You leaving… was it because of me?”

      His brows pinched. “No. No, baby. Shit— no. Never you.”

      His thumb brushed away a tear, then another, like each one was something he had to personally undo.

     “Look, I know I’m not great at the whole ‘communication’ thing. Or the... ‘talking about my feelings without making a sarcastic comment’ thing.” You gave a wet laugh. Just barely. “But it wasn’t you. I had to handle something. Couldn’t risk it touching you, okay? You’re the one good thing I got. I’d never leave because of you.”

     You nodded, but didn’t let go. Couldn’t.

    “Say it back to me,” he whispered. “Just once. So I know you know it.”

    “It wasn’t my fault.”

     He kissed your temple, slow and certain.

     “That’s right.”

     He let you sit on the counter while he finished cooking, one hand always within reach— on your knee, your back, your arm. Like he knew the silence he left behind had teeth.

     “You hungry? It’s just pasta. I’m outta practice.”

     “I’ll eat anything you make,” you mumbled, still watching him like he might dissolve into steam.

     “Dangerous thing to say to a guy raised by Alfred,” he smirked. “I once lit a toaster on fire.”

     “You mean re-lit it,” you said, lips quirking up.

      He grinned. “See? You did miss me.”

     You didn’t answer. Just slipped off the counter and slid your fingers into his free hand.

     “Can I… keep holding you?”

      He squeezed your hand. “You never gotta ask that.”

      And for the rest of the night, he didn’t let go. His hand stayed in yours through dinner, through the dishes, through the quiet talk on the couch about where he went and why.

      He didn’t promise the world. Didn’t pretend he was fixed. But he looked you in the eyes and promised this: “If I ever have to disappear again… you’ll know why. No more vanishing acts. I’m not gonna leave you wondering. That was the worst part, huh?”

       You nodded.

       “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

       And for once, you believed him. Not because Jason Todd was good at keeping promises. But because he was learning how to keep you.

[sugugori]

stupid.

pairing: jason todd x reader

category: ansgt and fluff (really gets all mushy in the end)

warning: none except this was written at the ungodly hours (around 2am) so expect typos. you've been warned.

a/n: wrote something coherent after so long. my brain better not take a vacation again. have a great day everyone (im just happy i coughed up something nice)

dividers by @sweetshuga

"this was a mistake."

jason sighs as he hunches forward, head in his hand as he rubs the spot that always aches when his logical side is trying to say 'told you so.'

he raised his head, looking at the empty space across him, the untouched plate infront of him and half filled glass of water that he has actually refilled thrice. the clouds rage outside as the raindrops slam on the window harsh. it hasn't been raining for long, hardly five minutes, but he has been waiting for his date for more than an hour.

yes, a date.

he had actually been giddy for this one, for you. he had been so sure about you, it was smooth— so natural. small talks turning to hour long conversations, it ranged from random to something too specific, he used to seek your voice so desperately that he'd call in the middle of the night just to listen to you speak, be it for just a word. it eased from being acquaintance to two people hopelessly pining after each other.

and so he gathered the courage to ask you out, brushing away the uncertainties.

but now he sits alone, not a text in sight.

had he been seeing it all wrong? did he get ahead of himself yet again? was all that hope for nothing?

he swiped his phone yet again, legs bouncing anxiously, hoping for a text— something— but there's nothing.

before his heart could come to your defense, his walls came up. bitterness engulfed him as he stood up, paying the bill for that untouched sandwich, ignoring those wretched pitiful looks as he stormed out of the restaurant.

the cold breeze is supposed to soothe one's mind yet it only muddled his.

for a moment he simply stood there, the incessant honking of cars, murmurs of people— or the distant shouts of some thug— a bell, tv playing somewhere— not you though.

he sighed tiredly, rubbing his neck as he slightly shook his head. hell he even styled his hair. whatever, right?

shrugging he began walking away, almost stepping into the rain when he heard his name— muffled yet distinct— being shouted so loud, its a wonder the whole street didn't look at the source.

he turned back, and was immediately blown away.

on the other side, was you. you were running so fast, brows furrowed so hard, as if you were catching some thief who stole your last penny. slowly you came to a stop infront of him, panting profusely and loudly before hunching forward as you put your hands on your knees.

"i— sorry— so much—" you wheezed, "traffic. phone dead- then rain— sorry—" you coughed again before trying to breathe properly.

you were drenched badly, from head to toe, your hair was stuck to your face in an unruly manner. your makeup, which he was sure must have been immaculate, was smudged and almost dripping down. it was so obvious that you had dolled up, pretty earrings, outfit (that may be drenched and askew now) was styled and picked carefully.

and he almost missed it all. he almost missed you because he didn't believe in you, in his fate.

he was gobsmacked, and just as guilty.

"im sorry—" you breathed out, seeminly a bit better than before as you tried straightening up, hands reaching for the wall beside you, "my phone... it died while i was in the cab. and then— there was this huge traffic—" you shook your head as you sighed, brows furrowing before you looked up at him.

you looked apologetic and he wanted to gut himself, "im sorry you had to wait for so long— i didn't know the fucking traffic was gonna hold so long—"

"did you run all the way here?" he asked suddenly, interrupting, still looking just as shocked and unreadable.

you paused for a moment, lips moving awkwardly before you nodded, "yeah. it just wasn't moving— and i knew it was getting late. you must be waiting— you were waiting. so... yeah."

his heart ached in a way it had never, like the weight of something so good, so pure, astonished his soul so much so that it hurt. it hurt to believe that this much good was all for him.

his lips tugged up in a helpless smile as he began shrugging off his jacket, "you...." he draped it over you, wrapping you in it tight before his hands slid up to your cold cheeks, squishing them just a touch to try to warm them. he pulled you close before leaning down close enough, "you're so stupid. so so fucking stupid."

"im sure you're right but did my stupidity really just win you over?" you asked, lips pulling in an amused grin.

"who said that?"

"you're blushing all over, todd."

"and you're cold as artic, you fool."

"well, i am a fool for you—"

he silenced you with the press of his lips to yours, warm and sweet, needy yet slow. his hand moved to cradle the back of your head while the other snaked around your waist to pull you close.

yes he was blushing, yes he was smiling like an idiot, and yes his heart had fallen irrevocably in love with you.

he pulled away after a moment, leaving a few pecks while doing so because he just can't get enough.

"i hear one more of those stupid cheesy pick up lines—"

"what?" you giggled as you nudged your nose with his, "you'll do what?"

his eyes softened with amusement as his smile widened even more, heart melting at the sound of your giggle, "...I'll kiss your whole stupid face again."

you gasped dramatically, "in public? my! who are you and what did you do to my jason?"

"shut up. now come on. we gotta get you warmed up before you're burning up and gross."

"wow. what a sweetheart."

and that was when jason resigned his heart to someone stupid.

[sugugori]

Jason takes care of you after getting your wisdom teeth out

A/n: by the time this is out my wisdom teeth will be gone but I heard it’s okay because they don’t actually hold wisdom :(

Warnings: short, minor injury? Sedation mention and it’s after affects, not proof read, rushed

Your body shakes as they turn on the IV drip. Your eyes search his for reassurance.

“I’m right here sweetheart.” His hand is big, and steady as it holds yours.

“Jay I’m in love with you so much.” You weep softly, words muffled by the gauze.

“Oh I know sweetheart.” His strong hands look so good working the wheel, driving you both home.

“Did you know you’re so beautiful?” Your voice quivers.

“Mhm. You’re beautiful too.” His voice is gruff, and soothing.

You gasp all too dramatically, “I am beautiful?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh wowwww…”

By the time you get home you’re half asleep. His big arms scoop you up with ease, you feel like you’re floating.

The massive bed cradles you. Jason makes sure your head stays elevated on the mountain of fluffy pillows.

You’re technically asleep but you feel him leave, and you’re weeping again.

Can’t control the waterworks.

“Oh…oh sweetness you okay? What happened?” He carefully thumbs the tears beneath your eyes away.

“W-where did you go?” Your voice feels as broken as it sounds.

“Just went to get you some things baby.” He holds up the special ice pack he bought you, gentle hands wrapping it in place around your swollen cheeks.

“S’the pink one? I love pink.”

“Yes I know.” He coos.

“I don’t deserve you.” You sob.

He rubs a hand on the back of your neck, “Oh yes you do,” he leans down to catch your gaze, “Sweetheart would you mind doing me a favor?”

You wouldn’t mind doing him all the favors, “Hm?”

“Let’s take a breath, get those waterworks to stop yeah? Being dehydrated doesn’t feel good.”

He’s right, it doesn’t. That doesn’t stop you though.

“Hey…sugar look at me please.” The anesthesia doesn’t change how willing you are to follow his gentle instructions. “There’s my sweet thing. No more tears okay? No more tears.” He whispers against your temple.

“If I can’t have tears what can I have?” You sniff.

“You can have some mashed potatoes yeah?” He seems to grab a steaming bowl of it out of nowhere.

“Oh…yeah that’s good.”

He chuckles. “I mixed ‘em with some broth.” He holds up the spoon to your lips, “Good?”

You carefully swallow. “Mhm…Jason my teeth feel big.”

“Yeah…” he’s careful not to comment on how swollen your cheeks look from the surgery.

“And they feel badly.”

“I know baby…I know. You were so brave today.” He runs his fingertips over your brow, keeping the urge to cup your cheeks at bay.

“It hurts…”

He nods thoughtfully, immediately pulled into action finding your aftercare instructions. He opens a couple pill bottles, offering each pill to your mouth in turn.

“Swallow f’me.”

And you do. And then you giggle.

“Oh I’d swallow for you alright.”

But he doesn’t laugh? He just…looks at you.

His green eyes hold the golden rays peaking through a heavy forest; his love is the first breeze of spring, and the last chill of winter.

“Your eyes are the green sunlight, and you’re fresh.” Gosh aren’t you a romantic. The last bit of an aesthetic lingers. That did not come across the way it sounded in your head.

He smiles. “You, my sweet love, are the bed that makes a home. Now hush…don’t want you hurting that pretty mouth.” He kisses your forehead.

But he wanted to say more than that. You are my reprieve.

He stays with you until you fall asleep.

[sugugori]

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the weight of Jason’s arm draped across your waist, his fingers splayed over your hip even in sleep. Sunlight filters through the curtains you forgot to close last night, casting golden streaks across his peaceful face.

It’s rare to see him like this—completely unguarded, the hard lines of his jaw softened by sleep, those impossibly long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no wariness in the set of his mouth. Just Jason, your Jason, breathing steady and deep against your neck.

You shift slightly, trying not to disturb him, but his grip on you tightens reflexively.

“Don’t even think about it,” he mumbles into your hair, voice rough with sleep. “Too early.”

“It’s almost noon, Jay.”

“Exactly. Way too early.” His lips find the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, pressing a lazy kiss there that makes you shiver. “We’ve got nowhere to be.”

And he’s right. It’s Saturday, the sun is warm on your skin, and Jason is choosing to spend his morning wrapped around you like a koala.

“Five more minutes,” you concede, settling back against his chest.

His answering hum vibrates against your spine. “Make it twenty.”

You can feel his smile against your shoulder, and you think maybe twenty minutes sounds perfect.

The minutes stretch between you like honey, sweet and slow. Jason’s thumb traces absent circles on your hip bone. You’ve memorized the pattern of his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls against your back, the soft sighs he makes when he’s truly content.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks eventually, voice still gravelly but more awake now.

“You,” you answer honestly, tilting your head back to catch his sleepy smile.

“Yeah?” His hand moves up to brush a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering on your cheek. “Good thoughts, I hope.”

“Always.” You catch his hand and press a kiss to his palm. Even now, after all this time together, Jason still looks surprised when you choose tenderness with him.

“Love you,” he whispers against your temple.

“Love you too, Jay.” You turn in his arms until you’re facing him, noses nearly touching. “Now go back to sleep. We’ve still got fifteen minutes.”

He laughs, low and warm, pulling you impossibly closer. “Yes, boss.”

꒰ taglist ꒱ i’m currently making a dc taglist. if anyone wants to be added, comment or send an ask my way!

۶ৎ [ dhazefawn ಇ. ] + don’t repost, copy or use my work for ai.

[sugugori]

Meet…crash?

✶⋆.˚ In which you hit a vigilante with your car

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word count | 671

Tags: Fluff, Meet cute, accidental injury

Having a car in Gotham was a blessing—no late-night walks, no muggers, and no leering men catcalling you. It was a wonder how much more bearable the crime-ridden city was when you had a car.

Yet, even from inside your glorious vehicle, disaster still managed to strike you in the form of a man.

Or was it the other way around?

Either way, your hands gripped the steering wheel, sweaty and shaky as you stared up ahead with wide eyes.

All you saw was a blur of red before your foot slammed on the brake a second too late. There was a big thump while the car shuddered with you.

With a muffled, hysterical cry, you wrenched open the door and stumbled out.

“Fucking hell,” you whispered, brows furrowed.

On the road was a groaning man in red. Your heart skipped a beat. At least the guy was still alive. Fear vibrated through you, your mind replaying the moment over and over.

You made your way closer to him, as if he were some rabid animal and not a helpless man you’d hit with your car.

The closer you got, the more you could make out the form of Red Hood.

You cursed and wondered if you should run. What if he tried to kill you for fracturing an important bone or—

Your thoughts were cut off by his strained voice.

“You gonna help or stare at me?”

You steadied yourself and forced your mouth to work.

“I—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you running. Obviously I didn’t do this on purpose—fuck.” You said it as calmly as possible, which sounded more like you were being held at gunpoint.

He didn’t move a muscle, just stared at you like you were the insane one. His helmet had been removed, his jaw was clenched, and his raven hair was a mess. Oh. He was one of those people who looked hot while frustrated.

You swallowed and crouched down, awkwardly trying to help him up. You weren’t much help with lifting a six-foot-something man.

“I’m so sorry,” you said again while the vigilante leaned on your smaller form.

“It’s fine,” he grunted.

“It’s not. I mean, you could have died.”

He snorted as you helped him onto the sidewalk where he stiffly sat, not showing any signs of major injuries. You could barely read the man, and the mask covering his eyes didn’t help.

“Eh, been there, done that,” he replied, watching you intently like he was enraptured by the person who got him temporarily incapacitated.

You gave him a weird look, your face screwing up. You opened your mouth to ask what that meant but decided against it. Was it rude to ask people about their death? You assumed it was.

“Okay…” You trailed off. He wasn’t saying much and you didn’t know what to do. So, you rummaged through the pocket of your jeans and pulled out a lollipop. You winced—it was all you had.

You held it out to Red Hood with a hopeful look in your eye.

“A peace offering,” you added when he didn’t move, white lenses fixed on your face rather than your offering.

He sighed, a white strand of his hair falling across his forehead, and you wanted to brush it away.

You willed yourself to stay still—you would not embarrass yourself. But the way he was looking at you made you feel like it was too late for that.

“I already said it was okay, sweetheart.” His voice was low and rough.

Your mind decided to focus on the last word, zoning in on the way he said it. You numbly pushed the candy closer to his face.

A reluctant half-smile formed on his face, gloved fingers brushing yours as he took the candy from you, lingering a second too long to chase the warmth.

You cleared your throat.

“Next time, you should look both ways before crossing,” you told him.

His half-smile deepened.

“And deny myself the pleasure of meeting you again?” 

Masterlist

[sugugori]

wait a darn minute!

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: While cooking for Clark, you dramatically realize you’ve been “made a victim of patriarchy” :))

Word count: 3k+

Warnings: fluff, kissing, teasing, fuck the patriarchy lol

A/N:

This was a request by the loml @fire-joestar !!!! Babe, I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Cooking was your love language.

It was no doubt about it that cooking came to you naturally, that you could undoubtedly speak it fluently. It was where you found comfort, passion, but also patience and love. The act of chopping, stirring, simmering — it all soothed you. The sight of your loved ones gathered around the table, eating what you’d made with warmth and admiration, filled you with a kind of joy nothing else could touch. No food you ate outside of your own kitchen could ever fulfill you the way their smiles did.

And Clark — your other love, though you’d never quite admitted it aloud — absolutely loved you, and your cooking.

The kitchen smelled like something out of a dream. Garlic and butter melted into golden perfection, simmering tomatoes burbled softly on the stove, and rosemary so fresh Clark swore he could hear the farm fields back home rustling in approval hung heavy in the air.

He sat at the counter, glasses on, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, the world’s most wholesome picture of a man watching someone he adored. His blue eyes followed every flick of your wrist, every careful stir, like you weren’t just cooking — you were performing magic.

“Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble?” he asked, voice soft but tinged with genuine disbelief. He glanced at the spread already laid out: roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, golden bread cooling on a rack, and a dessert-in-progress that had required your absolute devotion and at least one near-elbow injury from all the whisking.

You turned, spatula raised like it could scold him on your behalf. “Clark, you’ve literally fought aliens, robots, and probably some other terrifying things I don’t even know about. The least I can do is keep you from surviving on coffee and diner pie.”

“Hey,” he protested lightly, dimples flashing, “I like diner pie.”

“You inhale diner pie sweetheart,” you corrected sharply, tossing him a look that made him grin wider. “That’s not the same as liking it.”

He leaned forward on the counter, resting his chin in his palm, eyes soft and warm in a way that made your stomach flip. “Still. You’re… kind of amazing, you know that?”

Your chest jolted, heat creeping up your neck. Quickly, you turned back to the stove, stirring with newfound intensity. “You deserve to eat well, sleep soundly, and—” you hesitated, catching yourself before your heart betrayed you with something far too vulnerable. “—have an actual vegetable once in a while.”

For a blissful moment, the only sounds were the pan sizzling and Clark’s quiet, deeply content sigh. He looked like he belonged here, sitting in your kitchen, watching you, safe.

And then — it hit you. A revelation. A cosmic truth.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered against the pan. Dramatically, you spun on your heel, dropped to your knees on the linoleum like you’d been struck down by fate itself, and pointed your finger at him as though it were the sword of justice.

“You!” you cried, voice ringing with all the passion of a Shakespearean tragedy. Pots rattled faintly on their hooks. “You’ve made me a victim of patriarchy!”

Clark blinked. Once. Twice. His brows drew together behind his glasses. “…I’m sorry?”

“You sit there,” you accused, jabbing the spoon at him, “all tall, broad-shouldered, and earnest, making me want to cook you elaborate meals when cooking is a basic human survival skill! But nooo, suddenly I’m over here hand-making bread like I’m auditioning for a Food Network show in 1953!”

His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked utterly lost. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t ask for this,” you cut him off, your spoon raised as high as your righteous indignation. “That’s what makes it worse! I wanted to! Patriarchy tricked me into wanting to feed you!”

The silence that followed was thick. Then—

Clark broke.

He laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a little smirk. But a full, chest-deep laugh that rolled out of him in warm waves, so contagious that you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing too. His shoulders shook; his glasses slipped halfway down his nose as he wiped at his eyes, dimples carved deep into his cheeks.

“Patriarchy—” he wheezed between laughs, barely able to breathe, “tricked you into baking bread? That’s your supervillain origin story?”

You scrambled back to your feet, clutching the spoon like a scepter of justice. “Do not mock the gravity of my plight, Kent.”

He pressed a hand to his chest like he was swearing an oath, though his grin betrayed him. “I would never.”

“Liar,” you huffed, spinning back toward the stove with the dramatic flair of someone betrayed by their closest confidant. The pan sizzled indignantly in your absence, as if siding with you.

Clark was still chuckling as he slid off the counter, footsteps soft against the kitchen floor. A moment later, he stood beside you, leaning close enough that you felt the warmth radiating off him, like he was its own gravitational force. He peered over your shoulder, blue eyes flicking between the pan and your face like he wasn’t sure which was more mesmerizing.

“For what it’s worth,” he said gently, laughter fading into something earnest, “I think you’re the strongest, kindest and prettiest person I know. Spoon-wielding revelations included.”

You cut him a sharp side-eye. “…Flattery will not save you.”

“Noted,” he said solemnly, though the corners of his mouth were twitching with the effort of suppressing another laugh. Then, with a boldness that made your heart stumble, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple. His voice dropped low as he straightened, warm and teasing: “But maybe helping with finishing the dessert will.”

He reached across the counter and snatched the whisk with a suspiciously eager grin.

“Clark Kent,” you intoned gravely, “you don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

“How hard can it be?”

Twenty six seconds later, there was flour dusting his shirt like snow, chocolate smudged across his nose, and your counter looked as though a small tornado had passed directly through a bakery. Clark stood in the middle of the disaster, whisk still in hand, valiantly stirring with a determination you were fairly certain he usually reserved for saving Metropolis.

“Okay,” he admitted sheepishly, setting the whisk down in defeat. “Maybe harder than punching robots.”

You doubled over, laughter bubbling out of you uncontrollably. Grabbing a towel, you reached up to wipe his face, shaking your head. “You’re hopeless.”

He grinned, leaning just enough that you had to chase the smear of chocolate across his skin. “Hopelessly devoted to dessert?”

“Hopelessly messy,” you corrected, though the words came out softer than you intended. Not when his eyes softened like that. Not when he looked so at home in your kitchen, like this was where he was always meant to be.

And then, as if to prove your point, he reached over without shame and plucked a roasted carrot straight off the tray with his fingers, ignoring the fact that it was still steaming. He popped it into his mouth, chewed slowly, reverently, and hummed like you’d just handed him ambrosia.

“You know,” he said around the mouthful, entirely unbothered by manners, “this is better than diner pie.”

You gasped theatrically, clutching your chest. “Blasphemy.”

“Truth,” he countered, already reaching for another piece.

You slapped his hand away with the towel. “Dinner first.”

He gave you a look — all wide-eyed innocence, the kind of look you suspected had gotten him out of trouble with his mom more than once. “But I’m starving.”

“Then maybe you should’ve spent less time declaring war on flour,” you retorted, waving the towel at him like a weapon.

“Worth it.”

The way he said it — soft, simple, but utterly sincere — made your chest tighten. His grin hadn’t faded, and neither had the warmth in his eyes. It was the kind of look that could unravel you if you let it.

You turned back to the stove, shaking your head with exaggerated exasperation. Still, you caught it out of the corner of your eye: the way he snuck another vegetable, thinking he was stealthy. You pretended not to notice, choosing instead to sigh dramatically,

“Truly,” you said, voice dripping with theatrical despair, “how is one supposed to feed a man who treats vegetables like contraband candy?”

Clark froze mid-bite, eyes wide, carrot half-disappeared between his fingers. Then, with the guileless innocence of a man who had clearly been caught red-handed more than once in his life, he chewed slowly. “…Was that rhetorical?”

You turned just enough to give him a withering look. “Yes.”

He smiled sheepishly, swallowed, and leaned against the counter like it was all part of his plan. “Then my answer is: very easily. I’m not picky.”

“Not picky,” you repeated flatly, gesturing at the near-empty tray that had been full of roasted vegetables ten minutes ago. “Tell that to the tray.”

Clark winced, caught, then reached out to gently nudge the towel hanging from your shoulder. “Tell you what—why don’t we call it even if I, uh… set the table?”

You arched a brow. “The mighty Superman, offering to set plates and forks. Be still, my heart.”

“Hey, I’m serious!” he protested, but his grin betrayed him. “I promise, no one’s ever set a table faster. World record speed.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, turning back to stir the pan again. “As long as you don’t break my dishes in the process.”

He gave you a look over his glasses, and then he rolled his sleeves a little higher, squared his shoulders like he was preparing for battle, and got to work.

To his credit, the plates stayed intact. He moved through your kitchen with surprising care, big hands delicate as he lined up silverware and even folded napkins into vaguely triangular shapes. He hummed while he worked — some low tune you didn’t recognize but that felt old, maybe something his Ma used to sing in Smallville.

By the time you finished at the stove, the little table in the corner looked downright cozy, warm light spilling across the plates, steam rising from the dishes he’d managed not to sample. Clark stood proudly beside it, waiting for your inspection.

“Well?” he asked. “Passable?”

You crossed your arms, pretending to scrutinize. “Barely. You only cheated by stealing half the carrots.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “That’s called quality assurance.”

“Uh-huh.”

You carried the last pan over, sliding it into place, and before you could pull out a chair, Clark had already stepped forward to tug it out for you.

“Chivalry?” you asked, eyebrow arched.

“Damage control,” he said with a grin, sliding in opposite you.

The first bite you took was good — really good. Not just because you’d spent hours cooking it, but because Clark’s quiet, satisfied hum across from you made it taste better. He closed his eyes, savoring, and you realized why you loved cooking so much again.

For a while, you ate in companionable silence, punctuated by him occasionally reaching for more bread or sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. Finally, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, one hand resting on his stomach.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said.

“Oh?” you teased, sipping from your glass. “Big, invincible Clark Kent, ruined by a roasted chicken and some bread?”

He gave you a lopsided smile, eyes crinkling. “Completely. You cook like this, I’m never going to want to leave.”

Your heart skipped, your fork hovering halfway to your mouth. He hadn’t said it like a joke. He’d said it like a truth.

“…Then don’t,” you said lightly, trying to mask the way the words carried a weight you weren’t ready to admit out loud.

Clark’s smile softened. He didn’t push, didn’t tease. Just looked at you with that endless patience of his, like he could wait forever for you to mean it.

And then, with perfect timing, his hand shot out across the table and snatched the very last roll from the basket.

“Clark!” you yelped, scandalized.

He grinned around his mouthful, dimples deepening, and shrugged. “Patriarchy made me do it.”

You nearly threw your spoon at him.

Clark only grinned wider, chewing with the smug satisfaction of a man who had both super-strength and the last roll. You narrowed your eyes, spoon still poised like a dagger.

“Don’t test me, Kent. I have a cast-iron skillet within reach.”

He swallowed, raising both hands in mock surrender. “And I know better than to underestimate you with cookware. You’ve already taken down the patriarchy with a spoon.”

“That’s right,” you said proudly, twirling it in your fingers like a baton. “And you’ll be next.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he murmured, but the mischievous glint in his eye betrayed him. Because the second you looked down at your plate again, his hand darted across the table—lightning fast, though deliberately slowed so you just managed to smack it with your spoon before he could steal another bite.

“Clark!”

“Ow,” he said, though you were fairly sure he didn’t even feel it. He rubbed his hand dramatically anyway. “Assault with a deadly spoon. Guess I had it coming.”

“Deadly accurate spoon,” you corrected primly.

He chuckled, low and warm, and leaned his chin into his palm, just watching you with that unbearable softness that made it impossible to stay mad. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Don’t sweet-talk me after food theft,” you muttered, though your lips threatened to curl upward.

Dinner wound down in fits of laughter and threats of utensil-based justice. And when the last plate was scraped clean, you sighed, leaning back in your chair. “Alright. Time for dishes.”

Before you could stand, Clark was already pushing his chair back. “I’ll do them.”

You snorted. “You’ll do them?”

“Of course.” He started stacking plates with the self-assuredness of someone who clearly had no idea what he was doing. “Consider it—patriarchal reparations.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably helpful,” he corrected, carrying a precariously high stack of dishes to the sink. For about five glorious seconds, he looked competent. Then one plate slipped, teetering on the edge.

“Clark—!” you yelped.

With reflexes faster than thought, he snatched it midair before it could shatter. When he turned back, he wore the guiltiest look you’d ever seen. “…Saved it.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You’re going to give me gray hair.”

He laughed sheepishly, setting the plate down much more carefully this time. “Then I’ll cook next time. Balance things out.”

That made you pause. Slowly, you turned toward him, arms crossing. “Clark Kent… can you cook?”

There was the briefest hesitation, then: “…How hard can it be?”

You groaned. “Those are famous last words.”

Twenty minutes later, after the dishes massacre and one heroic rescue of a smoking pan, you had surrendered entirely on letting Clark “balance things out.” Dinner had been followed by laughter, dessert had been a valiant disaster, and cleanup had devolved into a suds fight that left bubbles floating like tiny moons across the kitchen floor.

By the time you finally flopped onto the couch, breathless from laughing and hair damp from his surprise sprayer attack, Clark was beside you, one arm draped casually across the back like he owned the place. Which, honestly, he kind of did.

For a long moment, you just lay there, chests rising and falling.

Then he tilted his head, eyes soft, electric. “You know,” he said, voice low and steady, “I wasn’t joking earlier. About your cooking.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head back against the cushion. “What, the roasted veggies I caught you eating like stolen treasure?”

“All of it,” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. “Bread, dinner, dessert—even though technically that cake batter was more like… edible chaos.”

You covered your face, laughing through your fingers. “Don’t remind me.”

When you finally lowered your hands, his expression had changed. Still warm, still Clark, but softer, quieter, a little vulnerable. The kind of look he reserved for moments he didn’t often allow himself.

“It’s not just that it’s good,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer. “It’s the way it feels. Eating your food… it’s home. Mom’s kitchen. Safe. Something I don’t get to feel a lot anymore.”

Your chest squeezed. “Well, then you should know,” you whispered, nudging his knee with yours, “everything I make… I make with love.”

A mischievous glint flickered across his eyes. “Even the cranberry sauce?”

“Especially the cranberry sauce,” you said, with all the solemnity you could muster.

He laughed, low and soft, then leaned in. And suddenly, the couch, the bubbles, the messy kitchen—everything shrunk to the space between you. His lips brushed yours, tentative, testing, before you leaned in, giving him permission. That’s when he deepened the kiss, one hand cupping your cheek, the other winding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Your breath hitched, fingers tangling in his shirt. Heat pooled low in your belly as the kiss became more urgent, teasing, exploring. Clark’s lips were warm, insistent, asking questions only your own lips could answer. You couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips when his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

He broke the kiss just slightly, foreheads resting together, and whispered, voice husky, “…I love your cooking…”

You blinked up at him, pulse racing, heart hammering. He smiled, leaning in again, slower this time, dragging his lips across yours, “…but I think I love the taste of your lips more.”

You gasped, swaying back only to have him chase your lips like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Clark!” you breathed, half-laugh, half-swoon.

“What?” he murmured, eyes darkening with playful intent, hands still on you, pulling you impossibly close. “It’s true.”

You pressed your face against his shoulder, melting into him, groaning. “How am I supposed to survive you saying things like that?”

“Easy,” he whispered, voice low and teasing, lips brushing your temple, then your jaw, down to your collarbone. “I’ll keep feeding you lines, and you keep feeding me dinner.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, though your smile betrayed you completely.

He nipped gently at your earlobe, grinning against your skin. “And maybe… I’ll help cook next time,” he murmured, his lips ghosting along yours again. “But only if you promise I get dessert first.”

You groaned, laughing and groaning all at once, surrendering completely to him. And there, tangled up with Clark on the couch, with his warm, soft kisses still lingering on your lips, you realized the patriarchy could keep its arguments. Clark, his laugh echoing in your chest, his lips tasting like home and heat and everything dangerously perfect, was absolutely worth every single breadcrumb.

[sugugori]

look the other way

warnings/tags: 18+, dark themes, DUBCON/NONCON, woc!reader (south asian coded but yk), reporter!reader, jaded!reader, lovesick!Clark, delusional!Clark, obsessive behavior, manipulation, peer pressure, coercion, forced relationship, harassment, coworkers-to-whatever Clark wants, nice guy phenomenon except it's the coworkers perpetuating it, okay sorry Clark is actually a bit of a freak </3, some Lois x Reader implications if you squint, these tags are not exhaustive

wc: 8.5k (asdfj)

summary: You don't like Superman. You like Clark Kent even less. Clark, on the other hand, likes you a little more than he should.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!!

It’s almost humiliating to find yourself in Superman’s arms for the fourth time in as many weeks.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, grinning down at you. 

Ice crystals weigh down his lashes. He’s warm against you, suit damp as the ice melts atop of him. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, while he supports your weight. Having done this song and dance three times before, the embarrassment simmers underneath your skin now rather than be the raging boil it was the first time Superman lifted you into his arms. Next time, you might even enjoy the ride, you think wryly. 

You peek over his shoulder to see a piece of the building you were stranded in slough off into the waters below. The 5 o’clock news anchor’s voice already echoes in your ears, citing the millions, perhaps billions, of dollars of damage incurred today at the hands of the new mutant threat. 

If you get back early enough, you might be able to get a soundbite from one or two city council members before the day ends. 

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” you joke, refusing to look at anything other than his face. The first time you stole a look at the earth beneath you, you almost threw up.

His cheek dimples. The sight makes your heart skip a beat. “Somehow, trouble always seems to find you.” 

“Don’t I know it,” you say under your breath. 

If you were religious, you’d say it was a punishment. 

Before the release of Superman’s message from his Kryptonian parents and the subsequent fallout, you were a fan. He was your respite during a turbulent period of your life, a time where you questioned if people were cruel because it was easy or if they were cruel because it was demanded. 

He was so good, it helped to think despite the harshness the world can offer, Superman found something worthy in every being to be given the chance for salvation. It made your problems and tribulations seem minuscule in comparison. You took comfort in there being an all knowing being out there, willing to risk it all for humanity. 

After his first loss, a chasm of doubt you weren’t prepared for split you in two. The pile on that you now know came from Lex Luthor made way for criticisms of Superman you hadn’t let your mind wander to. It was strange. You had a defense for every critique thrown his way, and your admiration did not waver. You still admire Superman for all that he does and all that he represents. And yet, their words linger in your mind. All the what-ifs, all the things he had done because it was right that ended up hurting more people in the long run. 

Most of your life was spent being treated with unintentional cruelty. The lack of malice made it easier to detach yourself from its claws, but it did not change the marks left on you. 

You wonder if something similar can be said about good intentions with unintended consequences.  

“Now what does Superman have to say about the increased extraterrestrial activity these days?” 

At this, he laughs. He says your name, amused. “Are you asking me as yourself or as a representative of the Daily Planet?” 

“Myself, of course. Your favorite reporter is somewhere”—you point below—“around there.” 

He hums. “My favorite reporter?”

You squint at him. It is a known fact Clark Kent has a knack for finding Superman at the right place and right time. He would have been considered the luckiest man at the Daily Planet had Jimmy not existed. “Never took you as coy.” 

“And what do you take me as?” he asks, question weighted heavier than is warranted. 

He lands on the ground lightly. He’s chosen to take you to the back of the building bustling with other reporters and citizens. It’s an oddly private space. 

You flatten your lips into a line. Honesty is always the best policy when you’re off the clock. “A good man,” you say easily. 

For a too long second, Superman observes you. The corners of his mouth can’t help but tick upwards. 

“And good men can’t be coy?” he challenges playfully. 

Tilting your head, you give him a slow nod. “You got me there.”

Rolling up your sleeve, you check your watch. You have an hour at best to see if you can scrounge up some quotes worthy of being run in tomorrow’s paper. The magnitude of damage will be the focus rather than whatever the fuck is going on this time, so you mentally begin prepping yourself for the logistics hellscape you are about to enter. 

“Thanks for saving me. Again,” you say sheepishly. You start backing away towards the door. “It was good seeing you.” 

Shutupshutupshutup. 

He laughs, scuffing the ground with his boots. His hands go behind his back, and a few pieces of hair drop in front of his forehead. The ice has melted away whatever it is he uses to keep his hair in pristine condition, and you’re struck by how young Superman looks. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m always happy to help,” he grins. 

You match his grin, muscles stretching uncomfortably as you try to find the door handle behind you. 

He lingers. At first, you think he’s waiting for you to lead him to Clark until you turn and see his attention is focused solely on you. Expectation furrows his brow, and he waits patiently for you to speak. 

Except, you have nothing else to say. 

You push the door open, waving. “Same time next week?” you call over your shoulder with a wink. 

The awkwardly disappointed closed mouth smile he sends you off with reminds you of Clark, strangely enough. 

-

Perry sends you to gather intel with Clark.

Predictably, once the rest of the office catches wind of this, they make your life hell. 

“I always knew Perry was a softie,” Steve says, downing his cup of coffee. “He’s even setting up his star reporters, so they can create star reporter babies.”

The pen in your mouth nearly cracks with how forcefully you bite down onto it, but miraculously, the ink stays contained and your molars remain unharmed. You don’t bother giving him the satisfaction of an answer. 

Everyone knows about Clark’s little crush on you. He doesn’t seem to mind it being common knowledge, so you ignore it more often than not. Steve, however, cannot let it go for the life of him. Whether it’s that Clark is so unashamed in his affection for you or your consistent lack of acknowledgment of said affection that grinds his gears so deeply is anyone’s guess. 

“He’s looking out for the future generation of The Daily Planet,” Ron teases good-naturedly. He places a fresh cup of earl grey tea on your desk with a wink. “Only the best for the best.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter. 

A non-Steve related headache is brewing behind your forehead, so you’ll need all the comfort you can get before you head out with Clark. Perry hopes to see some concrete evidence of InfiTech’s underhanded funding of a new and upcoming manufacturing plant outside of the city before the end of the week. With the rumors circulating around InfiTech as a company and the suspicious timing of this manufacturing plant being built with no clarification for what exactly it will be used for, many fear another LuthorCorp situation.

Ron glances behind him before pulling his chair closer to your desk. “Steve has a point though,” he whispers. “You should put that poor boy out of his misery.” 

Betrayal sears you. Most of the office has decided you have no discernible reason to not at least give Clark a chance. He’s their sweetheart who elicits pity whenever his shoulders droop. You can’t exactly reject Clark in cold blood and move on. You thought Ron of all people understood where you were coming from. 

“I have,” you argue, voice equally as hushed. You’ve let Clark down as gently as you can without resorting to flat out telling him you don’t want to date him, now or in the future. He’s a good guy, you know this, but you can’t shake the anxiety that nooses around your lungs whenever you think of him. 

“Clearly not if Perry is having to send you two on a date,” he says, unimpressed. 

“Okay relax, he’s not sending us on a date,” you say. “And we’ll be working. It’ll be professional.”

“You and I both know that’s easier said than done.” 

Tossing the notes you were pretending to look over onto your desk, you lean forward. You spread your hands out. “What do you want me to do then?”

Ron sucks in his cheek. “Just go on one date with him.” 

“Oh, come on, man,” you sigh, turning back. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you guys would be good together,” he says in that singsong way that raises your blood pressure. “He’s a little awkward and super nice, and you’re”—Ron pushes his lips out and considers what to say next—“well, you.” 

Clicking your pen, you roll your eyes. “I think you should set him up with someone who’s more his speed then.” 

“I’ve tried.” Ron kisses his teeth meaningfully. “He’s a guy who knows what he wants.”

In hindsight, you should’ve let Lois take the lead on showing Clark the ropes when he first joined. You suspect Clark would have imprinted on her if she had been in your shoes instead. 

From behind, you hear someone say your name. 

Spinning around in your chair, you say, “Yes?” 

Clark stands with a bagel and a half-smile. “Morning.” 

“Morning,” you say, reflexively smiling back. You get up and push your chair forward, rolling over Ron’s foot. He yelps. You ignore him. “You’re here early.”

He presents you the bagel, perfectly warm. “I’m on time, though?” 

You make a noncommittal noise. Clark being on time is a rare occurrence. Hopefully you’ll be able to put it to good use today and finish off the day early. 

“I need to grab a couple of things and then I’ll be ready to go if you are?”

At his nod, you take a deep sip of your now lukewarm tea and grab your bag. 

You’ll need to let Lois and Lily know what leads you need followed up in your temporary absence. 

Taking a bite from the bagel, you head towards the other side of the office. With how hectic Lois sounded on the phone, you skipped breakfast to get in an extra hour before to help her finalize the layout of the article. You had almost asked Perry to swap Lois for Clark for today’s task, but the dark circles underneath her eyes had you biting back the request. No amount of coffee would keep her from falling into a sleepy slump come 2pm. 

“Do you guys have a minute?” you ask, splitting your bagel in half and handing it to Lois. 

“For you? Always,” she says through a mouthful of cream cheese. 

“Fantastic. I need you guys to call a couple of people. I’ve already sent some stuff to Lily this morning, so I should be good to go for everything needed for tomorrow. But you know, I have my phone on me and my laptop of course, so feel free to call me for anything.” 

You direct the last of your monologue to Lily. She’s been interning for four weeks and while she’s adjusted well to the workflow, she struggles with asking for help. What’s important to you is that she knows you’re available, no matter how small the matter seems. 

She disregards what you say and slumps over her desk, arms flopped over one another. “Ugh, he’s so boyfriend. I’m so jealous,” she whines. 

The piece of bagel you’re eating gets caught in your throat. Tears spring into your waterline at the sudden loss of air. You cough, covering your mouth. “Who?” 

“Clark,” Lily says as if it’s obvious. “He’s real sweet.”

“Yeah,” you agree. He is. Albeit to an almost detrimental degree. 

“He’s real sweet on you,” she continues, wiggling her eyebrows. 

You cut her an exasperated look. She’s right, but you will never add fuel to this particular fire. “If he’s sweet on me then he’s sweet on you.” Clark is a nice guy by default. A real southern gentleman if you had to label him. 

Lily smirks, shaking her head. “Not the way he is with you. I can feel the cavities forming every time I see Clark come within two feet of you,” she laughs. “It’s cute.”

“Super cute,” you say flatly. Checking your phone, you grimace at the time. It’ll be lunch before you know it and you haven’t quite prepared yourself for an hour of Clark’s undivided attention. Tucking your phone back into your pocket, you blow a kiss at the both of them. Lois catches it, while Lily flicks it away from herself, sticking out her tongue. “I’ll see you guys later.” 

Clark’s waiting by your desk. He has your purse over his shoulder along with his own bag. You shouldn’t find the sight endearing, but it earns a suppressed smile from you anyway. 

“Ready?” you ask. 

His cheeks dimple as he says, “Always.”

-

You shouldn’t have invited him inside.  

The water spills over the side of the cup as you carry it over to him. He’s seated on your couch, strangely stiff as he observes your living room. He thanks you when you hand him the water. 

“Thank you for walking me home,” you say, taking a seat. 

You resist the urge to lay down on your floor and stare up at the ceiling in despair. Today had been particularly horrendous. Given the situation with InfiTech’s power upheaval is a developing one, your usual sources were more tightlipped than normal. Clark wasn’t able to cajole much out of his sources either, and so the both of you ended the day right where you started: nothing.

He waves off your thanks, quickly swallowing his sip of water. “It’s the least I can do.” 

The least he can do is finish his water and go home, but you know that is not in the cards for tonight. He had been reluctant to let the day end, finding any and every excuse to linger. The offer to walk you home was expected at this point, but the request for a drink was a last ditch effort evidenced by his forced, and failing, nonchalance when asking. 

It turns out even you aren’t immune to Clark Kent’s puppy eyes. 

“I can order us dinner,” you offer, already pulling out your phone. “You’re a breakfast for dinner guy, right?” 

There’s a place down the street that made some of the best pancakes you think you’ve ever had. You’re willing to be proven wrong but so far in your quest for pancakes in Metropolis, Backstreet Cafe has been leagues ahead of anything you’ve tried. 

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his attention on you. You look up, thumbs poised to start creating an order. His eyes are nearly black with how blown out his pupils are. It’s a look you’re accustomed to, an age old desire most men have never been able to hide well. A shiver runs down your spine, and you straighten up.

“Um, yeah. I am.”

Wordlessly, you pass him your phone. 

He merely holds it. “I can pay,” he says, forehead crinkling with the strength of his frown. 

With anyone else, you would gladly take up their offer, but with Clark, you feel the need to tread carefully. Plastering on an easy smile, you prop your chin up and shake your head. “No worries. My treat.” 

A refusal sits at the tip of his tongue, but he pushes it down. Either he pushes to pay and irritates you or he places aside his own upbringing to allow you to pay for him. He’s a gentleman through and through, and you know this particular rock and a hard place is rankling his pride. “Okay.”  

You add your order, and then note to the delivery man to drop it off at the door. 

“Are you still fostering that dog?” you ask, locking your phone. 

He blinks at you before a sweet smile stretches across his mouth. “Not currently. But sometimes, he comes to visit.” 

“You must miss him.” 

He brings his hand up to lay against his lips and looks to the side. You crack up at how he actually seems conflicted.

“Come on, his behavioral issues couldn’t have been that bad,” you say, stretching out on your loveseat. 

And so, Clark regales to you the pain and suffering his cousin’s dog put him through the last time he was petsitting. You’re in the middle of laughing at how this dog nearly broke his bathtub when there is a knock at the door. Clark immediately clambers to his feet, face flushed and happiness radiating off him, and offers to grab the food. 

You go to the kitchen to refill his water and pour yourself a glass. Something must be wrong with you. Clark is so nice and so cute and yet, you can’t help the discomfort that perches itself on your shoulders whenever you spend any prolonged amount of time with him. 

It should be flattering to have Clark Kent of all people pursuing you, but all you feel is a sickening dread. 

You have no way of explaining it, the intensity he has when looking at you. How he watches your mouth, the way his own tongue flicks out when you reapply your lipgloss. How every morning without fail you will find him waiting for you, whether at your desk or more frequently, right as you cross the block before the building. He manages to perfectly time his lateness to yours and laugh it off as a coincidence. 

He has convinced every around you that he is entirely harmless, and you’re not sure you can argue against it. He is harmless. 

(He also makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise.)

“I don’t think I’ve ever tried this place,” he says, eyeing the bag as he walks into the kitchen. 

He’s unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves along with the first few buttons of his shirt. His glasses are askew, and he’s too distracted with unpacking the food to straighten them. 

He’s hunched over so you take a second to adjust his glasses. It’s instinctual, born of habit from fixing your own, and Clark goes still. You freeze as well, ring finger flush against the side of his frames. A dreamy sort of look greets you, his eyes hooded and dark, and you hurriedly say, “There.”

You busy yourself with tearing open the takeout containers. “I think they have the best pancakes in the city, so I hope you like them,” you say. The words blur together with how quickly you spit them out, but Clark gets the gist based on his quiet ‘hmm’. 

“Kitchen or living room?” he asks. 

“Your pick.” 

He leads you to the living room, fork held between his teeth. You take the seat furthest away from him in a smaller, more uncomfortable chair and shrug off his questioning stare. 

“Do you think if Jimmy had gone with us, we would’ve gotten at least something?” you muse. One thing about Jimmy is he will get the results needed but only when driven into a corner. 

“Probably.”

You knew you should’ve bribed him to come along. “Perry’s going to be on my neck,” you say, exhaling faintly. You’ll have to find something to placate him in the mean time, you suppose. 

“I’m sure he’ll be understanding,” Clark encourages. “He trusts you with the most important stories after all.” 

“Not all of them,” you say without thinking. The second that leaves your mouth, you know it was the wrong thought to let loose.

Guilt twists his mouth and you panic, readying yourself to explain to Clark that that is not what you meant to say but he beats you to it. 

“I can help get you an interview with Superman,” he blurts out.

The offer is so unexpected, you can’t control how your nose immediately wrinkles with aversion. Quickly, you school your expression into something more neutral, but the damage is already done. 

Clark looks mystified. His mouth hangs open, unsure on whether he should take the offer back or question your reaction. 

Fuck.

“You don’t like Superman.” 

“I didn’t say that,” you defend immediately. 

“Well, you didn’t not say that,” he says, equally as defensive. Something sharpened with betrayal flits across his face, but it’s gone before you can take a second look. “He’s a good guy. I think you’d like him.” 

“I like him just fine,” you protest. 

It isn’t a lie for the most part. You like him as much as is required. His position is so unique and specific that you don’t find it fair for you to hold him certain expectations. There have been plenty of decisions he’s made, shortsighted and farsighted alike, that you do not agree with, but you can understand how he came to his conclusion. His moral code is stringent and while a good thing, it has led him to hyper focus on what he believes is the right choice. Most times, you agree with him. But other times, you worry for the repercussions that will be felt by the people rather than the governments who cause such harm. 

“And it’s not that I haven’t had chances to interview him. I just think you do a great job at getting exactly what is needed from Superman when you interview him,” you say, picking at your food. Your appetite wanes. 

The world needs someone good to hinge their hopes for a better future upon. It wouldn’t do good for there to be news pieces dissecting his every move and word so they can wrongfully extrapolate from it. Clark captured what needed to be said from Superman in the way the people need in this delicately balanced world. 

His questions are admittedly soft, but that is what keeps Superman coming back to him. 

Clark flushes. “You think so?”

You nod, unwilling to repeat yourself in fear of Clark internalizing more than what you’ve actually said. “‘Sides, I think I’ve firmly cemented myself in Superman’s mind as a damsel in distress rather than a reporter.” 

It ate away at your pride. He remembered your name last time, a testament to how many times you found yourself saved by him due to unfortunate incidents involving the wrong time at the wrong place. 

“Six times now isn’t it?” he says thoughtfully. 

The reminder makes you groan. The last time, Superman teased he might have to start charging you airfare, and you thought Mr. Terrific was about to shove one of his T-Balls down his throat. 

Then you pause. “How do you know that?”

Clark shoves a bite of pancake in his mouth. “Superman and I talked about it last time,” he says once he has swallowed. 

You stab at your eggs. This is humiliating. Your misadventures are small talk worthy now. 

Clark tilts his head, curious. “Isn’t it good that Superman finds you memorable? You know, shows he cares about the people.” 

“I mean yeah, but I’m still embarrassed. I used to have the biggest crush on him, so I’d rather he remember me because I’m a great reporter an not this,” you complain, putting the back of your hand to your forehead. Crush is the easiest way to compartmentalize the strength of your previous ardor for him, but it still sounds silly coming from you of all people. 

Clark suddenly begins coughing. You go to get up and maybe smack his back, but he holds his hand up and shakes his head. It takes almost a minute for him to dislodge the food in his throat. His eyes are watery by the time he’s able to get a full breath in, and you hold out his glass, worry making you bite your cheek. 

“You okay?”

He nods, sipping the water. “Yeah. Wrong pipe,” he assures you, voice raspy. He clears his throat. “You have a crush on Superman?” 

“Had,” you correct automatically. “Kind of. It’s complicated.” 

His scrutinizing eyes make you feel as if he’s peeled you back to your core, as if he knows you so well so as to already discern what is about to come out of your mouth. “What can be complicated about liking someone?” 

He’s guileless in the way only Clark can be. It’s comforting to know he has not changed this way in the three years you have known him. 

“On the record or off the record?”  

Bemused curiosity furrows his brows. He must only stare at you for a minute or two but you feel each second stretch inside of you until it feels as if a year passes before he shakes it off.

“Off,” he decides, pitching his voice higher to match your earlier cajole. 

“It’s complicated, because he’s Superman.” 

Clark waits and when you offer nothing else, he implores you with his intensity alone. You don’t bite. 

“On the record then.”

You give him a practiced smile, placing your food on the coffee table to cross your leg over your opposite knee. “Superman is more than a man. He’s a representation of all the good a person can choose to be. Hope is synonymous with Superman. Can you really call it an infatuation if the man in question is akin to a god?”

You relax, dropping the smile. Reverence follows Superman no matter how he tries to burn out his own divinity. All Superman can offer is an altar, and you do not feel much like praying anymore. 

-

Something scratches at the edges of your conscious, a misstep you are overlooking. Somehow, you’ve given Clark the wrong impression and now, you are paying for it. 

“Oh, look it’s your boyfriend.”

Your head turns before you can think twice, and you see Clark walking into the conference room with Jimmy in tow. He’s been glued to your side since the moment you walked past the nearest coffee shop to the office, so you jumped at the chance to help Lily out before the lunch meeting started. Thankfully, Jimmy dragged him into a discussion about the upcoming sports column he was helping Steve on, and you were left alone for thirty blissful minutes. 

“I’m going to kill you,” you hiss under your breath. You shouldn’t have looked, because now Clark is waving you over. 

Lily snickers, stapling another stack of papers. “That’s not a denial,” she sings.

You have forgotten how insufferable twenty year olds can be.  

“Why would I deny something obviously not true?” you retort. 

Lily’s smile only grows larger as she intentionally looks behind you. 

“Morning guys,” Clark greets, pushing his hair back. 

He stands close enough to you for you to feel his body heat. There’s nowhere for you to go, and so you must bear him crowding you into the table. 

He should be too far to have heard Lily but by the pleased look on his face, he’s heard every word.

“Good morning, Clark,” Lily says saccharinely. She glances between the two of you, false sweetness slipping into something more probing. “I see you guys came in together. Again.” 

Clark brightens but before he give her an answer that will somehow incriminate you without trying, Perry calls for everyone’s attention. 

“I’ve brought lunch,” he announces unceremoniously. “Eat.” 

You all grab the lunch he’s provided and make your way back to the conference room. You evade Clark and place yourself between Lily and Lois. Your plan is to somehow wedge yourself next to Lois and whoever else you can corral into the other seat, but it quickly goes up in dust when Clark sits next to you. His thigh is pressed up against yours. 

He unwraps your sandwich before you can begin to pick at the foil and places it back on the plate in front of you. He then unwraps his own sandwich and starts eating. 

The eyes boring into you are not just from one person. 

“Come on, guys. We’re eating here,” Steve says, motioning towards his food. “Save it for the bedroom.” 

“Don’t take your dead bedroom out on them,” Ron says, bored. 

“It’s not dead!”

Perry snorts but doesn’t say anything. 

Sauce spills out of Steve’s burger as he clenches it. He takes a deep breath. And then another. And then tears into his food with the finesse of a child. 

“Okay. Anyway. What ever happened to that Hammer of Boravia dude?” Steve asks over a bite of his burger.

You and Lois exchange a repulsed side eye over your own lunches. 

“Considering what happened to Boravia…” Jimmy trails off. 

“He wasn’t from Boravia,” Lois cuts in, exasperated. 

“We don’t know where the guy that can kick Superman’s ass is?” 

Clark stiffens. “Superman was at a disadvantage during that fight, so it’s not really that the Hammer of Boravia can kick his ass—”

“He was one of Lex’s guys,” you say, interrupting Clark. You wince at him apologetically when his voice fades away. 

At a disadvantage or not, seeing Superman struggle as he did against the Hammer of Boravia was akin to realizing god is indeed fallible. It shook a core tenet you weren’t aware you held of Superman. Perhaps it was then you realized Superman was much closer to a human than he ever was to a god. And it frightened you. 

But that isn’t fair of you to be frightened, you think. Who are you to make a mere man a saint?

“He must be locked up somewhere while they figure out what to do with him.” 

“He definitely has to be in another pocket dimension,” Steve declares. 

“Didn’t they get rid of those?” Ron asks, mystified. 

Steve turns to him, scowling. “You actually believe the government when they say that, man?” 

The initial conversation devolves into a discussion on whether Lex Luthor’s code is still in use, and you tuck back into your lunch. 

Lois hooks her foot behind the foot of your chair and pulls you a tad closer to her. “So, the gala,” Lois starts, stealing a fry from your plate. 

You push the rest towards her. “Yes…?”

“Are you going?” 

“She’s going with me,” Clark says without looking up. He’s scratching something onto his notepad. 

Lois pauses mid-chew. She gives you a sideway glance before focusing back on Clark. “Really?” Doubt coats that singular word so thickly, you are thankful you are not on the other side of it. 

You turn to Clark, disbelief muddling your brain. “When did we—”

“Are you going, Lois?” Clark asks, pointedly ignoring your question. He places his hand on your knee as if it’s some sort of consolation.

Your brain resets. The fabric of your pants is sturdy and thick, but it does against the blistering heat of his hot hand against your skin. 

“I am,” she answers carefully. She aims her next comment at you, though her attention flickers to Clark for a brief second. Her expression is unreadable. “Dante was wondering if you were coming.” 

Shaking your leg, you try to dislodge Clark, but he’s stubborn and curls his fingers in. The ghost of a touch skims across the back of your knee, his pinky finger trailing over the sensitized skin. 

You jerk your chair back, the feet of the chair dragging against the cheap vinyl covered floors. An oily sort of dread snakes its way through your veins, skyrocketing your heart rate and making your palms clammy. 

Your knee throbs in the shape of Clark’s hand when his expression becomes stormy.

“Bathroom,” you say, voice carefully measured. 

Lois drops her napkin next to her plate and stands up as well. “I’ll go with you.” 

It’s a quiet walk to the bathroom. Your stomach churns, and you worry you might throw up what little you’ve been able to eat. The vague taste of bile burns at the back of your throat, and you blink back what feels like an impending panic attack. 

The door shuts behind you and Lois. She stands in front of it, her hands hidden behind her back. A myriad of emotions cross her face before confusion wins out.

“Are you and Clark—”

“No,” you shoot down immediately. 

Lois narrows her eyes at you. “I didn’t even finish my question.”

“You didn’t need to. I’ve been asked that like seven times already,” you grumble, chewing on your lip. 

After Clark had dinner at your place, he’s taken your lenience as permission. His encroachment was subtle and by the time you realized you were loosening the strict professional boundaries you had put into place little by little, Clark had already made a home past the boundary line. 

“So you just let anyone touch you like that?” she counters, crossing her arms over her chest. 

The blood drains from your face. Nausea crumples your stomach, and you avert your attention from Lois when saliva pools in your mouth. 

“No,” you say. Hurt overlays your initial panic at having been seen. A dull pain gnaws at your heart and sneaks in through the hole Lois has unknowingly dug into you. “But if I told him off, you know Steve would’ve said I was overreacting.” 

“Who cares?” she says incredulously. 

“I care,” you snap. “Ron told me just a week ago that I should go on a date with Clark. Clearly what I want doesn’t matter.”

You don’t think you are on the verge of tears until Lois pulls you into a hug. She murmurs an apology into your hair, smoothing a hand up and down your back until your breathing steadies. 

“It’s okay,” she soothes. “It’s okay, I promise.”

And though you know they are empty words, you latch onto them. It is not the first time you’ve found comfort in a lie. 

-

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Jimmy’s proud smile fades when your anger registers. 

“I thought you’d want him here…” 

“Why would I want Clark here if I asked you to come with me for this assignment, Jimmy?” you stress, holding your hands to your temples. 

Clark is across the street, backpack strapped to his shoulders rather than his usual satchel. His pants are ironed for once, and the shirt he’s chosen is nicely fitted. Maybe too nicely fitted given how his bicep strains underneath the fabric as he adjusts the straps of his backpack. 

You tear your gaze away and focus back on glaring at Jimmy. A tendril of tension based pain snakes its way up the back of your head to settle behind your right eye. 

“I figured you asked me to make it look less suspicious,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. 

You want to throttle him. “Why would it be suspicious for me to bring Clark? Again, I would’ve just asked him if I wanted him here,” you say with forced patience. 

A muscle ticks in his cheek. “Oh come on. I’m not stupid.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you ask, more than a little annoyed. 

Jimmy holds his hands up in feigned innocence. “Right, right. I forgot you guys were keeping it a secret. Conflict of interest or whatever.”

His knowing yet smug cadence has you giving him your undivided attention. “Keeping what secret?” you say sharply. 

He shoots you a funny look. “That you and Clark are dating?” The ‘duh’ is implied, but it reverberates in your head as if he had said it out loud. 

There’s a faint buzzing in your ears. A bloodless feeling seeps into your fingertips and spreads to the rest of your body. 

“What the hell. No, we are not.”

Jimmy groans, scrubbing at his face. “Clark already told me, so you don’t have to keep pretending. Which by the way, the two of you are godawful at pretending. You’re better than Clark but Jesus, learn to—”

“Geez Louise. There was such a long line at the—”

Clark cuts himself off. His head swings from you to Jimmy as he takes in the uncomfortable air that has erupted between the two of you. 

Jimmy mouths ‘sorry’ to him before fucking off to the bistro next door.

That apology should be yours. 

Tipping your chin up at Clark, you ask, “Why does Jimmy think we’re dating?”

It takes conscious effort for you to keep your voice steady despite the way your blood crashes through your veins. The back of your neck dampens as the heat in your body rises, and your resist wiping it away. 

“Because we are?”

He has the gall to tilt his head, expression slack. 

Tucking your lip underneath your teeth, you run through all of your options. None of them are pretty, and with the way your blood pressure is rising, you don’t think you are in the right space to make the right choice. You know what choice you want to make, but you cannot afford to be shortsighted in this. 

Clark shifts his weight, unsure as your silence lingers. You can’t calm down and the longer you stew, the worse it is getting for you. But you fear opening your mouth, so you physically bite your tongue until blood slips down the back of your throat. 

“I didn’t know—I didn’t know we were keeping it a secret,” Clark says miserably. 

The last strand of your patience snaps. “We aren’t keeping anything a secret,” you lash out. “We are coworkers, Clark. That’s it.” 

“You know that’s not true,” he says, a lick of irritation threading through his voice. One hand goes to rest on his hip while the other scrapes back his hair. “We’re together all the time. And everybody already thinks we’re together. And doing a very bad job at hiding it might I add.” 

His mouth is set in a stubborn line. It’s the first time you’ve seen him so frustrated, hurt bleeding through and distorting it in something pitiable. 

Your heart twists at the sight, and you know you are out of your depth. He’ll talk you in circles, because what matters is his version of events. 

Because at the end of the day, your permission was never in the equation. 

-

You call out of work for a week. 

Lois blows up your phone, but you can’t find it in yourself to reassure her that everything is okay. Everything is markedly not okay. 

You consider tendering your resignation to the Daily Planet. Then you get a grip. Unless you want to move out of Metropolis, you won’t find a better opportunity than the one you have currently. 

Reporting to HR won’t get you anything other than dirty looks and whispers. Telling your team will ensure you are on everyone’s bad side sans Lois if you’re lucky. After five days, you still have not come up with a solution that keeps you at the Daily Planet and away from Clark. 

It’s defeating to say the least.  

You’ve turned in early for the night. And not wanting to think about your next steps, you spent the last hour doing your laundry. Anyone who looks at you knows you are going through hell, and they steer clear much to your relief. 

Your key skids off of the lock at the relieved sound of your name from behind. It takes an extra second for you to unlock your door, but that’s all the time Clark needs to crowd you into your own apartment. 

Bewilderment filters through your fear. You’re stunned at how quickly he was able to go from the hallway and into your apartment. Your brain reels at his speed. 

“How did you—”

He immediately drags you into his arms. His heart pounds underneath your ear, increasing in speed when you look up at him. Somehow, he gets you to the living room while still in his arms, murmuring something soothing to you. 

There is too much happening for you to focus solely on how wrong this is. He shouldn’t be here. 

“I realized why you were so mad after talking to Jimmy. He said I should give you time, but”—he cups your cheeks with his hands, drinking you in with a relieved breath—“I was too worried about you.”

“You needed to talk to Jimmy to understand why I was mad?” you repeat flatly. 

“I can be impatient sometimes,” he admits shyly. “I shouldn’t have brought us up before you were ready to tell everyone.”

Fuck, he still didn’t get it. 

You try to push him away. “That’s not why I’m mad, you fucking—”

All at once his tongue is in your mouth. He’s sloppy and unpracticed, tongue scraping against your teeth. You freeze, unable to process the feel of his lips on yours. Dragging you to the couch with ease, he braces his knees on either side of you, urging you to kiss him back. 

Your wrists are held together by one of his hands while the other ventures downwards. You buck up your hips, desperate to shift his weight just so to push him off, but Clark only moans wetly into you when you brush up against his cock. 

Your stomach drops. He’s only half-hard, but he’s huge. 

Your mouth tastes salty. The slide of his lips against yours is wet, aided by the tears dripping from your clenched eyes.

Clark creeps his fingers lower, sliding underneath your shirt to lay his hand flat against your stomach. He’s trembling, you realize.

He breaks the kiss, flushed to his ears. He doesn’t even look winded, though his lips are swollen and red and slick with spit. Your heart pounds as you catch your breath, ears ringing. Every muscle in your body is tensed to a painful degree.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” he murmurs, dipping his head down again. “It’s just me.”

You move your head so his lips meet your cheek instead. He changes trajectory and trails his kisses down your throat. He nips at a sensitive spot below your ear and an aborted, soft noise escapes you. 

You feel his cock harden at the sound. 

“Clark, wait, please don’t,” you beg, sniffling. 

He softens. “You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, finding the clasp to your bra. He unhooks it after two tries and throws it behind him. 

He pushes your shirt up until its over your chest. Your heart flutters against his palm as he inches downwards, cupping you carefully. He thumbs your nipple, eyes growing steadily darker as he watches you bite your lip to stifle yourself. 

A reprimand seems to cross his thoughts before he discards it in favor of wrapping his mouth around your nipple. His mouth is hot, and he flattens his tongue against the hardening bud. 

You arch your back to try and dissuade him, but Clark pins you down, burying his face further into your chest. He kisses his way over to your other nipple, bringing his hand to tweak at your abandoned one. 

Warmth pools in your belly at his persistent attention. You gasp when he bites at the sensitize skin, leaving behind an imprint of his teeth. 

His grins against you, pressing a soothing kiss over the mark. It makes the coil in your belly tighten sharply.  

You can’t help the whine that leaves you when he tilts his hips into yours. There’s something building under your skin, making your blood feel strange—bubbly and itching to break the surface. 

You squirm, and Clark takes that as a signal to drag his hand towards your shorts. He strips you of them. The old elastic makes his job easy and leaves you bare in front of him. 

If Clark were anything but a gentleman, he’d comment on the lack of panties but the sight only makes him shudder. He hurries to unbuckle his pants and shuck them down along with his underwear. His cock springs up, slapping against his stomach. 

You swallow over the lump in your throat, fear anchoring itself in your chest. 

Clark looks unkempt, eyes wild and his hair mussed. You’ve never seen him like this before. You didn’t realize how much he has been holding back. 

“God, I like you so much,” he breathes, dropping back down to kiss you. 

His cock leaves a thin, shining trail as it drags against you. He settles between your legs, greedily licking into your mouth. He’s finally released your hands, but you find yourself using them to brace yourself rather than attempt to push him away. You know a losing battle when you see one. 

The sound that leaves him when you rest your arms around his neck is obscene and sends a wave of arousal pulsing in your belly. 

The slick slide of his fingertips against your clit startles the both of you. It makes you suck in a harsh breath, shocked at the heat brewing within you. 

“Shit,” he says, voice rough with desire. 

Clark slowly works a finger in, pushing a little further each time until he’s comfortably got one finger in you. Soon, he presses in a second one, your wetness making the glide easy. Instinctively, you clench down around them. Clark huffs out a breathy laugh, an adoring sound that worsens your fraying nerves. At least he’s trying to make this easy for you, you tell yourself and yet, this brings no comfort. 

“You’re so, so beautiful,” he says softly. “I’m so lucky.”  

He angles his thumb to rub gently at your clit, spreading your wetness. Your leg jerks, and Clark repeats the motion, this time sliding his fingers out and then back in. When you moan at a particular spot he hits, Clark does it again and again, until you’re a teary mess underneath. 

The tension in your belly threatens to snap and as if sensing that, Clark takes his fingers back. You clench around nothing, jaw going slack.  

He brings his slick fingers to his mouth and licks them off. 

“Clark,” you whine, rolling your hips. The pressure of your cunt against his cock soothes you but not enough to take the edge off. 

“I want you to cum around my cock,” he says, hitching the leg closest to the back of the couch up. His smile is smug, and you want to claw his eyes out right through his foggy lenses. 

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of your knee. He licks the salt off his lips, resting his cheek against your calf for a steadying second. 

At first, all you feel is pressure. The sting doesn’t register until Clark lets out a groan and sinks in deeper. His glasses hang on by a thread, and he shakes them off impatiently. 

It’s as if his features sharpen into focus. You can’t pinpoint exactly what has changed, but it distracts you. It distracts you, until Clark bottoms out. 

The air is knocked from your lungs once he’s flush against you.

“That hurts, you asshole!” you say through a gasp, tears springing to your eyes. 

At this, Clark looks remorseful. He peppers kisses all over your face, whispering apologies to your skin while he waits for you to adjust. He pulls out until he’s no longer skin to skin with you, jaw clenched as he resists from thrusting back into your welcoming heat. 

He rocks his hips gently, slowly inching his cock back into you when you relax. He’s looking at you with such unadulterated want, it’s making you wetter. 

Your arousal is curdled with something darker, less tangible. It spreads through your blood, infecting you until you’re dizzy with it.

Something in your face must let him know you’re ready because there’s a warm pressure as Clark thrusts his way back inside of you. He drops his head to your shoulder, a groan reverberating through him as you tighten around him. You scrape your teeth against the side this throat, hard enough to leave a mark. His cock twitches and suddenly, Clark sets a brutal pace. He makes sure you feel every inch of him as he fucks you, leaving you a babbling mess as his cock drags against your walls.

He takes one of your hands and brings it to his lips, licking your fingertips. Then he brings your hand down and guides you to touch yourself. He keeps his hand wrapped around yours, helping you circle your clit with the right amount of pressure. 

A ragged moan is forced from you. Your hips roll to meet his thrusts as he hikes your leg higher, allowing him in deeper. 

“Clark, please.” You beg for an entirely different reason now. 

Something shifts and Clark’s thrusts become pointed as if to drive home he’ll be all that you’ll know from now on. “Just a little more, baby,” he promises, purposefully timing his thrusts to keep you from falling over the edge. He slows, savoring the feel of you. “Tell me you love me.” 

The haze clouding your brain lifts for a moment. You struggle to focus, convinced your mind made that up in your pursuit of pleasure, but then you see him. He’s serious.

You try to tilt your hips upwards, to test his resolve, but Clark won’t let you. 

“Tell me you love me,” he repeats, grinding himself against you. He purposefully keeps his thrusts shallow, a tingle riding up your spine rather than a spark. 

You’re so worked up, your building pleasure not subsiding in the slightest as he does the bare minimum to keep the heat smoldering in your belly. You ache with how badly you want to get off. 

Clark is looking down at you with eyes too vulnerable for what he’s down to you, slowly sliding his cock along your opening. It does something terrible to you to see how much he wants you to say it. 

You place your hands on his cheek and draw him close to you. Your lips brush against his as you say, “I love you, Clark.” 

At your exhale, he kisses you, driving into you and fucking you without abandon. It doesn’t take long for that overwhelming pleasure to build to an inferno once again, robbing you of any sense other than the feel of Clark. His rhythm becomes uneven, but you don’t mind. You’re so close, Clark could brush his knuckles against your clit, and you’d come. 

Your mouth drops half-open and a whine is ripped from you when Clark does just that. You cry out when you come, burying the sound in his pulse. His hips stutter against yours, and then he finishes inside of you, warmth spilling out of you and mixing with the syrupy wetness already coating your thighs. 

Laughably, as your arousal is leeched from you and reality slips through the cracks, your mind wanders to Superman.

He’s more man than myth these days, a celestial being whose wings were shed rather than taken from him. But giving up godhood does not alter your roots. 

He’ll always be more than a man. And his steadfast effort to prove being a good person, a good man, is not skin deep has led you to this reckoning. 

Despite his good intentions, you were the one suffering the consequences. 

this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!

[sugugori]

I'm a loyal misser. I miss you everyday.

[sugugori]

✦ ˚ : · NUT ALLERGY · : ˚ ✦

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, blanket thrown over your shoulders like you were just cold, when in reality your whole body felt like it was on fire from the inside out. Your throat was tight, every swallow scraping and raw, your stomach turning like you had swallowed knives instead of food. You tried to steady your breathing, to keep it shallow enough that Jason wouldn’t notice the way you wheezed at the end of every exhale.

But Jason was right there, watching you from the other side of the couch, and you weren’t about to admit it. Not yet.

You crunched down on another ice cube and forced a grin, waving him off like you were fine. “Jay, I swear I’m good. Just… chewing ice, keeping cool. Helps.”

His eyes narrowed. Jason Todd could spot a lie a mile away, and you were terrible at covering one up when you were in actual pain. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice sharp but low. “What did you eat?”

You shrugged, trying to play it casual, trying to keep the wheeze out of your laugh. “Uh… food? Y’know, that stuff normal humans put in their mouths to survive.”

“Don’t play games with me.” His tone dropped lower, all the humor gone. “What. Did. You. Eat?”

You tried to smirk, though your lips were trembling. “Relax. It wasn’t nuts, I think... if that’s what you’re thinking. I would never put your beloved girlfriend in danger like that.” You paused, then added with a sly grin, “Unless you count when you put your nuts in my—”

“Doll.” His voice cut sharp as a whip, shutting you down instantly. His jaw ticked, and his hands were fisting against his knees like he was holding himself back from shaking sense into you. “It is not the time for your sex jokes. You are fucking dying.”

The way his voice cracked at the last word almost undid you. You laughed weakly, but it dissolved into a cough that left your throat raw and burning. You tried to wave him off again, though your hand was shaking. “C’mon, don’t be dramatic. I’m fine. Just a little… warm.” You tugged at the collar of your shirt, exposing accidentally the redness spreading up your chest.

Jason’s face went hard as stone. He reached over, pried the glass of ice out of your hand, and set it on the table like he couldn’t stand to watch you pretend anymore. “You’re flushed, your breathing’s ragged, your skin looks like it’s on fire. You’re not ‘fine.’ You’re in anaphylaxis.”

The word made your stomach twist worse than it already was. You shook your head quickly. “No, no, no. Don’t say it like that, it freaks me out. Just give me a minute, Jay. I’ll—”

“Bullshit.” He was already up, his shoulders were tense, his movements too controlled, like he was fighting panic under the surface. “Where’s your epi?”

The word made your heart lurch faster than the reaction itself. You shook your head, clutching the blanket tighter around yourself as if that could protect you. “No. I don’t need it. I fucking hate it. It— it freaks me out, Jay. I’ll ride it out.”

His eyes hardened, though his hands never stopped being careful when they touched you. “You’re not riding out anaphylaxis like it’s a goddamn cold. I’m not watching you suffocate because you’re scared of a needle.”

“Jason, please,” you whispered, throat tightening again, words breaking on a cough. “I’ll be okay, just… just stay here with me. No hospital. No epi. I promise I’m—” Your voice broke, breath catching as if the air had to fight its way in.

His patience snapped. He pulled the pen from the drawer where he always made sure you kept one, flipping the safety cap off with practiced ease. His voice was steady but sharp when he spoke. “I love you too damn much to lose you over this. You’re scared? Fine. Be scared. But I’d rather you be scared and alive than brave and not breathing.”

"Jason, wait!"

You scrambled to sit up straighter, panic flaring in your chest, not just from your throat closing, but from the sight of that pen in his hands. “No. Jason, I don’t want it. Please. I can do this without it, I've done it a hundred times.”

He turned on you, eyes blazing. “Without it? You think you can breathe without it? You think ice cubes are gonna unclog your airway?” His voice softened suddenly, but it was worse like that, like he was breaking. “I’m not letting you die in front of me because you’re scared. I don’t care how much you hate me for it later.”

You felt tears sting your eyes, not just from the reaction but from the sheer terror in his voice. “Jay…”

He crouched in front of you, pen in one hand, his free hand cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over your burning skin, so gentle it hurt. “Baby, look at me. It’s one second. One second, and then you’ll be breathing again. You can make all the dirty jokes you want once you’re not wheezing between words. But right now? You let me do this.”

You shook your head weakly, tears slipping free. “I don’t want it.”

“I know.” His forehead pressed against yours, his voice breaking just enough for you to hear it. “But I need you alive more than you need to be comfortable.”

You barely had time to protest before he pressed the injector into your thigh. The sting was sharp, but it was over in a blink, nothing compared to the rush of air that finally surged back into your lungs, nothing compared to the way your chest loosened enough that you could actually breathe again.

Jason tossed the used pen aside, pulling you into his lap, holding you tight enough that you could feel his pulse hammering against your cheek. He buried his face in your hair, muttering against you, “Scare me like that again and I swear I’ll— fuck, I don’t even know. But don’t. Don’t ever make me choose between your fear and your life again.”

You clung to him, still trembling, still feeling sick, but you managed a weak, breathless sigh. "I fucking hate you." Your voice was rough, still hoarse, but you tried to put some bite into it. “You’re bossy. You don’t listen. And you stabbed me with a giant needle.”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh, pressing his chin into your hair. “Yeah, well, you can hate me all you want as long as you’re breathing while you do it.”

masterlist a/n ☆ this is basically a self-insert, i have an awful nut allergy and i'm terrified of my own epi pen

[sugugori]

slow mornings ⋆˙⟡

the sun's up early, peeking through the sheer curtains hung in your bedroom. your eyes open slowly, blinking away the night and welcoming a new day. clark's already awake, contently watching you and drawing lazy circles on your hip. your leg is slung across his, hand resting on his bare chest. a yawn from you erupts the comfortable silence, and he chuckles.

"g'morning sweetheart." he smiles when you turn your head to look at him. his ocean blue eyes sparkle in the early morning sunlight. he notices your heart rate picks up from that slow, steady rhythm it has while you rest. "mornin' handsome..." you peck his cheek and smile as blush curls around his ears. you sit up to check the clock like you always do, 6:47 am, and groan aloud. clark reads your mind and immediately opens his mouth to reassure you. "it's saturday, hun."

a sigh of relief leaves you as you slump back into his arms. you feel a laugh rumble in his chest, and you nuzzle your head further into the crook of his neck. he hums in satisfaction as you begin planting soft kisses along his jawline. "sleep good?" you ask, muffled behind his skin. you smile at his little 'mhm' and reach up to run your fingers through his curls. slowly, his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you to sit on top of him. you shuffle, positioning your legs at his sides to get comfortable.

"hi, beautiful." he says, looking up at you with pure admiration. even with sleep in your eyes and messy bed head, you were still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. you felt butterflies in your stomach flutter, proof that somehow, he still made you feel as you did the day you met. "hi.." you said with a light chuckle, leaning down to place a loving kiss to his soft lips. he smiled into the kiss, placing his hands on your waist. you pulled away slowly, letting your body fall onto his.

as you got comfortable in your new position, he stroked your hair soothingly. you hummed in satisfaction, a non-verbal request for him to keep going. soon after, he heard soft snores and breaths emitting from you. with a light chuckle, he lifted his head from the pillow to softly kiss yours. laying back down, he decided it wasn't such a bad idea to get a few more hours of sleep in. so, as the city of metropolis slowly rose to its feet; streets busy, cafes full, there was the two of you. resting peacefully in your own quiet world, full of love.

a/n: thought of this yesterday morning and thought it was adorable. just had to write it! :3 hope u love it!! 💝 xo, lex

[sugugori]

Tolerate Clark, Ignore Superman

Pairing: Clark Kent x f!reader

You had been sharpening your red pen for him all week.

Not literally (though you wouldn’t put it past yourself) but figuratively, in the form of a carefully cultivated readiness to slice through whatever saccharine small-town fluff Clark Kent turned in next. You had a reputation in the Daily Planet newsroom: no patience for lazy writing, sloppy sourcing, or sentimental filler. Perry trusted you to be ruthless, and you prided yourself on earning that trust.

Then Clark Kent had walked into your office with your favorite coffee in hand.

Not the generic burnt swill from the break room, either. The real stuff, from that café halfway across town where the barista knew exactly how to foam the milk to your taste. And while you were still trying to process how he knew, he’d crouched down and fixed the computer issue you’d been cursing at for two days without even being asked. And then, before you could retreat into your armor, he’d paid for your lunch the next day. And walked you home the next evening, insisting the streets were “a little dodgy after dark.”

The man smiled like he didn’t have a clue what effect he had. As for you, you weren’t a monster. You couldn’t, in good conscience, shred him to ribbons when he was that sweet.

You still critiqued him, of course: concise, dry, objective notes. No sugar-coating, but no knives either. If anything, you suspected he appreciated it. Every time you handed him marked-up copy, he’d nod and thank you like you’d just given him a gift instead of homework.

The weeks went on like that. Clark hovering around the edges of your day like sunlight through an open window, warm and patient.

Then the monster attack happened.

One second you were making sure the front-page headline wasn’t in all caps (Perry loved all caps; you didn’t), and the next, the building shook hard enough to send your pen rolling off the desk. A voice, not human, roared from somewhere outside, the sound rattling in your ribs. Perry’s orders came fast and loud: Evacuate. Now.

The street outside was chaos. Glass rained down from a nearby building, and people screamed and surged toward safety. You stumbled over a fallen signpost, and before you could hit the ground, someone caught you.

Arms like steel wrapped around you, and the wind rushed past your ears before you realized you were flying.

Superman.

Up close, he was almost blinding, impossibly composed despite the carnage below, his blue eyes cutting through the panic like calm in human form. “You’re safe,” he said, voice low and steady.

He smiled at you, in a way that felt oddly…familiar. There was something in it that almost bordered on flirting, an ease, a softness you didn’t expect from the city’s invincible savior.

But you barely registered it.

“Where’s Clark?” you asked before he could say another word.

Superman blinked. “Clark?”

“He was in the newsroom. Did you see him?” You craned your neck, scanning the street below as if you might spot him through the smoke.

For the first time, you saw him thrown off-balance. People usually swooned over Superman: gasped, stammered, asked for autographs. But here you were, looking at him like he was just a cloud in the sky.

When your feet hit solid ground again, you barely thanked him before pushing past, calling Clark’s name.

You saw him after five minutes. Hair rumpled, tie askew, glasses slightly crooked as he jogged toward you through the dispersing crowd. He looked winded, adjusting his cuffs like he’d just sprinted for blocks.

You were on him in an instant. “Are you okay?” Your hands skimmed over his sleeves, his chest, his shoulders, checking for injury before you realized you were still touching him. Heat flared up your neck, and you pulled back, trying to look casual. “I mean...you’re fine? No broken bones?”

“I’m fine,” he said softly, and the smile he gave you could have lit the entire block if the power never came back.

Then, leaning down slightly, he added with a playful glint in his eye, “Were you worried about me?”

You blushed so hard you could feel it in your ears. “That’s not...I mean...”

He laughed, the sound so warm you almost forgot about the debris and sirens still wailing in the distance. And then, before you could catch your breath, he kissed you. Not once, but over and over, your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your mouth, like he couldn’t decide which part of you to love first.

When he finally pulled back, his expression was somewhere between dazed and delighted, like he’d just solved the greatest mystery in the world.

“You like me,” he murmured, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.

You couldn't find it in yourself to deny it.

You’d been dating Clark for a couple of months now, and if anyone asked, you’d say it was going alarmingly well. Alarmingly, because the man was…well, impossible. He cooked. He carried your groceries like they weighed nothing. He read your edits without defensiveness. And lately, Superman kept showing up wherever you happened to be, not in any “you’re in trouble” sense, but with that same easy charm Clark had.

If you thought about it too long, you’d notice Superman had started flirting with you. Lightly, in passing, a smile here, a comment there. Sometimes he’d compliment your scarf, or tell you he was glad to see you safe, in a tone that made you feel warm right down to your toes.

It was odd, but you figured it was just his way. Clark, meanwhile, never looked jealous. If anything, he always seemed faintly amused when you mentioned Superman.

The night before the morning you found out his secret identity started with champagne. And wine. And, ill-advisedly, whiskey.

You’d closed a big story, the kind Perry actually praised instead of grunting at, and your colleagues had insisted on celebrating. By the time you were standing on the curb outside the bar, squinting at your phone to remember your own address, you remember Clark calling you. After that…not much.

You woke to light like a knife and a desert in your mouth. Your skull throbbed. You rolled over, and stopped breathing.

Superman lay asleep on the other side of your bed.

Shirt gone, hair sleep-ruffled, one arm draped over the blanket like he’d been guarding you. A calm, gorgeous thunderstorm taking a nap in your apartment.

Your stomach fell through the mattress. “Oh my God,” you whispered, then louder, “Oh my God...”

You sat up so fast the world blackened at the edges. Panic punched through the hangover. Your brain stitched together the worst possible story: you’d gotten blackout drunk, done something catastrophic, and cheated on Clark with Superman. Did you stumble home and got yourself in danger and he had to save you? Tears hit before you could stop them: loud, helpless, ugly sobbing.

He jolted awake, blinking at you, squinting without…glasses. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Voice low, warm, unmistakably gentle.

“What’s wrong? Superman is in my bed!” you wailed. “I cheated on Clark! I don’t even remember it, I’m a terrible person...”

His face did the oddest thing: bafflement, then dawning horror, then a mortified wince. “Oh no. Oh, sweetheart, wait—hold on.” He patted around the nightstand like he’d lost his keys, found something, and slid it on in one smooth, desperate motion.

Glasses.

It was ridiculous how immediate the shift felt. The shoulders relaxed. The mouth softened into your favorite lopsided smile. Same man, different gravity. Slightly different face?

“Hi,” he said, sheepish and tender all at once. “It’s me.”

You hiccupped mid-sob. “…Clark?”

“Clark,” he promised. He scooted closer, palms up like he was approaching a spooked kitten. “You didn’t cheat on me. I brought you home, you face-planted, I made sure you were okay, and then...” He gestured vaguely to his bare chest. “I took my shirt off because you were overheated, but then you hogged all the blankets anyway, and I, uh, fell asleep. Without my…hypno-glasses.”

“Hypno-glasses,” you repeated, dumbfounded and dubious.

“They are very persuasive,” he said solemnly, which made a helpless, wet laugh escape you despite yourself. He took advantage and eased you gently against his chest, one hand rubbing steady circles between your shoulder blades. “I was going to tell you properly. I’ve been trying to ease you into the idea, you know, with the...”

“Flirting,” you said into his skin. “As Superman.”

He went still, then gave a guilty hum. “Lightly. I thought if it felt familiar, it might not be scary when I told you the truth.”

You pulled back enough to squint at him. “So the scarf compliments, the ‘glad you’re safe’ in that voice, the heroic hovering, all part of a rollout plan?”

“In my defense,” he said, ears going pink behind the frames, “I’m very bad at not flirting with you.”

For a long beat, you just looked at him. At the glasses. At the dopey, hopeful smile he couldn’t quite tamp down. Your throat squeezed, but this time it was with relief, not panic.

“I didn’t sleep with Superman,” you said, needing to hear it out loud.

“You slept next to me,” he said. “Your Clark. Always.”

Your eyes teared again, but the shaking had eased. “I woke up and thought I’d wrecked the best thing in my life.”

He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the salt at the corner of your eye. “You didn’t. I’m sorry I let you wake up scared.”

“You owe me breakfast,” you murmured, soft, sniffling. “And an explanation. And maybe a flowchart.”

“Already on it.” He slid off the bed with infuriatingly steady balance, found a T-shirt, and padded to the kitchen like he’d lived here for years. “Water first,” he called. “Then toast. Then flowchart.”

He returned with a glass and painkillers, propped you up on pillows, and held the water while you swallowed. He pressed a cool washcloth to your forehead, still fussing, still coddling, as if making up for every awful minute you’d panicked.

“Okay,” you said when the room stopped spinning. “Ground rules. No taking the hypno-glasses off in my bed until you’ve told me you’re about to take the hypno-glasses off.”

He grinned, unabashed. “Noted.”

“And you have to stop flirting with me as Superman if you’re going to keep pretending we’re strangers in public. It’s confusing.”

He winced. “Fair. I’ll…dial it back.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A little.”

“A little,” he agreed, instantly.

Silence stretched, warm and ridiculous. You studied him, the curl that never behaved, the nervous thumb smoothing the bridge of his frames, the affection he didn’t even try to hide.

“You’re not mad?” he asked, so quietly you felt it more than heard it.

“I was terrified,” you admitted. “Now I’m…shy.” Your cheeks heated. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to ignore Superman and swoon over Clark?”

His smile went incandescent. “Best news I’ve ever heard.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sound you made was very close to a fond little sigh. He leaned in, slow and careful, and kissed you like he was returning something precious you’d dropped, your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, peppering you until you laughed and shoved at his shoulder.

“Stop,” you said, not meaning it at all.

“Never,” he said, meaning it completely.

He tucked you under his arm, glasses on, heart steady under your cheek. In the soft, bright hush of your messy morning, you let the truth settle: there was no cheating, no disaster. Just your boyfriend, disastrously sweet, catastrophically earnest, and a little too good at saving you from everything, including your own spiraling mind.

“Clark?” you mumbled, eyes slipping closed again.

“Mm?”

“I really like you,” you said, shy but sure.

The dopey smile landed in his voice. “I know.” And he kissed your hair, once, twice, three times, like a promise.