#but superman is the first person to make contact

[super-shenanigans]

Billy Batson/Captain Marvel as the first Superhero

I think it would be really cool if Captain Marvel was the first superhero to start operating in the DC universe.

When he receives his powers at 7, he's supposed to be just protecting the Rock of Eternity and dealing with certain magic threats as the past Champions have, but he can't resist helping people so he also begins watching over Fawcett City.

He sticks to his city for the most part, but every once in a while he'll see a disaster on the news and go help. He's busy with being the Champion of Magic and a homeless kid so he never sticks around for interviews. He's something of a mystery to the world at large.

Five years after he becomes Captain Marvel, Batman and Superman come onto the scene. Superman actually seeks Marvel out for advice when he's getting started. (I love the idea of Captain Marvel being an inspiration for Superman in this universe.)

Eventually when the Justice League forms they invite Captain Marvel to join. He asks for a rain check but gives them a magic mirror to contact him with. He helps them out occasionally and is something of a mentor/advisor to them.

When Robin comes on the scene the League is surprised that Marvel doesn't get upset and Batman. Marvel does however pull him aside and talk to him about the importance of balancing his roles as a mentor and family to the kid.

"He needs to know that being loved and having a home doesn't hinge on how he does as a hero," He tells Batman firmly. "Or if he even chooses to stay a hero."

In this universe Dick and Bruce end up having a better relationship.

He makes sure Robin and then each of the other young heroes that rise up in his wake have an emergency summoning charm for him. The younger heroes view him an honorary grandfather of sorts. They often go to him for advice, especially if they are having a problem with their mentors, since he seems to just get it.

No one's quite sure how old he is. He doesn't visibly age. When asked about depictions of the previous Champions he tells the other heroes that they are and aren't him. (As Marvel Billy has all the memories of the past Champions, but it doesn't quite carry over to his mortal form). When other heroes invite him to share a beer he says he's not old enough. They think he's joking or perhaps that it hasn't been 21 years since he formed (They figure he's weird enough to count it that way).

I'm torn between having him aging normally as Billy and the League not finding out until he's legally and adult or some sort of shenanigans happening in Fawcett resulting in time being messed up there so he's forever 7 (or his age shifts around but he's always a kid.) Both possibilities are interesting.

Either way I love the idea that he's not really hiding the fact that he's a kid from them, he just doesn't view it as relevant. All remarks that he makes that could reveal him as a kid tend to get dismissed as him being a magical being created by the gods or just his odd personality. Bruce hasn't looked for Marvel's secret id because he thinks he doesn't have one. This misunderstanding comes from him taking the League to the Rock of Eternity one time. He has a nice little living area set up where he hangs out sometimes. (Not too often though because time at the Rock of Eternity is weird.) They all just assume he lives there.

[reveryfics]

The Perfect Pair

Guy Gardner x Male Reader

Summary: Having been away from Earth assisting other Lanterns during the chaotic Superman and Lex Luthor debacle, Guy Gardner was completely blindsided when you showed up unannounced at his favorite diner.

A/N: Love that people are down for some domestic old man yaoi with Guy. My all time favorite Lantern even if he's a natural disaster waiting to happen. This was so fun to write. Guy is also roughly around 39-40ish as of present day so, reader is also late 30s to early 40s and a Green Lantern.

TW: Fluff - Domestic Fluff - Husbands - Older reader - Green Lantern reader

Words: 5.3k

You had always believed that donning the emerald ring and dedicating your life to intergalactic policing as a Green Lantern would be the ultimate test of your resolve. You'd faced down cosmic threats, stared into the abyss of black holes, and navigated diplomatic quagmires that would make lesser beings weep. But you were wrong. Utterly, irrevocably wrong. The true, insurmountable challenge of your existence wasn't battling space tyrants; it was being married to Guy Gardner, the walking, talking, insufferable personification of an egotistical man-child.

It was never part of the grand cosmic plan, not even a fleeting thought when you first crossed paths with him during your awkward, bright-eyed days as new recruits to the Green Lantern Corps. Guy, from the very beginning, was everything you weren't. You sometimes suspected he was forged from pure, unadulterated spite, a living affront to the tranquility of the universe. He hadn't even liked you back then; he made that abundantly clear with every sneer, every dismissive wave, every snarky comment designed to not only showcase his disdain but to also firmly establish his perceived superiority.

And yet, despite the more-than-rocky start, despite the constant verbal sparring and the clash of your diametrically opposed personalities, something began to shift. Imperceptibly at first, then with an undeniable clarity. Guy, much to your bewildered surprise, started to like you. And, even more astonishingly, you found yourself liking him back. You became his personal impulse control, the silent, steady anchor that kept his often-explosive personality from veering completely off the rails. He slowly, painstakingly, transformed from a caricature of an egotistical man-child into someone you could actually tolerate, mainly because he became someone who positively doted on you. He was fiercely loyal, always by your side, and perhaps most importantly, Guy loved you. He also possessed the unsettling awareness that, if given sufficient provocation, you could be ten times worse than him, a fact that probably contributed to his newfound, albeit fragile, tolerance when you were in his orbit.

Your presence, your steadying influence, was always a given. An expected constant. Until it wasn't. You were off-world, lending your considerable talents to a fellow Lantern Corps, engaged in a highly sensitive diplomatic mission that required your unique blend of tact and unwavering resolve. Meanwhile, back on Earth, Guy was left to his own devices leading the Justice Gang during the chaotic fallout of Lex Luthor's latest anti-Superman machinations. It was as if a crucial component had been removed, a switch had been flipped. Without you, his husband and, more importantly, his impulse control, nowhere to be found, Guy reverted to his most obnoxious self. And what made it worse was that neither Hawkgirl nor Mr. Terrific, his reluctant teammates knew how to contact you, or the fact that the perpetually arrogant Guy Gardner would transform into an absolute mess when they saw you.

That's why, when the three of them walked into Guy's favorite greasy spoon diner, a place he frequented for its questionable chili dogs and lukewarm coffee, and he happened to glance over, his eyes locking onto your familiar figure sitting casually at a booth – a figure he had assumed was still light-years away – it nearly gave him a heart attack.

A profound, sickening certainty washed over Guy: he was no match for you. He knew, with an almost religious conviction, that if you found out what an unmitigated douchebag he'd been while you were gone, well, he'd be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future. And your beloved Great Dane, Ace, would undoubtedly be luxuriating on his side of the bed, probably with a smug, knowing look on his furry face.

Guy froze mid-step, the scent of stale fries and cheap coffee suddenly assaulting his nostrils. His eyes were wide, unblinking, fixated on the back of your head, which was perfectly framed by the greasy diner window. He was a statue, a man carved from sheer, unadulterated panic, silently, fervently praying that you hadn't noticed him, hadn't somehow sensed the subtle hum of his power ring so close by. His usually boisterous aura had retracted, his typical swagger replaced by a deer-in-headlights stillness that was so un-Guy-like it caught Hawkgirl’s immediate attention.

"You planning on boring a hole through the back of his head with that stare, Gardner?" she drawled, her voice a low, sarcastic rumble that cut through the diner's din. She nudged him with her elbow, a question in her gaze.

Guy jumped, startled, his shoulders hunching. "W-wha— I— No! I just… I… uh…" The words stumbled out, a pathetic, stammering mess, a complete and utter deviation from his usual smooth, arrogant bravado. Mr. Terrific raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise on his usually impassive face. This was a side of Guy they had never, ever witnessed.

Hawkgirl, ever perceptive, followed Guy's rigid gaze. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, landed on your form, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips. "Well, well, well," she murmured, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Without another word, she started to walk, her heavy mace clanking softly against her side, directly towards your booth.

"NO! HAWKGIRL, DON'T! PLEASE!" Guy hissed, his voice a frantic whisper of desperation. He lunged forward, a hand outstretched, trying to grab her arm, but it was too late. She was already halfway there, a triumphant smirk on her face. The gig was clearly up.

"Hey, handsome!" Hawkgirl's voice, usually a no-nonsense declaration, was laced with an almost saccharine sweetness that made Guy flinch. You looked up from your coffee, a soft smile gracing your lips. Your eyes widened slightly as they landed on Hawkgirl, then shifted past her to the pale, mortified face of your husband.

"Shayera!" you exclaimed, genuine delight in your tone as you stood to greet her. "What a surprise! I thought you were still dealing with the, uh, Lex Luthor situation." You hugged her briefly, a warm, easy familiarity between you. It was then that Guy shuffled into view, looking like a guilty schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Oh," you said, your voice dropping by an almost imperceptible notch. Your smile, though still present, seemed to hold a new, sharper edge. You crossed your arms, leaning against the booth table. "And look who it is. My dear husband. Fancy meeting you here."

Guy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He tried to muster his usual cocky grin, but it looked more like a pained grimace. "H-honey! What are you doing here? I thought you were… you know… off-world." He gestured vaguely with his hands, as if trying to physically push the topic of your absence away.

You raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge in your gaze. "My mission wrapped up earlier than expected. And since I was in the neighborhood, I figured I'd swing by. Catch up on things." Your eyes flickered to Hawkgirl, then to a stoic Mr. Terrific, who was now leaning against a nearby counter, subtly observing the unfolding domestic drama with an almost clinical interest. "So, how have things been going? Keeping the 'Justice Gang' in line, are we?" The last part was aimed directly at Guy, the sarcasm thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

Guy visibly wilted. He knew that tone. It was the tone you used just before you dropped the hammer. "G-great! Everything's been great, sweetie! Smooth sailing! Just… uh… typical earth shenanigans, you know? Nothing I couldn't handle." He even puffed out his chest a little, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of his usual swagger, but it just made him look more ridiculous.

Hawkgirl, bless her mischievous heart, cleared her throat. "Actually, he has been handling things," she began, a twinkle in her eye. Guy shot her a pleading look, which she completely ignored. "Though I wouldn't exactly call it 'smooth sailing.' More like a category five hurricane with a side of gratuitous property damage and several international incidents."

Guy let out a strangled groan. "Shayera!"

You simply watched, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across your face. "Is that so, Guy?" Your voice was deceptively soft, yet it sent a shiver down Guy's spine. "Care to elaborate on these 'international incidents'?"

He started to sweat. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. "No! No, nothing! She's just kidding! You know Hawkgirl, always exaggerating! Just a little… misunderstanding with a few… uh… national monuments. Nothing serious!"

Mr. Terrific, ever the impartial observer, stepped forward slightly. "To be precise, Guy caused approximately $1.2 billion in structural damage to the Colosseum in Rome, inadvertently provoked a diplomatic incident with the sovereign nation of Atlantis, and, on two separate occasions, was directly responsible for a major power outage across the eastern seaboard after misinterpreting a power conduit as 'a really big light switch.'"

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the gentle clinking of silverware from other diners. Your smile had vanished, replaced by a look that promised untold suffering. Guy looked from Mr. Terrific to Hawkgirl, then back to you, his eyes wide with impending doom. He could practically feel Ace, your majestic Great Dane, already claiming his side of the bed.

"Guy Gardner," you said, your voice a low, dangerous rumble that sent shivers down his spine. "You have got to be kidding me."

Guy knew, with a profound and terrifying certainty, that he was sleeping on the couch tonight. And possibly for the rest of his life.

The diner, usually a cacophony of clattering plates and cheerful chatter, seemed to hold its breath. Every eye, or so it felt to Guy, was now on their table. He could feel the judgment radiating from the cashier, the cooks, even the elderly couple in the corner who were now openly staring. This was it. The end of days, Guy Gardner style.

"Honey, wait! Let me explain!" Guy stammered, raising his hands in a placating gesture, as if he could somehow defuse the impending explosion with sheer desperation. "It wasn't… it wasn't my fault exactly! The Colosseum had a really… really tempting structural integrity! And those Atlanteans are just so sensitive about their, you know, sovereignty! And the power grid thing? That was a total accident! I just thought it was a giant, really fancy light switch for the whole city! Who designs something like that?"

You slowly, deliberately, picked up a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table. You tore it open with meticulous precision, letting the fine white granules trickle onto the tabletop like falling snow. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific remained perfectly still, watching the scene unfold like a particularly riveting documentary.

"So," you began, your voice still dangerously calm, "you're telling me that in my absence, my husband, the Green Lantern Guy Gardner, managed to alienate an entire undersea nation, damage one of Earth's most iconic historical landmarks, and plunge half the eastern seaboard into darkness… because of a 'misunderstanding' with a 'light switch'?" Your eyes, now cold and unwavering, locked onto his. "And you expected me not to find out?"

Guy deflated. All the bluster, all the bravado, simply evaporated. He looked like a wet cat. "I… I thought… I thought you'd be gone longer," he mumbled, his gaze dropping to his shoes. "I thought I'd have time to fix it. To… to sweep it under the rug. You know, make it all go away before you got back."

A low, humorless chuckle escaped your lips. "Sweep it under the rug, Guy? Did you think I wouldn't notice a billion-dollar hole in a Roman ruin? Or an international incident with Atlantis? Or that the entire East Coast was without power for three days?" You leaned forward, placing your hands flat on the table. "Do you have any idea how much paperwork that is going to be for everyone? For me? I spent three weeks mediating a peace treaty between two warring alien races, and you manage to start three global crises in less time than it takes to get a pizza delivered!"

Guy's shoulders slumped. He knew he was caught. He knew there was no escape. He could almost feel the phantom weight of Ace's head on his pillow, a silent indictment of his colossal screw-up.

"Look," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "I know I messed up. Big time. And I really, really missed you. Things just… they just kinda went off the rails without you. You’re my… my anchor, you know?" He finally looked up, his usually defiant eyes now filled with a genuine, albeit pathetic, plea. "I swear, if you just give me one more chance, I can make it up to you. I’ll do anything. Anything at all."

You stared at him for a long moment, the anger simmering, but beneath it, a flicker of something else. Despite everything, despite his monumental screw-ups, the man was utterly lost without you. It was both infuriating and, in a twisted way, endearing.

You finally sighed, a long, weary sound. "Anything, Guy? Are you sure about that?"

His head shot up. "Yes! Absolutely! Name it!"

"Good," you said, pushing yourself away from the table. "Because first, you're going to apologize, properly, to Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific for putting up with your nonsense. Then, you're going to call and apologize for the Colosseum. Then, you're going to call Arthur and grovel for the Atlantis situation. And then, you're going to spend the next two weeks on desk duty, filling out every single incident report for every single one of your 'misunderstandings.'" You paused, a dangerous glint entering your eye. "And finally, Guy, you're going to sleep on the couch. For a month."

Guy's face crumpled. "A month?!" he wailed, looking genuinely horrified. "But… but Ace needs his spot! And it's so… lumpy!"

You crossed your arms, a single eyebrow arching in a silent, unwavering response to Guy's whiny protest about the couch. The look on your face made it clear there was no room for negotiation. Ace, you knew, would revel in the extra space.

"It's a month, Guy. And it's non-negotiable," you stated, your voice firm, brooking no argument. You then turned your gaze to Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific, a wry, almost apologetic smile touching your lips. "My apologies, you two, for having to witness... that." You gestured vaguely at Guy, who was now pouting like a petulant child. "And thank you both for, apparently, keeping him from burning down the entire planet in my absence. Though it seems he came dangerously close."

Mr. Terrific, who had maintained a remarkably stoic demeanor throughout Guy's public meltdown, finally allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible chuckle. Hawkgirl, however, threw her head back and let out a booming laugh that echoed through the diner, drawing even more stares. It was a rich, hearty sound, full of a mixture of relief, amusement, and a healthy dose of schadenfreude.

"Don't mention it," Hawkgirl gasped between laughs, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "Honestly, I haven't been this entertained since the time Booster Gold tried to get a sponsorship deal from a sentient garbage disposal unit." She clapped Guy on the shoulder, a little too hard, making him wince. "Seriously, though, it's just good to see you back. The change in him is… remarkable." She punctuated her statement with another burst of laughter, thoroughly enjoying Guy's misery.

Mr. Terrific, ever the analytical one, adjusted his T-spheres, which hovered silently around his head. "Indeed. The statistical probability of Guy Gardner exhibiting such a rapid and profound shift in behavior, from abrasive arrogance to… well, whiny but undeniably more tolerable, simply due to the proximity of another individual, is quite extraordinary. It rather undermines several long-held theories regarding personality constants." He offered a small, knowing nod in your direction, a subtle acknowledgment of your unique influence. "Frankly, it's a fascinating case study."

Guy, watching the two of them, felt a fresh wave of mortification wash over him. He wasn't just being called out, he was being analyzed like a specimen under a microscope. And they were laughing at him. Openly. The very thought usually would have sparked an immediate, aggressive retort, probably involving his ring and a crude construct of a giant middle finger. But not now. Not with you here.

He let out a defeated sigh, actually running a hand through his hair. His shoulders slumped further. "Alright, alright, I get it," he grumbled, looking genuinely chastened. He turned to Hawkgirl, his expression oddly sincere. "Look, Shayera… I know I've been… a lot. More than usual. And I really do appreciate you and Michael looking out for things. And me. Even when I was being… well, me." He winced, clearly struggling to admit fault. "So, uh… thanks. And I'm sorry for being such a colossal pain in the ass."

Then, he turned to Mr. Terrific, a frown still etched on his face. "And Michael, yeah, I know I made your life a living hell with all the technical screw-ups. And the Atlantean thing. So, uh… my bad. Really."

Both Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific looked genuinely surprised by the uncharacteristic apology. It was so out of character for Guy that it almost seemed like a trick. But the genuine distress in his eyes, the way he was stubbornly avoiding looking at you, confirmed its authenticity.

You, however, had decided to make a quick trip to the counter for a refill of your coffee, giving them a moment. When you returned, Guy watched with a sinking heart as Hawkgirl had casually slid into your recently vacated seat at the booth, sprawling out with a contented sigh, while Mr. Terrific had taken the opposite side, already pulling out a tablet from his T-spheres. They looked entirely too comfortable, completely at ease in your spot, the one that anchored Guy's entire existence.

A fresh wave of panic, mixed with a healthy dose of indignity, washed over Guy. He stood there, hovering awkwardly over the table, a frown deepening on his face. He was the one who was supposed to be in that booth, next to you, with these two intruders banished to a separate table or, preferably, a different galaxy.

"Hey!" he blurted out, a flicker of his usual brashness returning, but quickly dying down under your steady gaze. "That's… that's our spot! My spot, specifically!"

Hawkgirl merely raised an eyebrow, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. "Too slow, Gardner. Finders keepers. Besides," she patted the worn diner booth cushion, "this one smells much less like existential dread and stale chili dogs when you're not in it."

Guy's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He shot a desperate glance at you, clearly expecting you to intervene, to reclaim his rightful place. But you simply took a sip of your coffee, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.

"Looks like you'll have to stand, honey," you said, your voice dripping with sweet, subtle triumph. "Or perhaps you can find a nice, comfortable stool by the counter. You know, since you're so good at standing your ground."

Guy groaned, a long, drawn-out sound of utter defeat. He was well and truly beaten. For now.

Later that night, the apartment was quiet save for the soft hum of the city outside and the gentle clinking of hangers in the bedroom closet. You moved with a practiced ease, pulling on a comfortable pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt, the day's events, particularly Guy's public humiliation, still fresh in your mind. A small smile played on your lips as you recalled his utterly crestfallen face when Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific had claimed your usual diner seats.

You padded into the en-suite bathroom, the warm glow of the vanity lights illuminating the familiar space. Guy was already there, leaning against the counter, a toothbrush held limply in his hand like a foreign object. He was still in his civilian clothes, his usually vibrant green t-shirt looking a bit rumpled, and his hair, somehow, seemed even worse with his visible agitation. His lower lip was pushed out in an epic pout, and his eyes, usually so full of fire, were narrowed in a glare directed squarely at the toothbrush. He was clearly still sulking.

"You going to brush your teeth, or are you just planning to have a staring contest with that poor toothbrush, Guy?" you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice as you reached for your own.

He flinched, as if startled by your voice, despite having been standing there for at least five minutes. "It's not just the toothbrush," he grumbled, his voice muffled. "It's the principle of the thing. A whole month! On the couch! And Ace is gonna be sleeping on my side of the bed, I just know it. He's probably already sniffing it out, marking his territory." He sighed dramatically, a sound that could rival a dying star. "It's just… so unfair."

You squeezed toothpaste onto your brush, watching him in the mirror. "Unfair? Guy, you nearly started World War Three and damaged a historical monument that's older than most civilizations. I'd say a month on the couch is getting off easy, considering the alternative could have been a court-martial by the Guardians." You started to brush your teeth, the rhythmic motion a stark contrast to his dramatic stillness.

He finally brought the toothbrush to his mouth, but barely moved it, still staring at his reflection with profound dissatisfaction. "Yeah, but… it's the couch. It's lumpy, and the springs dig into my back, and the TV remote always falls down the side. And what if Ace snores louder when he's on my side?" He turned to face you directly, his expression a comical mix of indignation and genuine woe. "You know how sensitive my sleep is!"

You rinsed your mouth, shaking your head slowly. "Your 'sensitive sleep' didn't stop you from causing a city-wide blackout, did it?" You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, the faint scent of mint filling the air. "Look, Guy. You messed up. Big time. And you need to face the consequences. A month on the couch is a pretty gentle reminder that actions have repercussions, even for a hotshot Green Lantern like you."

He finally started brushing, albeit half-heartedly, the bristles barely making contact with his teeth. "I know, I know," he mumbled, a whine creeping into his voice. "And I really am sorry. About the Colosseum, and Atlantis, and the power grid. And… and about being such an idiot in front of Shayera and Michael." He paused, looking genuinely contrite. "They think I'm a complete buffoon, don't they?"

You considered this for a moment. "They think you're... uniquely challenging," you admitted. "But they also saw you genuinely apologize, which, for them, was probably more shocking than seeing you turn into a giant T-Rex." You walked over to him, reaching out to gently wipe a smudge of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. "And they saw how lost you were without me."

His eyes met yours in the mirror, and for a fleeting moment, the petulance vanished, replaced by a raw vulnerability. "I was lost," he confessed, his voice softer, devoid of its usual bluster. "Things just… they spiral, you know? Without you there, it’s like there’s no… no filter. No off-switch. I just… act. And then I realize I've gone too far. And then I miss you so much I feel like my chest is going to explode." He put down his toothbrush, reaching for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. "You really are my impulse control. My conscience. My… everything."

He squeezed your hand, his gaze intense. "So, yeah, the couch sucks. And Ace is probably going to hog the bed. But… as long as you're here, it's… it's okay. I can deal with it. Even if I whine about it constantly." A hint of his usual smirk tried to re-emerge, but it was quickly overshadowed by a genuine earnestness. "Just… don't leave me alone for that long again, okay? The universe might not survive it."

You smiled, a true, warm smile that reached your eyes. Despite his endless antics, his colossal ego, and his infuriating ability to cause chaos wherever he went, Guy Gardner, your insufferable man-child of a husband, truly did love you. And in that quiet moment, in the soft glow of the bathroom lights, with the faint smell of mint in the air, you knew that, even with the lumpy couch and the potential for galactic disaster, you wouldn't have him any other way.

You sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that was a mix of exasperation and something akin to reluctant fondness. You reached up, patting Guy's chest gently. His confession, his genuine admission of how much he relied on you, had chipped away at your resolve. You knew, deep down, that a month on the couch would be more punishment for you—listening to his incessant whining and finding him constantly trying to sneak back into bed—than it would be for him. Besides, Ace would probably get too comfortable on Guy's side, and that was just a nightmare waiting to happen.

"Alright, alright, you big baby," you conceded, a small smile playing on your lips. "Fine. You can sleep in the bed."

Guy's face, which had been a picture of abject misery just moments before, instantly lit up. It was a transformation so profound, so immediate, it was like someone had flipped a switch. His eyes widened, sparking with an almost childlike joy, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a truly radiant grin. He looked precisely like a kid who'd just been told he could have the entire candy store.

"Really?!" he practically yelped, his voice cracking with disbelief and delight. "You mean it? No couch? No lumpy springs? Ace isn't going to be on my side of the bed?"

"Yes, really," you confirmed, trying to maintain some semblance of sternness, though it was rapidly crumbling. "But you have to promise me, Guy. No more 'misunderstandings' with national monuments. No more accidental international incidents. No more 'light switch' power outages. You keep your nose clean, you follow the rules, and you try, really try, to not be a menace to society for at least… say, the next month."

"I promise! I swear it on my power ring, on my lucky socks, on everything I hold dear!" Guy declared, his grin impossibly wide. Before you could even blink, he lunged, peppering your face with a rapid-fire assault of kisses. His lips met your cheek, your forehead, your nose, each kiss accompanied by an enthusiastic "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Guy! Stop! I'm still trying to process this!" you laughed, trying to pull away from his exuberant embrace, but he held you fast. He smelled faintly of toothpaste and his own uniquely Guy-ish scent, a blend of power ring energy and questionable cologne.

"Best husband ever! Smartest husband! Handsomeist husband!" he chanted between kisses, his arms tightening around you. He buried his face in your neck, letting out a contented sigh that vibrated against your skin. "You won't regret this! I'm going to be the best-behaved Green Lantern you've ever seen! No more chaos! Only… manageable chaos! Just for you!"

You finally managed to push him back enough to look him in the eye, a lingering warmth spreading through you despite your mock exasperation. "Just try not to get any brilliant ideas involving ancient artifacts or global power grids, alright, hotshot?" you warned, though your tone had softened considerably.

He gave you a huge, goofy grin. "My ideas are always brilliant! Now, let's go to bed, before Ace takes my spot and I have to fight him for it!" He practically dragged you out of the bathroom, his earlier sulk completely forgotten, replaced by an infectious, almost manic joy.

You were already nestled under the covers, the soft lamplight casting a warm glow across the room, when Guy practically bounced into bed. His earlier gloom was utterly banished, replaced by an almost effervescent cheerfulness that was both endearing and, at times, exhausting. He flopped down on his side, immediately burrowing against you, his arm slinging over your waist as he pulled you closer.

"Mmm, much better," he mumbled into your hair, his voice thick with contentment. "No lumpy springs, no feeling like I'm about to roll off a cliff. This is the good stuff." He shifted slightly, finding his perfect comfortable position, which, of course, involved a significant amount of skin-to-skin contact. You could feel the comfortable weight of his arm, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the surprising softness of his cheek pressed against your shoulder.

"Glad I could accommodate, your majesty," you teased, turning your head slightly to look at him. In the dim light, his features were softer, less sharp, and the usual cocky smirk was replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated peace. It was moments like these, quiet and intimate, that reminded you why you put up with his chaotic existence.

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Only the best for me. And for you, of course. We're a package deal. A perfectly chaotic, surprisingly functional package deal." He nuzzled closer, his hand finding yours under the covers and lacing his fingers through yours. His thumb began to gently rub circles on the back of your hand, a small, unconscious gesture of affection.

The conversation lulled, replaced by the comfortable quiet of two people completely at ease with each other. You could hear the faint sound of Ace snoring softly from his new, luxurious spot on Guy's side of the bed, a sound that Guy usually complained about but now seemed to ignore entirely. It was a subtle acknowledgment of his quiet gratitude, a small victory for you.

You traced the outline of his jaw with your free hand, feeling the slight stubble there. "You know," you murmured, "despite all the headaches you cause, and the constant fear of finding out you've accidentally declared war on a sentient asteroid field, there are moments when you're actually... tolerable."

Guy pulled back just enough to look at you, a mock-offended gasp escaping his lips. "Tolerable?! I'll have you know I'm a national treasure! A global phenomenon! The universe's most charming Lantern!" But the twinkle in his eye betrayed his feigned outrage. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "But yeah, I know what you mean. And you're pretty tolerable yourself. For someone who's constantly trying to rein in my genius."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "Right. 'Genius.' We'll go with that." You rested your head back against his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him. "Just try to keep the 'genius' contained for a bit, okay? My stress levels can't take another Colosseum."

He sighed dramatically, but there was no real complaint in it. "Fine, fine. I'll be on my best behavior. Mostly. For you. You're worth it." He squeezed your hand again. "You know, seeing you today, in the diner, after all this time… it just reminded me how much I actually need you. How much I rely on you to keep me from going full-on 'Guy Gardner, Destroyer of Worlds.'"

"It's nice to be needed," you hummed, a soft smile on your face. You reached up, gently running your fingers through his surprisingly soft hair. "But I also need you to be, well, you. Just… a slightly less destructive version of you."

He let out a contented groan, pressing his face into your hair. "Deal. As long as 'you' involves cuddles. And sleeping in the bed. And maybe, just maybe, letting me win an argument every now and then."

"Don't push your luck, Gardner," you said, but the affection in your voice was undeniable.

As the last lamplight was extinguished, plunging the room into comfortable darkness, Guy tightened his hold, pulling you even closer until there was barely an inch of space between you. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a comforting, familiar rhythm. He was still the insufferable, egotistical man-child, the chaotic force of nature you'd somehow married. But he was your insufferable, egotistical man-child, and in the quiet of your shared bed, with his arm wrapped securely around you, he was exactly where he was meant to be. And for now, that was more than enough.

[smallest-of-smol]

The Article | (2025 Superman)

Word Count: 4.9k

Summary: Clark’s coworker gets a Superman piece published on the front page of The Daily Planet. And Clark finds out what it was really about… and who…

Warnings: Brief mentions of abused ( nothing specific but better to be safe than sorry), gender neutral, no use of Y/N but also reader doesn’t have a name

I couldn’t stop the anxiety that held me as I sat at my desk with the most recent paper in front of me. The clicking of my pen was sure to have annoyed somebody, but my usual desk neighbor hadn’t shown up yet… running late… again.

“You know staring at it won’t make it go away.”

I froze as I slowly turned my head up to the voice standing next to me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about Jimmy.”

In front of me stood Jimmy and Lois.

Lois scoffed as she leaned against the corner of my desk. “Really? ‘Cause it looks like you’re hoping it will spontaneously combust if you glare at it any longer. If that happens you could start teaming up with Supes and let me interview you before Clark sinks his claws into you too.”

That got a small smile from me. Trust Lois to always find a way to make a dig at Clark's “weird” luck with getting interviews with Superman.

I had been working at The Daily Planet with them for a little over a year now, and in that time Lois had become like a sister to me. A sister that liked to drag me all over this planet to investigate whatever it was she was spiraling over for the week.

Jimmy too had been like a brother—

“Speaking of your loverboy, where’s Clark,” Jimmy asked you with a grin.

He was like a brother alright. An annoying one.

I could feel the heat creep up on my face at the mention of Jimmy’s nickname for Clark for me. I didn’t usually put much thought or hope into men. But meeting Clark… let’s just say it was a memorable one that involved coffee, a computer, and an erased article that hadn’t been saved.

Clark was such a sweetheart about it. Since he was old school, he still had the original draft tucked away in his briefcase. He was all gentle smiles and soft reassurance. While I had been nothing but stuttered apologies and anxiety that I was going to get fired on my first day. From then on it was hard not to notice him.

But it was sure easy to fall for him.

Clark was literal kindness and sunshine personified. He radiated happiness like it was second nature, and it was infectious. Seeing him bring coffee for everyone, remembering how each person liked their coffee, fixing the cabinet that had broken in the break room, or even the one time I saw him help an old lady cross the street… it was hard to not be inspired… or even hopeful that there was still good in the world.

I rolled my eyes at Jimmy, “How should I know?”

Jimmy took a seat in Clark’s empty one, scooting over to my side,

before acting like he was sharing some big secret, “Well with how obsessed you are with him, you would think you’d know where he is at all times.”

I took the newspaper, and whacked him across the arm. Earning myself a good, “Ow! Hey, no hitting for telling the truth!”

I went to hit him again before I heard the object of our conversations emerge into the room. He had a habit of saying hello to almost everyone in the office, and it was easy to pick up on especially after he and Steve called each other Loser every morning.

With his bright as always smile, he was carrying a tray of coffees over to us as a small green paper bag hung from his wrist.

I felt my face flush at the sight, and hid the paper under my notebook before he could make it over to us.

”Good morning everybody,” Clark said as he started handing each of us our daily coffees. I took mine with a small thank you, avoiding eye contact with him. “Also this is for you, Sweets.” He placed the green bag on my desk next to the notebook that I hid the newspaper under.

Ah. Sweets. The good ol’ nickname Clark had been calling me since he found out my sweet tooth was bigger than Lois’s, and that I had a knack for hiding sweets all over my desk in case I got a craving.

Without fail, the name always managed to get my heart racing.

My eyes went wide, “W-w-what’s this for?” I took a peak into the bag and noticed a chocolate muffin and a separately wrapped cake pop that was blue with a small Superman logo decorated on it.

My favorites.

I looked up at him up close for the first time, and it was like looking at the sun. Bright and warm. “Well I thought you deserved a special treat this morning to celebrate you getting the front page.”

I didn’t think I had ever been as flustered as I had in that moment. “Y-you r-re-read the article?”

At this point Jimmy and Lois had abandoned me to be to burn in the sunlight that was Clark Kent.

The man himself took his seat next to me as he pulled out the newspaper from his briefcase, “Of course! How could I not? The way you wrote about him and what he stood for was so touching. I’m not surprised Perry put this on the front page.”

I covered my face with my hands as I saw the title staring me in the face.

Superman: A Spark of Hope with a Touch of Kindness

It had been something I had written in my free time. Perry had caught me working on it a couple days ago on my break, and had asked to read it.

The only thing is that it didn’t have Superman in the title until after Perry had read it. When he asked me what I was working on, I had blurted out that it was a Superman piece… and not something about my work colleague.

It was just supposed to be a thought piece. Something I could write to get my thoughts out without having to verbalize them. Unlike the original paper version I had started it on, I didn’t put Clark’s name in it on the off chance anyone saw it, which was now good thinking on my part. The paper copy was also still at home sitting on my coffee table with all sorts of other word for thought pages I had written.

The article itself went on about how everyday kindness was what sparked hope in people. How it wasn’t just the big acts of kindness, but the small ones too that mattered. How meaningful it was to have somebody to look towards, and see hope that there was still good in the world with even the smallest good deed. I never specified anything specific, and it was broad enough that it did sound like I could have been talking about Superman.

But I wasn’t.

I was talking about Clark.

After Perry had read it, he said he wanted to publish it. That this kind of writing could do what Superman did. Inspire hope.

But now Clark had read the article. So there was really no use trying to hide it. With the way he wrote something Superman related almost every other week, there was no way he wasn’t going to have read it.

He just didn’t know the article was actually about him.

I felt a hand gently lay on my shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to embarrass you over it. I just wanted you to know I’m proud of you, and that I really like what you wrote.”

Slowly, I brought my hands down, and grabbed his hand in reassurance, “Thank you, Clark. It really means a lot that you like what I wrote,” as I let go, and returned my attention back to the treats he brought me, “Also you’re the best for bringing me these. You’ve really made my day.”

He let go of my shoulder, and returned back to his own desk, “Of course! Anything for you, Sweets!”

By the end of the day I was exhausted. Staring at a screen all day had a tendency to make my head start hurting by the end of the day. I look over to my desk neighbor and see Clark still typing away. His glasses had started slipping down his nose, and the sun from the window behind him almost gave him a sort of glow around him that almost made him look unearthly.

Not in a weird way though.

Clark was unreasonably handsome, but now he looked like he had been sent down from the heavens to bless this Earth with good deeds and kindness. He looked like he belonged in the sun.

Rolling my chair over to his side, and I saw what looked like he had scored another interview with Superman.

“How do you keep getting interviews with Superman?”

Clark paused his typing, and pushed his glasses up before he turned his focus onto me. “Oh. You know, as always, the right place and right time.”

If there was one thing Clark wasn’t good at, it would be lying. Everytime he said the same thing. And every time I knew there was more to it. He had to know Superman personally. There was no way that he didn’t with how often he got interviews with him.

Leaning on the arm of my chair, I raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief. “Uh huh. Sure.”

I watched as he scratched the back of his neck, and I knew my gaze was making him nervous. Maybe he knew who Superman really was behind the cape, and he was worried I was going to try to pressure him into telling me.

I looked away from him, and instead focused my attention outside where the sun had begun to set. Clark’s typing had slowly picked back up again. This time there was a pause every now and then.

As he worked I let my thoughts wander back to the article. How would he feel if I told him that the article was really about him? Would he think it was weird? Would he get offended that I changed it to be about Superman?

I doubted anything could really offend that man, but the thought was still there. I didn’t want Clark to be uncomfortable if he ever found out that it was really about him. That I thought he was the kind of person that everyone should strive to be like.

“Do you think Superman read the article?”

At the sound of my voice I could hear Clark’s typing stop again. “Probably… I’d like to think so.”

I turned to look and my eyes already locked on to bright blue eyes staring at me.

His gaze had me entranced. Like I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. It had such an intensity in it in that moment that I felt like I could melt under the heat of his gaze.

Luckily for me, I didn’t have to look away first.

Quickly, Clark turned around and started saving everything he had been working on. With a quick look back at me as he gathered up his belongings, “Can I walk you back home?”

I contemplated saying he didn’t need to worry about it, but knowing Clark he wouldn’t give up until I agreed.

“Sure, Clark. If you want I was planning on making spaghetti tonight if you’d like to stay for dinner. Think of it as a thank you for bringing me treats this morning.”

With a smile on my face I stood up, placing my chair back at my desk.

Before I could grab my bag, Clark had already beat me to it. “I can carry my own bag, you know.”

Clark just smiled as he raised an eyebrow, “And you know you don’t need to thank me for anything, right?”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop from smiling back, “Are you really going to say no to free food?”

Clark laughed as he spoke, “No, you got me there. Spaghetti tonight it is.”

The walk home was twenty minutes of easy conversation. Conversation that flowed naturally and didn’t pause or get awkward.

This wasn’t the first Clark had walked me home, or even came over for dinner. We had actually become really good friends over the last year, and would frequently indulge each other in cheesy movie nights, home cooked meals, and silly Lego nights.

So this was really nothing new to us…

But it felt different.

A little heavier.

More meaningful.

Like there was something between us waiting to happen.

Unlocking my front door, I pushed it open, and left it wide for Clark to come in behind me as I took my shoes off by the door. Clark was sweet and followed my lead. Setting both our bags and his jacket on the hooks by the door, and placed his shoes next to mine.

“I have a change of comfy clothes from the last movie night we had if you want to change. They’re in the top drawer in my dresser. I’ll get started on dinner while you change.”

Clark nodded his head, said a small thank you before making his way to my bedroom.

I made my way into the kitchen, and got to work getting the ingredients out and ready. The water was boiling when Clark came in, sporting some grey joggers and a red t-shirt that was a little snug on him… not that I was staring, but it was obvious that he had to have a serious workout routine to be able to look like that.

He took over, pushing me out of the kitchen, to get me to change as well. “If I get to be comfy, then you get to be comfy too.”

I didn’t argue, other than to slightly complain that I was suppose to be making the meal but made my way to my room anyways to change.

It didn’t take long for me to switch out of my work clothes into some comfy clothes consisting of some black sleep shorts and, as a joke, a Superman hoodie. Blue with the iconic S symbol across my chest.

I came back into the kitchen to see Clark putting the cheese bread into the oven. “I just put the noodles in as well and I was about to start on the sau—“ He looked up and froze as he took in the sight of me, “T-that’s new.”

I tried to calm down my nerves, as I made my way to help prepare the sauce. “Oh yeah… I saw it the other day and liked how soft it was… Plus I thought it was funny since the article was published today,” I looked over and noticed Clark staring down at the noodles. His face and neck were beat red. “Hey are you okay?”

”Y-yeah. I’m good.” I knew Clark was a fan boy, but I didn’t think wearing a Superman hoodie was anything special. Instead of teasing him, I just focused on the task at hand. Mainly cause I didn’t think I could handle him getting even more flustered right now. It had already taken a lot to not let the cuteness aggression kick in.

It was quite while we finished cooking dinner together. Nights like this with him were dangerous. It was so domestic as we cooked and plated the food. Again this man was giving me hope.

Hope that maybe my feelings weren’t one-sided after all. We worked perfectly together, and I wanted more nights like this. More nights where we came home together, cooked together, and did all the little things that came with domesticity.

But there would always be that doubt that Clark was just a nice guy and that he only saw this for what it was.

A friendship.

We each took our respective plates and drinks into the living room. My couch wasn’t overly huge, but Clark was so he always took up most of the space… not that I was complaining.

Clark had made it into the living room before me. Placing his plate and drink on the corner of the coffee table, before he started to move the papers I had left there from the night before…

Oh no.

I saw him pause as a look of confusion slowly turned into realization as to what he was reading.

Panic flooded my system with each word he read. I quickly turned back into the kitchen. Placing my stuff onto the counter before I put myself in front of the sink. I felt like I was going to throw up.

He knew.

Now he knew it was about him.

Not Superman.

Him.

My head started pounding as thoughts filtered through my head at a million miles an hour. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had ruined everything. Why couldn’t I have just put that away? How did I forget that I had left that there? He’s going to be weirded out now. He’ll probably ask to switch desks at work.

I felt something wrap around my waist and pull me back.

Warm and secure.

“I need you to take deep breaths, Sweets.”

I leaned back into the embrace, my head just barely reaching the middle of his chest, and took a deep breath in.

Hold.

Exhale.

Repeat.

“That’s it, Sweets. You’re okay.”

I used my sleeve to reach up and rub the tears that had formed away. “Are we though,” I asked with a shaky breath.

Slowly, he turned me around, and pulled me into a hug. “I’m not sure why we wouldn’t be, but yes we are.”

My grip tightened on his shirt. “You’re not weirded out?”

Clark pulled back a little and lifted my chin up to get me to look at him. “I’m a little confused, but no, I’m not weirded out? Would you like to come sit, and explain it to me?”

Reluctantly I nodded, pulled myself away from him to make my way back into the living room. I tucked myself into my usual spot on the couch. Staring at the cursed paper that had been neatly placed on the shelf under the coffee table.

Clark made his way in with my food and drink in hand, “You still need to eat, Sweets.”

I took the plate from him, as he set the drink on the table in front of us. I slowly twirled my food on the plate as he sat down next to me.

The next few minutes were silent as we both ate our food. Clark inhaled his like he usually does, as I could only stomach half of mine in that moment. He asked carefully, “Can you eat more, or are you done?”

”Done.”

He nodded his head, and took both our plates to the kitchen. I could hear the sound of cabinets opening and closing, and then the fridge. Replaced quickly with the sound of running water.

Clark was too nice sometimes. What was supposed to be a nice night together quickly turned awkward due to me leaving out that stupid paper. Clark being Clark was taking it like a champ, and was still being his usual caring self as he took care of everything as usual because that’s who he was. Selfless, caring, and kind.

Like the article stated. The man wasn’t made to be anything other than kind.

The article.

I reached over and grabbed it from under the table.

The title made it the most obvious, that there was no getting around it. It was just like the printed version except for one difference.

Clark Kent: A Spark of Hope with a Touch of Kindness

If his name hadn’t been the first thing, then maybe this could have been avoided. I kept my gaze on the paper as Clark took his place back in his seat, except this time he was turned toward me.

He didn’t say anything. He waited for me to start the conversation when I was ready.

Clark was always so patient with me.

I took a deep breath as I began to explain myself. “It was never meant to be something that got published. I like writing stuff down when I start to feel overwhelmed. It started off with this paper copy, and then I had transferred it into a google doc so I could continue to work on it, because when I hyperfixate on a piece I like to work on it until it’s done. Perry caught me working on it, and thankfully I had taken your name out so that way no one would know it was you when I was working on it at work.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, leaning my head back to rest against the couch. “Perry asked what I was working on. I panicked, and lied and said it was an opinion piece about Superman. He believed me. Said maybe it could inspire people to have more hope like Superman. It was just easier to just go along with it.”

I opened my eyes to look at Clark. He had been listening to me so intently. Blue eyes once again locked onto me as I spoke, “You and him are just so alike…”

Clark’s attention on me never wavered even as he spoke, “You said you wrote it because you felt overwhelmed? What did you mean?”

I gave a bitter laugh as I turned my attention to the sleeves of my hoodie, giving my hand something to do other than shake. “I don’t think you understand how much your kindness means to someone like me. I’m used to guys taking advantage of me. I never really knew how to say no. I just accepted it was how all guys were. Greedy and selfish. Only wanting to do what they wanted to do, and never caring about if it’s what I wanted too. But you… you’re nothing like them. Not once have you ever made me feel less than I was… It was different… you’re different…”

My eyes flickered to his face, and for the first time since I met him he wasn’t smiling. “I used to be terrified of men… But you changed that. You made me see that there’s still good out there. You genuinely care about those around you, and it makes it so easy to want to be around you. You make me feel safe, because I know you’ll never do that to me. I don’t have to worry about walking on eggshells around you, cause I know that even if you’re mad about something you’ll want to talk it out instead of just—“

I took a shaky breath trying to calm myself. I watched Clark slowly take my hand in his. He held it so gently. Scared that any sudden movement would send me into another panic attack.

“I would never do what they did to you. You deserve so much better than that.”

I gripped his hand harder. It was like a lifeline for me. Something to hold me down and keep me grounded. With teary eyes I looked back up at him and smiled. “People say they feel safer nowadays with Superman watching over them. But me… I feel safest knowing I have you in my life, because you give me the hope that tomorrow will be better than the last… and it’s terrifying. To know there is someone out there I feel like I could depend on for anything, and want to be a better person for. You make me not want to give up, even when it feels so easy to… you make me want to keep trying. To live through it to see if the next day really will be better than the last...”

Clark stretched his other arm out and waved me over to him, and happily I did so. He leaned back against the armrest of the couch and moved my body to lay on top of him as he held me.

We sat there for a few minutes as he processed what I had told him, and I basked in the warmth that radiated from him.

”Do you think Superman would be offended that it was never supposed to be about him?”

Clark smiled brightly, “No, I don’t think he would.”

I felt his arms slightly squeeze around me, causing me to look up at him. Once again, his signature Clark Kent smile adoring his face. “You know, I like your article even better knowing that it was about Clark and not Superman.”

My brows furrowed in confusion, “What do you mean?”

He took the paper that had got slightly crinkled in our movement, and looked over it again. “I’ve always been worried that if I told someone they wouldn’t see me anymore. Just him. Now I see that I don’t have to worry about that with you.”

I sat up more on my hands to be able to watch his face as he read the article. His smile never faltered with each word. “I’m sorry Clark, but you’ve lost me. What haven’t you told me? And what’s that got to do with Super—“

The words got caught in my throat as Clark had reached up and pulled his glasses off, setting them on to the table with the article.

It was like the haze had been pulled away and I could finally see him more clearly.

He still looked like him, but his jawline was a little sharper and his eyes a brighter blue. It was small things one wouldn’t typically notice, but made a huge difference.

I jumped back to the other side of the couch once I realized who exactly I was laying on. “Wa-wait… s-so you’re,” I couldn’t even finish the question.

He looked more like Superman now, but the way flushed bright red and scratched at the back of his neck was all Clark Kent. “This wasn’t exactly how I wanted to tell you, but I don’t want to go another day without you knowing me the same way I know you. Like how I know you take your coffee with 6 pumps of liquid cane sugar. Or how you keep starburst in the top drawer of your filing cabinet and how you sort through all the red ones to give to Lois because you don’t like cherry and she does.”

Clark slowly leaned toward me the more he spoke, putting himself back into my personal space, “Or how you have to be the only person capable of making me jealous over a few sweet words thought to be written about my alter ego.”

My eyes widened at his small confession. Weakly I asked, “You were jealous?”

He reached up and brushed a stray loose hair behind my ear. “Of course I was. I thought Superman managed to do what I’ve been trying to do for the last year.”

I was still in disbelief at what he was implying. “W-what have you been trying to do?”

”Get you to love me the way I love you.”

My eyes widened at how easy he had said it. He said it with such confidence, like he had always meant to say those words.

And maybe he always had. Maybe it was in the little things he did for me. Like how he would pick my favorite movies on movie night even if it was his night to pick. Or the way he kept all the doodles I made at work on a little bulletin board at his desk. Maybe it was in the way he held me softly yet securely. Or maybe it was in the way he looked at me. Like he was right then in that moment.

“Oh… well you don’t have to worry about that,” I spoke softly and attempted to look away.

But he was smiling too brightly for me to really look away. It was a sight I could never get tired of, and honestly I didn’t want to.

He moved his hand to cup my cheek, “May I kiss you now, Sweets?”

The words got stuck in my throat, but the smile on my face and the nod of my head was all the confirmation he needed.

It wasn’t an explosion of fireworks when our lips finally touched. As any first kiss, it was sweet and simple. Most of all it just felt right. It felt like I was always meant to end up here in the arms of the world’s kindest man. Like every experience was worth it if it meant being here with him.

And I had that article to thank for it.

Bonus:

I pulled away, and looked him in his eyes, “Wait. You mean to tell me this whole time I was freaking out about telling you… You already kind of knew it was about you, and were content with thinking I was in love with just Superman?”

Clark laughed, “I knew, but I wasn’t content. I had been working on a six step plan before you rolled around to my side earlier, on how to steal you from Superman and get you to fall in love with Clark instead.”

My eyes widened before I had bursted out laughing. It took me a second to calm down as I wrapped my arms around his neck and placed a kiss on his lips, “Well now you don’t have to worry about that, since I get to have both now.”

Clark’s smile faltered as he began to pout, “Awww, but on step four I was going to finally buy us the Lego Millennium Falcon to build together.”

His smile returned as he saw my smile grow, “Well I won’t say no if you want to put your six step plan to good use.”

[aerofbreath]

DP x DC Idea

(EDIT: Hewwo I actually made an attempt to start writing something about it!)

Everyone still ends up dead no matter what but that wasn't until Danny's parents found out about his Halfa Status. They still love him unconditionally and even try to go back on it and get they still die in the end. All of his friends and family. Hell, the ENTIRETY of Amity Park is destroyed at the hands of the GIW.

In a last ditch effort, Danny's parents throw him through the panel and set it to self destruct. But Danny's stronger than that. It's been a few years before his parents eventually found out and he knows he's much stronger than what he was. So he makes his own portal back home and he's just met with... nothing. When he made his own portal back to the basement- He should literally be able to step out of his portal. Instead he's met with a deep crater at least a mile tall and many miles wide.

Danny mourns by accidentally letting out his ghostly wail. Now, the fall of Amity Park also brought down whatever the fuck the GIW had up so that nothing can get out of Amity. So that means his Ghostly Wail can be heard everywhere. Of course, it still drains Danny to the point of detransforming and going unconscious.

Danny's falling at a fast rate before strong arms catch him, saving him from smashing his head open on the ground. Only the ghosts that came to Danny's will know that it was actually Superman that saved him.

On the other side of the planet, Clark had ended up hearing the devastating wail full of nothing but sadness and death. Thinking it was a threat, Clark quickly flew to the origin only to see Danny wailing his heart out before draining himself and collapsing.

Clark realizes that Danny means no harm but is concerned by the destruction. It was the ghosts that came to help Danny that informed Superman of just this:

"We cannot trust humans at this time. Return our King to us. All this blame goes to the Ghost Investigation Ward."

[rosesaints]

everyone adores you (at least i do)

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x barista!reader summary: you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet. it’s not glamorous. it smells like burnt espresso and the customers are kind of shitty and most of your day is spent judging people’s caffeine orders like some kind of underpaid oracle. enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows. says “golly” unironically. blushes if you so much as look at him too long. you make it your personal mission to see how many times you can get him to blush. you were just trying to make rent. now you might be in love. unfortunate. (written in honor of me getting back to the barista game) listen to the playlist here! word count: 10.2k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, light dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, soft dom!clark, nipple play, size kink (this 6'4 man had me FOLDING during the movie i stg), unprotected sex, creampie, clark being absolutely whipped, yearning, tooth-rotting fluff, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), he talks you through it, clark being a d1 yapper, reader being a yapologist

It starts with a spill.

Which—of course it does. It’s not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. It’s just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind (Probably Ricky, that fucking asshole) down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy. 

The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.

(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)

It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window. 

The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover. 

And then there’s him.

Clark Kent.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence  than all of these other assholes  kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need. 

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.

“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”

That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”

And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”

“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”

Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.

He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.

“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”

He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.

“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did.”

You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.

(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)

“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”

You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos. 

The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama. 

The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.

“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”

Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.

“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”

There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.

You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”

He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”

“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”

There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.

But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.

Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”

And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.

Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag: 

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! 

And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.

.

When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.

You actually like that a lot about it.

The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.

The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal. 

The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.

You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity. 

You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again. 

Not yet.

Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.

“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”

You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.

The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.

You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.

You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."

But.

You're the opener tomorrow.

And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.

So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?

Your gaze snags on a familiar name.

It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.

The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.

No one would have to know.

You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.

You glance around. No one’s watching you.

The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.

You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor. 

Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.

Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.

.

The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.

You’re not watching the door.

You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries. 

Which is honestly more likely.

You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes���jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.

“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”

You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.

Clark stares back.

And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”

You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.

“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”

He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”

“Clark.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”

“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”

You don’t answer. You just pour.

You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.

You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.

Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all  soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.

“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”

You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"

Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”

You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.

“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.

And pauses.

And blinks.

And then blinks again.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.

It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.

You fight down a grin. Hard.

“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.

He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”

He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.

He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”

You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”

Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”

“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”

He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”

“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”

Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.

“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”

He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”

“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”

Clark looks up, startled.

You don’t look away.

Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.

Success. He does blush all the way down.

“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”

“Anytime.”

You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.

You are noticing. You always have.

He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”

You blink. “For who?”

“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”

It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.

“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”

You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”

You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.

The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”

His grin could power the city.

“Deal.”

When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—

"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."

.

A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.

They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.

They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser. 

You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”

Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.

.

Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.

Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.

Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.

Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.

He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano. 

One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.

And then Clark... doesn’t leave.

No, he glances over his shoulder.

At you.

And then—God help you—he comes over.

You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.

You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”

He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”

“You mean sitting down like a human person?”

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”

You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”

Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.

“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.

He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”

“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”

“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”

You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”

He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”

“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”

He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”

There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.

“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”

“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”

“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”

“That’s my love language.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”

His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.

“Actually, yes.”

You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”

“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”

“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”

He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.

“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”

“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”

You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”

He shrugs. “I peaked early.”

A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.

Clark has arms.

Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—

Anyway.

You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.

It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.

“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.

“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. 

He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”

Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”

You look at him. Really look.

Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.

And you can’t help it.

You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.

Clark stills immediately.

“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”

“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.

His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.

Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.

And he lets you.

He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.

His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.

You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.

And then you see it.

Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.

He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.

You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.

He still doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”

Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”

You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”

His ears go scarlet.

“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”

You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.

“That’s the idea.”

Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.

And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.

His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s endearing.

It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.

You don’t. Not yet.

But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.

The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.

.

It’s just a date.

Just. A date.

With Clark Kent.

But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.

You glance at the time.

Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.

But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.

You dive.

CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.

YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever

Immediately regret it.

Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.

But then—

CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.

You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.

YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃 CLARK K.: See you soon!

You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.

.

When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.

And then you open the door.

And there he is.

Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.

It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.

He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.

And he’s a little out of breath.

Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.

And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.

He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.

“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”

You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.

“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.

You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.

Definitely.

He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.

And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.

.

Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.

You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”

“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”

You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”

“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

Clark chokes on his water.

And then—it starts.

The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.

Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.

“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”

“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”

Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”

“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”

He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”

“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.

He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.

“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”

Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."

You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.

“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”

“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”

You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”

He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”

You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.

Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.

He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.

Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.

He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.

“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”

Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”

You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”

“I bribe them with muffins.”

You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.

Clark doesn’t catch the signal.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.

“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”

You blink. That’s it?

“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.

Nothing.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”

Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.

“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”

“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”

“Tea?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”

“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.

“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.

You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”

“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”

He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”

“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”

Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.

“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.

You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”

He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”

“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”

He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”

It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”

He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”

You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”

But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.

You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.

The kettle whistles. You make the tea.

By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.

You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.

Okay. Now or never.

“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”

Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re very obvious.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You don’t speak.

And then—then—finally, he moves.

It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.

“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.

Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.

It doesn’t.

It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.

He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.

And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.

But not now.

Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.

Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away. 

If anything, he leans in more.

And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice. 

Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.

You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”

His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.

“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”

Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.

You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”

He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”

“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

And then it’s your turn.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.

“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.

You nod. “Please.”

He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.

All of him.

And goddamn.

You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.

Because this man is ripped. 

Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”

Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”

You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”

You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.

He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.

“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”

“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."

You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.

“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.

You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”

He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”

“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”

He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”

You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.

You like him. You like him too damn much.

He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

But then he stills.

“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”

He trails off. His ears are pink.

You blink. “You don’t—?”

He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”

You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”

“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."

Clark goes quiet.

Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—

"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."

You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.

"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."

Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."

"Yes ma'am."

The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.

Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"

You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."

He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.

You just need this man in you now. 

And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.

"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern. 

He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"

"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."

And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."

Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.

Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.

When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"

Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.

He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.

"You like that?"

"God, yes. Clark—"

You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.

It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.

Holy shit.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”

You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”

“I thought you’d be gentle.”

He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”

You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”

“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”

The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.

Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys. 

His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.

Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"

"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"

You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes. 

He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.

Holy shit.

The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.

And then for the crescendo—

"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."

.

It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”

You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.

But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.

His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.

“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”

You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.

And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.

You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”

His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”

You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”

Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.

And it’s almost too much. 

The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too. 

But you let it stay. Let him stay.

You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”

Clark, already half off the  bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”

And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it  If he stays.

(He will.)

[satellite-evans]

not tonight, baby

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Parenthood throws some unexpected challenges at Clark and you, especially when intimacy turns into a full-contact sport ;)

Word count: 3.6k+

Warnings: fluff, implied smut, horny clark lol

A/N:

Sorry for posting so much, guys, but I am on a roll and can't stop writing lol, so I am not stopping myself hahhah hope you guys enjoy xx

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.

You were two seconds from finally getting what you wanted when it happened.

Again.

Clark had you pinned under him on the couch, the kind of heavy, hungry press that made your breath catch and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. His hands were sliding up beneath your shirt, fingers dragging along your sides like he was trying to relearn every inch of you. His lips found that spot on your neck — that spot — and you arched into him, heart thundering in your chest like it had forgotten anything else ever existed but him.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and wrecked with want.

“Missed you too, baby,” you breathed, gripping his biceps as your body responded like it always did: hot, fast, needy.

You could feel the tension in him, weeks’ worth of parenthood and Superman-ing bottled under his skin. This was the first real quiet night in a long time, no world-ending threats, no exploding diapers, no last-minute press deadlines. Jonah was asleep. The baby monitor was silent. Everything was perfect.

You tipped your head back, ready for his mouth on yours—

“WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

The sound punched through the baby monitor like a nuclear alarm.

Clark froze.

You didn’t even get a second to respond before he groaned loudly and face-planted into your chest, voice muffled against your skin. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, threading your fingers through his dark curls. “That’s what we were trying to do.”

He slowly lifted his head, eyes filled with a kind of despair normally reserved for global catastrophes. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Fifth,” you corrected with a smirk, reaching for the robe draped over the arm of the couch. “You were just more patient the other nights.”

Clark dropped back with a dramatic sigh, sprawled across the cushions like a man who’d been personally betrayed by fate. “I swear to Rao… he’s doing this on purpose.”

“He’s six months old,” you said through a chuckle, tying the robe around your waist. “He doesn’t even know how to hold his bottle without punching himself in the face.”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Clark said, voice laced with righteous indignation as he gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He’s half Kryptonian. He can hear your heartbeat spike from three rooms away. It’s like setting off a car alarm and the car is me, trying to make love to my wife!”

You doubled over laughing, trying not to startle Jonah further. “He thinks I’m stressed, Clark. He’s not mad at you. He’s just trying to protect his mom.”

Clark flopped back dramatically again, eyes closed, one arm draped across his face. “He could protect you a little more quietly.”

You leaned over, kissed his temple, and whispered, “Poor baby.”

He tilted his head slightly, peeking one eye open. “You mean him or me?”

You smirked. “I’ll let you two fight it out.”

From the baby monitor came that all familiar cry again: “WAAAHHHHHHHHHH!”

Clark groaned again. “He wins.”

Jonah was a chubby little baby with big blue eyes and the reflexes of a cat. A Kryptonian cat.

You’d caught him levitating in his crib once at 3 a.m., spinning in lazy circles like a tiny ceiling fan, burbling to himself without a care in the world. Your soul had briefly left your body.

Clark, of course, had just walked in, looked up at your floating son, and beamed like he’d just won Olympic gold. “That’s my boy.”

Right now, that boy, your sweet-faced little alien spawn, was howling like someone had stolen his pacifier and slapped his dad.

The baby monitor had lit up the second your pulse quickened in the living room. The minute Clark had so much as kissed your collarbone with intent, Jonah went DEFCON 1.

Clark sighed as he trudged down the hall in soft grey sweatpants and bare feet, his hand rubbing his face. His hair was a mess, sexy, tousled, you were going to ride him like a comet kind of mess, and his shirt was still halfway on from when you'd tugged it over his head earlier.

He stopped in the doorway of the nursery, looked down at the tiny flailing ball of red-faced drama in the crib.

“What the hey, dude? I thought we had a deal?"

Jonah paused mid-wail for a second — just a second — as if processing the sound of his father's voice. Then he kicked his chubby legs and shrieked louder, little fists waving like he was delivering a speech to the Kryptonian Senate.

Clark dropped his head back against the doorframe with a soft thunk. “Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. “You were asleep fifteen minutes ago. You had milk. You had a blanket fort. I tucked you in. I turned on the cloud nightlight. Everything was perfect.”

Jonah let out a high-pitched squeaky hiccup between sobs.

Clark sighed and crossed the room, scooping him up with practiced gentleness. Instantly, the crying shifted into pitiful little gasps and burbles. Jonah grabbed a fistful of Clark’s t-shirt, burying his face into his dad’s chest like he was the one who had been interrupted.

Clark patted his back slowly, rhythmically. His voice dropped into that soft, gravelly dad-tone you loved, the one that always melted you. “Come on, buddy. I was about to have a really good night with your mom. You know how rare that is? Like… eclipse rare. Halley’s Comet rare. You don’t even know how hard it is to get thirty uninterrupted seconds with her these days.”

Jonah made a snuffly baby noise that might have been a yawn. Or maybe smug satisfaction.

Clark rocked him gently, pacing a little as he cradled Jonah close. “I’m not mad,” he said, soothing. “Just… disappointed.”

You leaned against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed, trying to keep a straight face as you watched your two favorite people, one freshly naked and the other freshly diapered, negotiate bedtime like world leaders at a peace summit.

“You talking to him like he’s your college roommate?” you asked, amusement dripping from your voice.

Clark didn’t even turn around. “I’m hoping guilt works on Kryptonian infants.”

You laughed softly, stepping into the room. “You know he’s not crying because he knows what we were doing, right?”

Clark glanced over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “You felt that monitor go off the moment your heart rate hit triple digits. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for parental foreplay.”

You snorted and walked over to stroke Jonah’s hair. He was already half-asleep on Clark’s chest, soothed not by lullabies or pacifiers, but by his parents' presence.

You pressed a kiss to Clark’s shoulder, whispering, “He just loves me. He’s bonded. When my body gets worked up, he thinks something’s wrong.”

“Well,” Clark said with a small huff, “something is wrong. We were interrupted. Again.” He rocked side to side and added under his breath, “By the world’s tiniest cockblocker.”

Jonah burbled.

Clark narrowed his eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me.”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly, then leaned up to kiss your husband’s cheek. “Want me to take him?”

Clark shook his head, already sitting in the rocking chair. “Nah. He needs me to forgive him first.”

You smiled, watching the two of them.

Clark, literal god among men, flying demigod, earth-saving superhero, looking absolutely done in by a six-month-old with chubby fingers and world-class timing.

Jonah nuzzled deeper into his father’s chest.

Clark sighed like he was losing a battle he’d gladly lose every day.

“I love you,” you murmured.

He looked up at you, sleep-deprived but still hopelessly in love. “Love you more.”

“Even though you’re not getting any tonight?”

“I mean… I’m not thrilled,” he muttered, rocking slowly. “But he’s cute. He gets a pass.”

You bent down, kissed Jonah’s soft baby cheek, and whispered, “You win again, little man.”

He sighed. “Yeah. You’re lucky you’re adorable, Jonah.”

Jonah farted in response.

Clark blinked. “Have kids, they said. It will be fun, they said.”

It became a routine.

Clark would so much as brush his fingers along your hip while you were doing dishes, or tug you into his lap during a lazy Saturday morning coffee, and the baby monitor would crackle to life like a warning beacon.

It didn’t even have the decency to ease into it. No build-up. No soft pre-cry grumble. Just:

“WaaaAAAHHHHHH!”

Clark would freeze like he’d just set off a booby trap in a temple, eyes wide, hands mid-squeeze, lips parted in disbelief.

You’d glance toward the monitor and sigh, already peeling yourself out of his arms.

But he just stayed still, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.

Again.

Eventually, it became a bit of a game. How far could you get before Jonah's Sixth Sense kicked in?

The answer: Not far.

A lingering kiss? Cry. A moan? Cry. An inhale that sounded too much like a moan? Cry.

You tried to comfort Clark when it happened, kissed his cheek, rubbed circles on his back, reminded him Jonah was just a baby. But the look on your husband’s face was always the same: a mix of raw longing and deep emotional betrayal.

“He senses your vibe,” Clark grumbled once, fiddling uselessly with the monitor volume like that would help. “I swear it’s the vibe. He doesn’t even need to hear. He feels it.”

“He senses my heartbeat,” you corrected gently, sliding a hand up his bare chest. “When it spikes, he thinks I’m panicking.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “You are panicking. Just in a different way.”

You smirked. “A good kind of panic.”

His jaw flexed. “I’m trying to be good.”

“Well,” you said, climbing into his lap, straddling him with slow, deliberate intent, “You could stop trying.”

He blinked. “...This feels like a trap.”

“Only if the baby monitor goes off.”

He looked toward it. It was dark. Silent. For once, Jonah was sleeping like an actual human infant and not a tiny sex-policing siren. Clark leaned in cautiously, lips brushing your jaw.

“You sure?” he whispered.

Your heart was pounding already. “Positive.”

His lips met yours, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, a week’s worth of near-misses boiling over.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and he bit your bottom lip in return, a growl vibrating in his chest.

“Don’t start,” he rasped against your neck, voice rough and wrecked.

You grinned against his mouth. “You started it.”

And then—

“WAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

You both screamed internally.

Clark’s eyes squeezed shut, forehead thunking onto your shoulder as he made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

He dropped back onto the bed like he’d been shot, rolled over, and shoved his face into a pillow. “I feel like I’m being edged by a six-month-old,” he muttered, voice muffled and utterly defeated.

You tried not to laugh.

Really, you tried.

But the sight of Superman, Man of Steel, protector of Earth, most powerful being in the known universe, getting utterly wrecked by his own baby’s cockblocking instincts?

You couldn’t hold it in.

You collapsed next to him, giggling uncontrollably.

He groaned louder. “Stop laughing. This is my personal hell.”

“Oh, babe,” you gasped, wiping a tear. “I think it’s adorable.”

“Adorable?!” He rolled onto his back, looking at you with wide, scandalized eyes. “I haven’t had sex since March. I’m this close to going full heat vision in the shower.”

You wiggled your eyebrows. “Kinky.”

He glared at you, grabbed a pillow, and smacked it over his own face. “End me.”

You leaned over him and whispered, “Maybe tomorrow.”

“WAHHHHHHHH!”

Clark raised the pillow and screamed into it.

Desperate times called for desperate solutions.

You and Clark had officially entered DEFCON 0 on the intimacy scale. Even the idea of foreplay had become a high-stakes gamble. So you got scientific. Tactical.

You tried soft music, lullabies, classical, even low-frequency binaural beats you found on some crunchy parenting forum.

Jonah slept… until Clark so much as brushed a thumb across your inner thigh.

“WAHHHHHH!”

You tried calming pheromone diffusers that allegedly simulated the smell of maternal safety.

Jonah was calm, sure. Until Clark kissed you like he meant it, and the baby monitor lit up like a Christmas tree.

You even invested in a white noise machine that made the nursery sound like a luxury rainforest spa. Birds chirping. Waterfalls. Gentle wind through bamboo. You’d stood outside the door and listened once, it was legitimately relaxing.

Jonah snored peacefully through it all.

Until you moaned.

“WAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

It was like his superbaby instincts were lasered into your pulse. The minute your blood got a little too excited, he snapped awake like a mini soldier under psychic attack.

At first, Clark tried to be a good sport. Really, he did. But by the second week of failed recon missions, he’d developed a sort of thousand-yard stare, the kind that only came from being so close to sex and being pulled back into platonic purgatory by a screaming baby.

One night, after an especially steamy session of mutual shirt removal and heavy petting (cut tragically short by yet another baby outburst), Clark collapsed back on the bed, arm over his eyes.

You lay beside him, panting, your bra still halfway undone.

There was a long silence.

“I’m starting to understand how Batman feels,” Clark muttered grimly.

You blinked. “Depressed and emotionally constipated?”

He turned his head just slightly to squint at you.

“No,” he said flatly. “Alone.”

You snorted. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t finished anything in weeks.” He gestured vaguely at himself, like his whole body had become a temple of frustration. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to fly to the Arctic just to take a cold shower inside a glacier?”

You started laughing so hard your bra strap fell off your shoulder completely.

“I’m serious!” he insisted. “At this point I’m worried I’ll sneeze wrong and cause a small earthquake.”

“You poor thing.”

“I am a poor thing,” he said dramatically, flipping onto his side to face you. “I am a man dying in the desert of desire, and my son, my own flesh and blood, is the sandstorm.”

You reached out and smoothed his hair back gently. “You realize how unhinged you sound, right?”

“I’m unhinged with need.”

You leaned in, voice low and teasing. “So do something about it.”

He inhaled sharply.

Then—

“WAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Clark flopped backward and yelled into the mattress. “OH COME ON.”

You were crying laughing, doubled over beside him, mascara smudging under your eyes.

“I swear,” he said, not lifting his face, “this kid’s going to grow up thinking sex is a threat to national security.”

You patted his back, tears of laughter running down your cheeks. “Maybe it is. He is half-Kryptonian, after all. Arousal is probably considered a planetary emergency.”

Clark rolled over and pointed at the ceiling. “If anyone’s listening up there: I’m still technically a virgin again. Just so we’re clear.”

Eventually, Clark caved.

He sat straight up in bed one Thursday evening after Jonah’s third bedtime cry false alarm, hair wild, jaw clenched, and eyes blazing like a man who’d reached his breaking point.

“I’m booking a hotel.”

You blinked at him from your side of the bed, one eyebrow arching. “Seriously?”

He turned toward you like a man possessed. “Yes. A real hotel. With locks. And walls thicker than paper. And absolutely no baby monitor with advanced sonar capabilities.”

You stared at him for a beat, trying not to laugh. “You think that’s gonna work?”

“He can’t hear you,” he said, holding up one dramatic finger, “if he’s across the city in a soundproof apartment with Grandma Martha.”

You snorted. “Martha’s in Kansas, Clark.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Lois, then.”

“Lois will absolutely tell the entire newsroom that Clark Kent pawned his child off so he could get laid.”

“I don’t care,” he said, rising from the bed with the gravitas of a man on a mission. “Let them know. Put it on the front page. Print it in the Daily Planet. I don’t care anymore.”

You bit back a grin. “You want the headline to read: ‘Superman Grounded By Son’s Super Hearing — Can’t Get Any?’”

He pointed at you. “Six. Straight. Weeks.”

You laughed so hard you had to clutch a pillow.

Clark folded his arms, eyes narrowed. “This is not funny. I’ve been operating at Level 9 Hormonal Distress for a month and a half. I’m about to start leaving thirst traps on the Justice Squad message board just to feel something.”

You threw the pillow at him.

He caught it easily, tossed it back, then stepped closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “We need one night. Just one. No crying. No guilt. No onesies. Just you and me and a bed that doesn’t vibrate from Kryptonian baby screams.”

You softened a little, fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “And what exactly are you going to tell Lois to convince her to babysit overnight?”

Clark’s grin turned devilish. “I’ll just say I need to save the world.”

You rolled your eyes. “She’s going to see right through that.”

“Probably,” he shrugged. “But she loves Jonah. And she owes me for that time I babysat her cat and it heat-visioned a hole through my suit pants.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Not important.”

You laughed again and leaned up to kiss him. “Fine. Book the hotel. But you’re making the call.”

Clark was already reaching for his phone, grinning like a man about to win the lottery. “Done. I’ll pack. You go pick out the lingerie.”

You gave him a look. “Clark. We both know I’m not even going to get the chance to put it on.”

He paused, then looked utterly stricken. “God, you’re right. I forgot how lingerie works.”

You shook your head fondly as he speed-packed a duffel bag in three seconds flat, then hovered in the hallway with that boyish, borderline feral excitement only he could radiate.

“Clark,” you called, laughing. “It’s not a race.”

He zoomed back in and kissed you breathless.

“It’s been six weeks,” he whispered hoarsely. “It is absolutely a race.”

One Lois hand-off, a hastily packed overnight bag, and a thirty-minute flight later, you were standing in the doorway of a sleek, quiet hotel suite.

Blackout curtains. Reinforced windows. Thick walls. No baby monitor. No cries. No interruptions.

Just you, Clark, and the kind of silence that promised only one thing: relief.

Clark set your bag down without even looking. His eyes were already on you, wide, reverent, dark with months of pent-up affection and unspent desire. He looked like a man dying of thirst who’d finally been handed water. Or maybe wine. Or maybe you, dressed in a fitted top and soft, stretchy shorts that had no business looking as good as they did on you.

“Come here,” he said, low, hoarse, reverent.

You took one step and barely made it another before he was on you, mouth crashing against yours like the weight of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t touched, hadn’t felt in weeks came pouring out through his lips.

There was no hesitancy. No teasing.

Clark kissed you like he needed to memorize you all over again.

Like he was starving, and you were the first real thing he’d tasted in a year.

His hands slid up under your shirt immediately, no preamble, palms warm and sure as they gripped your waist, then your ribs, then up, dragging the fabric over your head in one smooth motion.

Your back hit the wall, and he growled against your mouth.

“Six weeks,” he breathed. “Six. Weeks.”

You gasped as his mouth moved to your neck, the heat of him pressing in everywhere, one hand already lifting your thigh around his waist. “You really kept count?”

“Down to the minute.” His voice was ragged. “I should be nominated for sainthood.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, and that only made him kiss you harder, his mouth slanting over yours with a frustrated, needy sort of intensity that said, “You’re mine. Mine. Mine.”

There was no Superman. No cape. No restraint. Just Clark — your Clark — with messy hair, flared nostrils, and hands that moved like they had a mission.

And god, had he missed you.

Every kiss felt like an apology and a celebration. A confession and a promise.

He pulled back for half a second, pupils blown, chest heaving. “Tell me I’m dreaming.”

You cupped his face, breathless. “You’re not.”

His mouth met yours again, softer this time, still desperate, but threaded with awe, like he still couldn’t believe you were here. Alone. No monitor crackling. No wailing.

Just two bodies, finally in sync again.

By the time you both made it to the bed — tangled in sheets, limbs intertwined, breath caught somewhere between gasping and laughing — you were flushed, dizzy, and so in love you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

Clark rolled onto his back beside you, chest rising and falling like he’d just flown across the globe, not just made love to his wife for the first time in a very long time.

You slid a hand over his heart, tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Worth the wait?” you asked, teasing but soft.

Clark let out a half-laugh, half-groan and pulled you in tighter, kissing your forehead. “Worth the crying.”

You grinned into his skin. “Yours or Jonah’s?”

“Both.”

Then he leaned in close, eyes playful, voice mock serious. “Don’t tell Jonah.”

You chuckled, snuggling in closer. “Are you afraid he’ll cry telepathically?”

Clark paused. “…I’m not ruling it out.”

You both laughed, and for the first time in weeks, the sound was uninterrupted, no sirens, no monitor, no baby alarm. Just warmth, love, and the steady beat of two hearts finally completely in sync.

[dissociativewriter]

Could you write something about the LADS having a partner that wears glasses all the time, and then sees them without them for the first time pls :)

as someone who wears glasses a lot, this was very nice to write <3 this isn't much, but I hope you like it!

❀ You stop by Xavier’s apartment before you two’s date for hotpot. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sort of stares blankly.

❀ “…Xavier?” you ask hesitantly. He stares for a moment longer, before giving you a quiet smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you, starlight.” You gape at him, scrunching your nose. “Really?” Xavier nods. “You look really different.” His eyes widen. “But a good different!”

❀ You laugh. “Maybe Superman was right…” you muttered. “I didn’t expect my glasses to throw you off so much.” “It was just for a minute. I wasn’t expecting it, is all,” he defends himself. “Trust me, starlight, I’d recognize you anywhere and anytime.”

❀ A couple hours later, and you were examining yourself in the mirror, comparing how you looked without your glasses. “You know,” you called out to Xavier in the next room. “I really don’t think glasses make a person look that different. It’s like how you have that Lumiere mask. I can still tell it’s you by the rest of your face.” Xavier teleported right beside you. “Lumiere?” Shit.

❀ Zayne freezes when you walk into his office without your glasses. He stares, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

❀ After a few beats of silence, he finally spoke. "...Where are your glasses?" You gave a small grin. "I got contacts!" Your smile faltered. "Do I look alright?"

❀ “Alright?” Zayne repeated, standing up from his chair. "Darling, you look breathtaking." His breath caught as he stepped closer. “Truly beautiful,” he murmured. “As always.” Now whenever you don’t wear your glasses, Zayne is always staring at you, enamored with how such a small thing can change your appearance.

❀ That doesn’t stop him from worrying, though. “Keep your glasses with you, just in case,” he reminds you. “Switching between wearing contacts and wearing glasses may cause headaches and nausea. I also have ibuprofen if you need it.”

❀ Rafayel is working on a new painting when you enter his studio, not even glancing at you as he offers a “Heyyy, cutie.” You decide to wait around for him to notice on his own instead of saying something.

❀ Unfortunately, it takes nearly an hour before Rafayel decides that it’s time for a break. As he turns to face you, he lets out a loud gasp. “Oh my fishies! This is like in those teen movies when they take off their glasses and it’s like a completely different person!” He keeps his eyes trained on you, tracing over your every feature.

❀ You snort. “Yeah, like how the girl has to take off her glasses to be considered pretty in the makeover scene because of course glasses mean you’re ugly.” You’re chuckling, but Rafayel only furrows his brows. “Don’t talk about my partner like that.” He walks towards you, leaning down and tapping your forehead. “You’re gorgeous with your glasses and without. You hear me, cutie?”

❀ You nod, flustered and pushing him away as he covers your face in kisses. “Stop it, Raf!” “I have to show you, you’re pretty and you’re loved!” he declares. Rafayel pauses for a minute. “I should draw you like this. I need to immortalize my cutie’s beauty.”

❀ You're heading over to Onychinus's base for some one-on-one time with Sylus (and the twins). You’d recently received the shipment of your contacts, so you decided to wear them and surprise Sylus.

❀ When you step inside, it's like the world stops. Luke, Kieran, and Sylus all stop what they're doing when they catch sight of you. "Boss-lady, where are your glasses?" Luke asked.

❀ "I got contacts," you said sheepishly. "...surprise!" "Luke, Kieran, leave. Now." The twins mutter a quick "yes, boss, bye boss-lady " before leaving. Sylus takes a tentative step towards you before cradling your face in both hands.

❀ "You look adorable with your glasses," he begins, voice hoarse. "But you look ethereal without them." He brushes a strand of hair away from your face. "I like seeing your eyes," he whispers before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

❀ You and Caleb had planned a date for the afternoon, so you decided to wear your new contacts out for the first time. You were a bit nervous though, you hadn’t gone without your glasses in years.

❀ "Pips!" he called. "Are you still gettin' ready?" He walked through your apartment, checking every room for you. When Caleb caught sight of you, his steps halted.

❀ “Did you get contacts?” he asked. “Yes…” you said apprehensively. “What do you think? I feel like it changes my face a lot.” You pull your hands up to cover your face.

❀ “Don’t,” Caleb says as he grabs your wrists. “I want to see you.” He stares at you for what seems like an eternity, committing every detail of your face to memory. “Just like when we were kids,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful. You always have been.”

disso’s note: i got my contacts the summer before my freshman year of high school (9th grade) and i had daily wear contacts at that time. one night during the school year like a couple months in, i was super tired and forgot to take them out before bed. so i woke up the next morning, and put another pair in because i thought i didn’t have any in already. i was a little confused why everything was blurry, but i thought it was just like the morning blurry that happens a lot? and i didn’t think much of the headache i had, because i get those a lot so i was like oh thats not unusual. so i get to school and im sitting in my first period and im like ok this is uncomfortable, so i take out my contacts IN CLASS just at my desk, realize that there’s two contacts in one eye, separate them, and then put the one back in DRY. no mirror, no solution, just sheer will. i was built different back then tbh. i can’t do that now, i don’t know how i did it then.

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open! <3

masterlist

taglist (8/50): @dolledbunnytail @sleepykittyenergy @orbitraiden @coffeedragonhobbyist @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusgworl @angelkazusstuff @lamogliedizayne

[lyssmasterlist]

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝐶𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝐾𝑒𝑛𝑡/𝑆𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛

ʟᴏɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴋᴇɴᴛ? ᴘᴛ.1 ᴘᴛ.2

Clark Kent and you used to be friends. You used to build each other up, used to edit each other’s articles, rooting for them to make the front page. Actually, you used to have a serious crush on the man. But that was a lifetime ago, now, you’d each woken up. You were the floors main reporters for The Daily Planet. Everything between you two that was friendly, had turned sour with tension. Your LexCorp scandals and his luck-of-the-draw interviews with Superman fought for the front page every-time. The teasing, the flirting, the arguments, it was making each of you simmer.

Enter a bad date into the mix. Ensuing jealous Clark. Leading to the big fight. It leaves you both sure of your hatred for each other. So what happens when you finally make contact with Superman?

Clark can’t bring himself to kill, unless it’s for you.

ɪɴ ꜱɪᴄᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ, ɪɴ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ

It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.

When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”

It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.

You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.

ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇ, ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ

Clark promised.

He had to get this article done by tomorrow morning, or Perry would have his head. And you, as always, were not helping.

Bottoms off and hips deep on his cock, wearing his favorite red set that made your breasts look perfect. You were quite the sight. Clark's hands shook as he clacked away at his cheap keyboard.

ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀɪᴅ - ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 "𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝” 𝐁𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 - The plot and storyline are my own, but every chapter is both named by lyrics and is loosely in line with lyrics from the song! Keep that in mind 🪽

The summers of your childhood were full of iced tea, trouble, and your best friend: Clark Kent. Nights of rocks on your window pane, sprinting through fields of corn and wheat, and waking up extra early to finish your chores every Saturday in the promise of another adventure, swirl around in your memory fondly. You were young and madly in love with your best friend. He was your prom date, your first kiss, the only person you trusted with the bruises from your dad.

But he was also the captain of the football team, a straight-A student, and well... an alien. That last one was a secret, of course.

As your younger days came and went, with them, Clark left. Leaving you behind to hold up the fort in Smallville while he headed to the big city to fulfill his purpose, protecting the innocent. Why had it bothered you so much? You were never officially more than friends.

When Clark returns one summer to visit home, you aren’t ready to be faced with your past. It seems he has everything he ever wanted, but is that true? Has he found a life that satisfies him without you in it?

You used to lie in his lap while he twirled your hair and talked about a life outside of Smallville, used to clean his cuts as he learned the ins and outs of his powers. That Clark was reverently yours. This Clark seemed miles away.

The words you both dare not speak hang in the balance. But who will be brave?

𝑅𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝑅𝑒𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑠

ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ - ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

bob can’t stand it. you’re just too fucking pretty. you distract him, you make every horrible, ugly thought dissipate. he craves it. he knows you, and you know him. it feels right, and his feelings are so strong he doesn’t know what to do anymore. he has no idea that you feel the same. that you ache for his comfort, for his feelings to reflect your own.

but a week of strained normalcy, a build up of emotional tension, and a failed mission lead to more than innocent, friendly thoughts. bob’s limits are reached on waiting for the right damn moment.

he has to tell you. you want to tell him. let’s watch each of you try

ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

Bob wishes you would just fucking listen sometimes. Yes, you were powerful. You could obviously do some serious damage.

But you weren’t careful.

You were reckless.

ʙʟᴜʀʙꜱ

Playing with Bob's hair

Overprotective Bob

𝐵𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏꜱꜱ - ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Moving to New York City from your small town of Paris, Tennessee was not an easy task. But as a young detective assistant directly graduated from your local police academy, you didn’t expect anything to be handed to you. You had to take.

When you get hired to assist a mysterious, tall, and ruggedly handsome detective named James Barnes, you expect to be taught the basics of the field. What you didn’t expect was to be thrown into active combat, pushed to your limits, and given morally gray choices within the first 24 hours on the job.

You definitely didn’t expect to grow feelings for him.

This job wasn’t predictable. It was adapt, or die. It doesn’t help that you have a rising suspicion that your boss isn’t as clean of a man as he came across on paperwork.

Will you survive? It’s been up to him from the start.

[lacy-oh-lacy]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 | 𝐂.𝐊

Masterlist

Acts of service:

•This is the big one. Clark is wholeheartedly at your service, it's not always easy but he loves to help people, especially you.

•And he’ll do it thanklessly, like fixing things around your place before you even know they’re broken or running errands you forgot about, but when you do notice and your face lights up as you thank him it's the best feeling

•He’s always so busy helping everyone else that his own self-care can be left on the backburner which makes him especially appreciative of acts of service himself. Just something like making him pancakes for dinner when he hasn't had a chance to eat much feels like the biggest “I love you” in the world

Words of affirmation:

•He’s definitely big on this. He believes in voicing compliments if you have them, and he happens to find a lot to compliment you on. Seriously, you don't have a skill, positive trait, even a nice outfit, that hasn't been appreciated by Clark

•And he’s a bit bashful when receiving compliments but he really does appreciate them, especially when Superman's been getting a hard time, you reminding him of all the good he's done means the world to him

Gifts:

•Clark’s living paycheck to paycheck, and growing up the way he did he's always had to understand the value of money and be responsible with it… but if he's gonna splurge it will be on you

•He’s not a very frequent gift giver unless he knows that happens to be your love language, but when he does get you gifts they're so thoughtful and sentimental. Or without any special occasion he’ll buy you a more practical item he knows you've been needing

•He’s appreciative if a little timid when receiving gifts. It's not his specific love language but he’ll always be touched by the gesture and thought put in. Anything you get him is cherished and proudly displayed

Touch:

•Clark doesn’t initiate much physical contact at first, he can be a bit shy about it, especially when it comes to PDA, but he's so receptive, every one of your touches gives him butterflies

•And as your relationship progresses it's something he becomes more comfortable initiating. A lot. Clark loves touching you, absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair or down your back, cuddling up to you on the couch, hoisting you up by the waist while you kiss. Although he still still doesn't do much beyond hand holding or quick pecks in public, and even that can make him a little pink sometimes

Quality time:

•This is another that he absolutely loves but doesn't get as much of as he'd like. He's probably the busiest person you know, which makes it all the sweeter that he somehow always makes time for you

•Even if sometimes while he's with you he's adorably trying to keep up a conversation with you and finish writing a piece he's nearing the deadline on at the same time, or walking you to work even as he comes dangerously close to being late for his own job. It's tough, but he won't give up a second with you if he can help it

•And he's like an expert level date-planner, the quality of your dates always make up for all the “rain checks”

[heartyluv]

Trigger/Content Warning: You will be comforted by Sylus and Rafayel after reminiscing on the SA you have experienced before they came into your life. Please do not continue if this triggers and or upsets you. You’re important. Your safety and well-being matters and will always be taken into account.

Note: Everyone, I want to take this time to warn you once again that this request does speak on SA, but in no way shape or form is anything graphic or being detailed. This is a request sent by my luvly, Venus, who is strong and willing to share her story. While this is strictly meant for comfort, your mental health matters and it is never my intention to trigger anyone. Please do not read if that is a possibility. Also, if you feel comfortable and are prepared well enough to read her request, please take the time to go ahead and —Click Here—, but proceed with caution and care as she gives a little insight into what she has experienced and what she is working through. You have been warned. Please be responsible for the media you choose to consume. I love you.

Sylus

When you began to space out and the second you randomly grew particularly silent, Sylus knew what was happening. The way your bright smile slowly began to dim. The way your quirky responses were late and not as clever. The way you began to pick at the skin on your fingers, wincing ever so slightly when your tugged a little too hard.

He has grown to read and understand you very, very well, but no matter how many times he has approached this scenario, he will always treat it like it’s his first because of how different a reaction can be and vary.

You had rare occasions where the memories of the person you once trusted, the one who hurt and violated you, would flood your mind at the most random and inopportune moments. It would paralyze you, no matter what you were doing. The amount of therapists you’ve seen, how much healing you’ve done—it was irrelevant. When it hit you, it hit.

Sometimes it didn’t need a trigger—most often than not, it didn’t have one. The brain could be cruel and beautiful, making you remember the worst times of your life and the best in the same day if it wanted to.

Right now though, it felt as if a train was sitting on your chest and like only Superman could get it off.

“Kitten,” Sylus calls to you softly, tilting his head to try and look into your eyes. The comedy movie you were once watching has turned into pointless noise for him now.

You register his voice last minute, taking a bated and incomplete deep breath before turning to look at his relaxed yet determined expression.

“You’re with me?” he asks with care, placing his hand on yours to ground you. You flinch a little at first and it breaks his heart.

“Contact or no contact?”

“Contact,” you whisper shakily. Sylus worked with you in the very beginning of your relationship to set and establish your boundaries, and to cultivate simple words and phrases to get you through times where it felt a little too hard to say more. Not once, nor will he ever, judge you. From day one, he has been by your side, being your rock in a process of uncertainty.

He stands and immediately squats down to be eye level to where you sit. He takes one of your hands in his and places the other right on your chest to where your heart beats.

“Remember what we do, hm?” he smiles delicately enough to show you how patient he is. To show you how patient and present he’ll always be.

You nod, sniffling and going on his count before you take your first real inhale. It’s not quick and has always felt like it takes far too long to get back into your own body. The exercise regulates your mind and reminds you that you are safe, that you are okay, that you no longer are being consistently pursued by a threat. And on bended knee, Sylus doesn’t falter, nor does he rush.

“We don’t have to say much, sweetie. You don’t have to say anything at all, in fact.”

“I’m so sorry…” you mumble, looking into his deep red eyes and feeling nothing but sadness that he has to deal with this.

“I have already told you that apologies for healing is never something you do. Your process is yours to experience, yours to conquer. It is not for anyone else to dictate. And as the man who loves you,” he brings your knuckles up to his lips to press a featherlight kiss. “I will be here for every step to make sure to come out stronger and happier on the other side.”

A tear falls down your cheek, but he makes quick work to catch it before it can mark you with anymore sorrow.

“I don’t want to hurt anymore, Sy… I’m so tired of feeling it…” You shake your head, looking down in your lap.

“Feelings are what makes us real, sweetie, but they do not make us. You’re stronger than anybody I’ve ever known and I’ve seen men take too many bullets to the body and survive.” He feels triumphant when the corner of your mouth lifts to welcome a gentle smile. He continues, his deep voice like a soothing melody to your ears. “That’s nothing compared to the strength that surges inside of you. If it takes you a lifetime, I will be here for it, the next, and any after.”

“What have I done to deserve you?” When you give him your full attention again, his heart rushes with the familiar urge to protect you. To heal you.

“It’s a question I ask myself all the time. What has a man like myself done to earn someone as benevolent as you?”

“Oh, Sy…” you lean forward, relaxing when his strong arm wraps around you to place you in that security blanket only he can give. “I love you. So, so much.”

“As do I, kitten. I love you with every breath.” His hand runs down your back carefully. “What do you say I take you out for a sweet treat? Anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“And everything.”

“I’d like that.”

He gets your permission before kissing your forehead. “As would I.”

Rafayel

You didn’t mean to start crying as you waited for Rafayel in his studio. The longer you stood staring at his works in progress in silence, the more your mind felt like it was apparently necessary to let the painful memories of your past creep into your psyche.

Looking at his grand piece with silhouettes touching as if they were separated between two worlds did nothing but make you remember all the times you were touched in ways you never wanted. It made you remember when you once felt as if you were on another plane because too many would believe the trusted individual over your desperate cries for help, over your need for them to trust and hear you.

When the emotions almost became too much, it was the same time that your boyfriend arrived. Quickly, you tried to wipe away the evidence of your feelings off your wet cheeks, but he knew you too well to not recognize that there was something wrong before he even got the chance to see your face.

“Don’t hide from me, cutie,” he said as his footsteps grew closer. When he was near, from behind, one of his warm hands gently took hold of your wrist to stop the movements that worked to erase your tears. Carefully he rounds you, his purple hair falling into his studying gaze.

“I am only much help when you talk to me, bub. Please help me to understand what has you so troubled.” He gives you space, not rushing you to speak faster than what you’re ready for.

“I just—” You inhale sharply, swallowing the dreadful lump in your throat. “My past. The part of it that hurts too much to think about…I’m thinking about it.”

He purses his lips at the way you seem to try and shrug it off, like what you say is unimportant. His long slender fingers trace your knuckles. “Have I, anything, or anyone, done something to trigger you?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about.” He hates when you do that, when you try to undermine yourself and your feelings in an effort to “protect” others. He’s told you too many times before that you can be selfish with him.

“Hm.” His hands wrap around yours. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not worrying. I’m trying to correct and to become better aware to protect you and your mind.”

“That’s never been your burden to carry, Raf…”

“Being a help to my muse and my lover, will never be a burden. I’ve told you that, no?”

You huff out a breath with a nod, licking your lips in preparation before reluctantly pointing at the piece that rests on the floor against the wall. He follows the direction in which you have shown him.

“My piece has disturbed you?” He sounds defeated and ashamed. Like he should’ve known better.

“No, no!” you rush. “It was more so me…putting my trauma onto your work. It was never your fault.”

A brief moment passes as he stares down at the art that no longer matters to him. “Why don’t you reclaim it?”

“What do you mean?”

Rafayel lifts the canvas to place it on an easel before grabbing paint brushes and dotting globs of colorful pastels onto an art pallet. “Like we’ve done with your mind and body, we’ve given you back the power over both. We worked to make you feel like you have agency again, and to feel confident in that reality, despite the trauma. Take what I have and make this art yours.”

With wide eyes, you hesitantly accept what he’s giving you. “I can’t destroy your work.”

“Your hands don’t have the ability to destroy, cutie. Not in my world.” He smiles as he guides you to stand before the thing that troubled you. “You can only take control.”

Behind you once more, he helps you dip the wet brush in a random color before smearing it against the once finished product. “And I will be here to support you, to guide you if you need me.”

Your eyes burn with tears the entire time when he stays right where you need him for the next hour.

Rather than the painting representing something so painful, it becomes a mesmerizing homage to the love you have with Rafayel. What once seemed like two strangers, is now a representation of the strong unity you have with the angel like man holding your fist as it works to move the brush until you’re satisfied with the result.

“Thank you, Raf,” you say softly, letting your head rest on his shoulder as you tilt your head back. “I love you. Thank you for loving me.”

“Thank yourself first, pretty. It’s your perseverance that keeps you golden. I’m just here to make sure that light never dims.”

He kisses the side of your head while you two stare at your creation in comfortable silence. “And I love you, too. Know that it will always be greater than any ocean and stronger than any wave. Far greater.”

A/N: I can only hope that I’ve done this the justice it deserves. For anyone who can relate to this, please know and understand that you will always be stronger than you know. Know that you are believed, that you are loved, that you are golden. ❤️

Creds to @/omi-resources for the dividers!

[phielows]

Both JL and BatFam thinks it’s cute at first, seeing that Batman and Superman shy away from one another or that each time every “Copy that” and “Report to comm?” Is just a subtle to tell that they care to each other more than they care to others.

Subtle brushes of each other’s presence and light touches from time never escaped their eyes. It was beautiful to see. The brooding and moody bat, becoming a bit more softer and less intense (at least to the League) and to the kids, he seems so… something else. The batkids saw how Bruce becomes like a new person… because who possessed this man?None of them were ever grounded yet…no matter how much they disobey protocols and be batshit crazy (pun intended) they are still free…did he got a hemorrhage? Poisoned? Drunk something? Nevertheless they don’t know how to feel about it.

Until it got ridiculous. Days passed, and the pining only got worse. It was deadass annoying. It started as something harmless but it began to bug everyone out. It was like seeing 2 main leads in a telenovela be oblivious about something that’s already fed to them.

So two parties decided to come up with a plan. The JL decided to corner them. The bat kids plays cupid.

——

The JL: /each and every one of them decided to flirt on both Batman and Superman, making sure that the other was always watching, intently— mercilessly.

Hal: Hey there spooky, care to enlighten me more on this case?/side glancing supes, making sure the other was watching as he leaned closer to the bat./

Batman: we just had a whole intervention about this case earlier.

Hal: Yeah Yeah i know, i just wanna run through it again (smiles sweetly)

And Bruce is sure that he’d ask one of the league if Hal got bitten by an animal infested with rabies or what.

Supes: (could’ve swore he is already burning holes into Hal’s forehead)

———

Diana: Well you look dashing today, Clark! Btw, someone drop by a bunch of pretzels by the tower’s mail, and the note says “L.L.”

Supes: “L.L”?? What-

(Note:dw this did not came from Lois🥀we can assume it came from a bald headed guy)

Batman who didn’t even let Clark see the whole thing for a sec, grabbed a batarang and strike the box of goodies with a single shot and it immediately exploded.

Both were stunned from the event that followed. However, this only guaranteed the team’s success rate and that idea earned a smirk from Diana’s lips.

————

Batkids: SUPERMAN SUPERMAN SUPERMAN UNCLE CLARK UNCLE CLARK

Dick: Bruce do you remember that one ice cream parlor you brought me into with Clark? Can we go againnn pls pls pls

Bruce:?? i’m pretty sure they moved their location already-

———

Jason: Woah Bruce, didn’t know Clark writes immaculately. Do you know if he’s reading something lately?

Bruce: …

———

Tim: Hey Bruce? Mind checking this file i got? It’s a case downtown, i think you’ll need to contact Superman on this one.

Bruce: …?

————

Cass: (signs) Can you ask Clark to cook pancakes again? His pancakes are the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

Bruce: (signs) sure…?

———

Damian: Father.

Bruce: yes?

Damian: do you know where Superman lives?

Bruce: uh..yes why?

Damian: Good. Send me the location, I will be gone for 3 days.

Bruce: whatever for?

Damian: Felicity just gave birth.

Bruce: Feli what?

Damian: the goat in the Kent’s barn. She just gage birth. I need to be there to ensure if they’re both okay and to also take responsibility as the godfather.

Bruce:

———

Bruce: for the love of this shithole, don’t they have anything else to say than his name?

[dollfacefantasy]

hi! i love your writing so much! i was wondering if you could write something with leon and a clingy reader? she just likes being held by him, and one day a make out session gets out of hand while he’s holding her so he just fucks her while standing up, not letting her get down. i don’t know if this makes sense but the thought won’t leave my head. hope you’re having a good day/night! <3

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: you're such a needy little thing. leon can't get enough of you, and when he finds out you like being held, he has to take advantage of that.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, oral sex (m receiving), standing sex, daddy kink

word count: 3.9k

a/n: thank you so much for the request! i FELT this one cause i also have a thing about being held hehe. i hope it's what you were looking for :) reblogs and comments are really appreciated <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @petitecolibri @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @nexysworld @explorevenus @luniaxi

It only took Leon a couple weeks of dating to figure out that his girlfriend was exceptionally needy. He could tell you tried to suppress it to the best of your ability, control your yearning for physical contact, but it was still there. Honestly, it was obvious from the way you looked at him alone. Glossy, pleading eyes just calling out to him for some love.

At first, he was wary of this trait. He wasn’t good with affection normally. Didn’t like talking about his feelings. That stuff was just too much. He’s a busy guy already. He didn’t need extra worries in the form of a sweet thing like you rubbing your cheek against his neck, snaking your arms beneath his shirt, softly pleading “Leon, I wanna cuddle.”

But his problem was that he always gave into that stuff. Words like those hitting his ears, your pouty lips begging for his kisses, and grabby hands roaming around his body always got you what you wanted. He’d plant a smooch on your temple or forehead, grunt a quiet “c’mere then baby,” and pull you on top of him.

Time passed, and you grew on him like ivy climbing a stone wall. Your clingy nature took root somewhere inside him and drove him wild. It was addictive, feeling so needed. For the first time in his life, he felt like someone’s absolute first choice. It was nice living out his days with the subconscious idea that he was your favorite person. He could get a bit cocky about it sometimes but more than anything it made him all sappy. He couldn’t help it. He tried keeping up the cool, slick persona around you for a little while because impressing you was so important to him. But the way you looked at him made him feel like Superman. Your precious face tilted upwards to gaze at him like he was the only man you’d ever laid eyes on. It just made him wanna scoop you up and take off, soar far up into the clouds where it would just be the two of you.

So he ended up feeding into this kind of behavior one thousand percent, enabling you with no reservations. If you were sitting together, you were on his lap. Standing near each other? His arm was around you, keeping you tucked to his chest. The two of you would be lying in bed and simple cuddling just didn’t cut it anymore. No, instead, he’d be rubbing your back, nuzzling and kissing your neck, massaging your scalp. And the pet names were constant. Your actual name was only reserved for serious or special occasions. In ordinary conversations, it was always “my baby” with the intermittent “precious girl” or “princess” mixed in. 

Because, from his perspective, why wouldn’t he? You both deserved this. You craved the physical affection you’d never gotten enough of while he yearned for a sweet little thing to dote on and love between the brutal DSO missions that plagued most of his time. He didn’t give a fuck if someone wanted to say it was codependent or that he was whipped. You were his baby, and if sweet tender affection was what revved your engine, what kind of man would he be to deprive you of it?

Maybe he was whipped. He wouldn’t shy away from that label. He loved you undoubtedly. His heart ached to see you smiling and laughing. Each individual cell in his body cried out to be pressed against you. But in the same breath, he’d be a liar if he said that sex played no part in his urges to coddle you.

He’d never seen a girl get as cock drunk as you. He’d warm you up with his cooing and caresses, and then all he had to do was slide a few inches in you, and you were gone. Nothing had ever gotten him so hard. It’s like your brain shut off as soon as your sweet little pussy was filled up. Really, you went the whole nine yards; whining, babbling, drooling. Your gorgeous lashes would flutter as your eyes went hazy, and you always wanted to hold his hand. Well, more specifically, you wanted him to offer his hand to you. He’d simply murmur “Aw, is it too much, princess? Here, hold daddy’s hand. That’s my girl,” and you were already cumming.

Cause that was the other part of this whole thing. Shortly after he caught on to your intense need for physical affection, he discovered your penchant for the infamous d word. The first time you’d said it, he had you pinned down to the mattress, face shoved against your pillow, hips slightly elevated while he stuffed you full of cock. You just cried it out in the same way you’d yell for God or whine “fuck.” And he rolled with it. One little word wasn’t gonna get in the way of what he’d found with you.

Beyond calling him daddy, Leon tried to take note of all the things that got you going. Sure, you were fond of physical expressions of love, and you probably wouldn’t turn down an offer from him ever. But that didn’t mean you didn’t have favorites when it came to this stuff. Leon took pride in remembering what you liked. Over the months of your relationship, he made a point to remember the specific motion you liked him to do when he rubbed your back. He burned into his mind that you liked to kiss in a way that would definitely make those over-the-top smooching noises found in network dramas. What could he say? He just wanted to do everything right for you.

Possibly his favorite thing that he discovered about you though was your love for being held. Love probably wasn’t even a strong enough word. Your affinity? Proclivity? Plain white hot need? Who fucking knows. All he knew was that you had a major thing for being wrapped up in his arms with your head on his shoulder.

The first hint he’d got at this part of you came by pure accident. He’d just arrived home from a mission, a long and taxing one at that. He’d missed you like crazy, felt as needy as you did on a daily basis, and you were practically vibrating with a longing for his touch. So when you came bounding down the hallway to meet him at the front door, he’d grabbed you by the waist, picked you up and spun you around like in an old cartoon when the prince and princess finally get their happily ever after.

Coming out of the short twirl, he’d brought you to his chest and held your body a little ways above the ground. He cradled your head to your shoulder and kept his grip tight to support you. And it wasn’t like you melted or had little hearts gleaming in your eyes, but something in your demeanor shifted.

“There’s my baby,” he muttered while smacking kisses on the side of your head.

You replied with how much you missed him, more than anything in the whole world. He laughed his deep, rumbling laugh and brought you over to the couch. You were all over him even more than normal which was really saying something. You couldn’t stop pecking his face or pushing up against him. Next thing he knew, you were tugging at his belt and taking his dick down your throat.

“Fuck, precious. don’t gotta choke yourself. It’s not goin’ anywhere,'' he hummed while tilting his head back against the couch. You weren’t normally so forward. You were always needy, but typically, you waited for him to initiate. It was much more your style to drop hints that you were in the mood and wait for him to pick up on your signals, but this time you just went for it.

He stroked the back of your head while you bobbed your head, taking him deeper each time. Groans fell from his lips, and his hips jolted in small twitches. Your saliva seeped out over your soft lips and dribbled down to his balls. You had never lacked enthusiasm before, but now you were taking him like his cock was the best treat you’d ever had.

He could barely stand the sight of you in that moment. Cute eyes drooping while your cheeks hollowed. Once he heard the muted sound of you gagging, he was done for. Shot his load deep in your throat in what would have been an embarrassingly short amount of time if you were anyone else. But you swallowed it all without any complaints and then crawled into his lap to cuddle some more. As you curled up to his chest, he knew something he did struck a chord with you to get you so eager.

So naturally, he tried picking you up again a couple days later. He had to know if that was a fluke or if it really was a thing. This time it was much more intentional, but he still played it off as a teasing gesture. He scooped you up from behind while you were fidgeting with something in the kitchen, expecting a whiny chorus of “Leon!” and “Stop, put me down!” But you didn’t say either. You let out a soft squeak and a quiet “What are you doing?”

“Just giving you a hug, baby,” he teased and situated you in his embrace so your front was pressed to his.

Almost immediately, as if your skull was magnetized, your head fell to his shoulder. Your limbs tightened around him a little and you took a deep breath like you wanted to commit his scent to memory. You didn’t even complain about him pulling you away from whatever task had been occupying your attention.

“This isn’t a hug,” you’d said softly.

“Says who? Seems like a hug to me, got my arms around you,” he responded with a small kiss to your temple.

His hand rose to your head and cradled it against his shoulder as your legs locked around his waist. He stood there with you for a moment just taking in the embrace. It was as if he could feel you melt against his body.

“A hug is when we’re both standing,” you say quietly while slotting your face in the warm crook of his neck.

“Yeah? You look that up in the dictionary or something?” he mutters in return.

When he had a firm hold on you, he walked you through the living room, taking the long way up to the bedroom to give his little experiment some time to play out. You rested quietly in his grasp as he navigated past furniture. He ran his free hand up and down your back as he moved, his other one planted firmly on your thigh to support you.

After the two of you reached the bedroom, he set you down on the bed and climbed in after you. His fingers coasted across your cheek as he looked down into your eyes, studying you in a way. He was still curious about what was going through your head. Again, him holding you like that had led to some of the best sex the two of you’d had, but there was something deeper there too. This wasn’t just a cheat code to get you to drop your panties. There was an emotional part of this too. He could tell.

“So you like when I pick you up, hm?” he’d asked.

You looked up at him from your spot against his chest, glowing a bit as you came down from the high. “I guess,” you answered with a tiny shrug.

He’d chuckled at your attempt to be casual and just dropped the subject matter. Your reasons were probably sensitive to you. Located in a deep, private cavern of your heart that was too guarded for you to let even him in yet. And that was ok with him. For now, he’d just chalk it up to some desire on an instinctual level. It was just something that made you tick, and it became something he did for you from time to time when you needed that extra level of care.

This evening, the two of you had been watching some movie. To be honest, Leon didn’t even remember what it was called at this point because he didn’t really wanna watch it in the first place. He was much more interested in you. You had just started it up as he arrived home from running some errands though, so he didn’t want to be rude and ask you to shut it off just because he was horny. Instead, he flopped down next to you on the couch. 

A small laugh bubbles from your lips as he pulls you to him and kisses down the side of your face, murmuring for you to explain what’s going on in the thing you were watching. You ramble on about the story, telling him that it’s the end of the world and these guys are trapped in this house, and that one is friends with that one but hates the other one, and blah blah blah. He loved you to death, but he just couldn’t care less about that right now. He hums along with a stream alternating between  “mhm” and “oh yeah.”

Your laughter increases as his kisses become more distracting. He nips at the skin of your throat and litters your soft skin with love bites. His tongue laves at your neck as his nose coasts over your flesh. After a while, your own interest in the movie begins to dwindle. You turn your head and plant some smooches on his face, enticing him to tilt his head upwards. The two of you meet in the middle, connecting your lips.

Mouths move in sync, tongues brush each other, and soon enough, your seat’s been abandoned in favor of your true favorite spot. You’re parked on his lap, the lush flesh of your ass flush against his semi-hard bulge. His hand slithers up your back underneath your shirt to rub up and down your spine while pulling you closer. Your breathing gets heavier, and you’re practically panting when you two finally pull away for a break. Your lips are wet with spit and a little puffy from making out. He drags his thumb over your bottom one as he smirks at your glazed eyes.

“Think you’d be ok with finishing this later?” he asks.

To his pleasure, you’re quick to accept the offer with a nod. “Seen it before anyways,” you admit and lean back in for more kisses.

He chuckles into your mouth and boosts you up without even turning the tv off. He’s stumbling to the bedroom, and you’re latched onto him like a little spidermonkey or something. He knew well by now that being carried took your brain to that sweet spot of utter submission, but today you were on something else entirely. You were getting whiny between kisses. He was having to support you extra because your hands were trying to slide in between the two of you and get at his pants. He assumed it was cause he got you riled up before picking you up, but he didn’t lament about it too much. He wasn’t thinking with his head right now.

All your squirming around nearly made him trip and topple the both of you to the ground. He grunts and shifts you around, trying to get you to settle down at least till you reach the bedroom. You wouldn’t let up though, continuing on with your impatient hip rocking and greedy fingers. He’s sure he’s about to fall over and one of you is moments away from serious injury, so he totters a few steps over and secures you against the wall.

“Jesus, you’d think I’d just got back from a war or something,” he breathes.

You laugh, but keep up your neediness. “Just want you so bad. Missed my daddy all day,” you murmur.

“Yeah? I know it’s hard being away from me. Your little head’s just not cut out for all that thinking is it?” he coos condescendingly, “This is how you're meant to be, just attached to daddy, letting him take care of everything while you tag along.”

“Mhm,” you nod and kiss him again. He can feel you smiling against his lips.

“Yeah, so how bout you do me a favor then and stop wriggling around so much. You wanna get dropped on your head so thinking isn’t even an option anymore?” he teases.

“No. I just…” you whimper defensively. A smile spreads across your face as you hide your face at the base of his neck. “I just want you… really bad.”

That was a tone Leon knew well by now. That was the tone of the guessing game. It was the voice you used when you wanted something but were too shy to just ask for it. So Leon had to decipher your signals and figure out what that thing was. Luckily, this time around it was pretty simple.

“Really bad? Like pinned down in the middle of the hallway while I’m stuffing you full of cum bad?” he asks.

“Sorta…” you say.

With an amused shake of his head, he thinks a little more. The stuffed full of cum thing was a given. So what was off? He was thinking through this as if searching for a missing puzzle piece. He runs through different scenarios before it clicks. He laughs a little. It was kind of obvious once he had it.

“Oh, of course not. There’s no way you’d choose to be out of my arms. What was I thinking?” he says, exaggerating his cadence, “So you want it standing?”

You nod, and with the right answer, that little smile feels so much sweeter. He leans harder into you, keeping you by pressing you between him and the wall. Giving you a few messy kisses, he finally undoes his pants and pushes them down to his mid-thigh. He was fully hard now. You could feel it as he rolled his hips against your center.

“Lucky you’re wearing a skirt, nice and easy for me,” he hums.

He bunches up the fabric around your waist before dragging his fingers over your panties, feeling how they were damp. He smirks against your lips while applying more pressure, seeking out your swollen clit.

“Already so wet, baby,” he chides, “Is this how you get while I’m not with you? Can’t think of anything but daddy cause your pretty pussy’s just crying for some more attention.”

“Yeah, need you to make the ache go away,” you say in a breathy whimper.

“I know you do,” he coos.

It’s a bit difficult in this position, but Leon manages to remove the last barriers of cloth separating the two of you. He lines up his dick with your entrance and slides home. Now it’s his head that falls on your shoulder as he groans. His stance didn’t really allow him to ease in. He was balls deep in the first stroke. You let out a long satisfied moan.

Taking a moment to readjust, he gets his elbows hooked under the bends of your knees. You’re basically bent in half, his cock to your cervix. This angle felt even deeper too. Your walls pulse around him as you work to accommodate the length.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Every part of you clings to me,” he grunts before taking a step away from the wall.

Losing the stability behind your back had you rocking and shifting more, causing his tip to nudge against all those sweet spots. Your thighs quiver as Leon gets into a rhythm and figures out how to bounce you on his cock like his. The sound of your skin meeting floats down the hallway. You whine and whimper, your eyes roll back as your head tilts the same direction.

He could tell you were loving it. Your favorite place to be combined with your favorite feeling in the entire world. There was nothing his sweet girl loved more than being stuffed full of cock and held by him.

“Feeling good, princess? Is daddy fucking you just how you wanted?” he asks.

“Mhm, mhm, mhm,” you whimper and nod dumbly.

“Good,” he says. He focuses on working himself in and out of you. His mind is locked on the sensation of your slick coating his shaft and collecting at the base, dripping down to his balls. But more words fill his mind and rush to his mouth to be let out. “This is why you’re so needy, right baby? You just need some cock in you or you get so frustrated. Can’t even think straight without your fill, can you?”

You shake your head wildly. Your legs tense over his arms. His hands dig into your back to keep you supported. You see his biceps flexing beneath his sleeves as he uses his strength to hold you up. He rocks you on his cock, back and forth, sliding himself in and out. You’re gasping and trembling more noticeably now. He knows you’re approaching the peak.

“Doing so good for me, precious,” he murmurs, “Keep squeezing me like that so I can fill you up just how you need.”

Your noises become more desperate. It feels as though you get even tighter. Leon slams into you deeper than you could remember. But then again, in this state, your memory wasn’t worth much. Pumping in and out, he sees your eyes squeeze show, your mouth widening into that cute familiar shape it always made when you came.

“Go ahead, baby. Make a mess for daddy,” he groans.

You do as he says, following your orders. You seize up and moan, long and loud. He tightens his grip and takes a step closer to the wall to ensure your high isn’t cut by falling. His hips don’t stop though. He feels that tensing in his belly. Gritting his teeth, he pounds you over and over until he has to stumble back to the wall.

You hit the surface with a thud, but he’s a little too busy to notice. He growls and whimpers into your neck, hips working at a more strained pace as he tries to grab that brief euphoria. A few thrusts later and release is washing over him. He fucks you full, going deep and staying true to his word about filling you up. He pumps every last drop in.

You slowly slide down in his arms till he lets go of your legs and your feet can touch the ground again. Looking up at him as he comes down, you watch his features melt into the relaxation of post-release. You lean up and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. His eyes open and look down at you. A lazy smile spreads on his face and moves in to return the gesture.

“So how’d I do?” he asks with that smug look you loved so much.

“Perfect like always,” you answer, genuine in contrast to his teasing. You step forward on wobbly legs, grabbing his hand to finish your trip to the bedroom together. He leans down and smacks a kiss on your neck.

“Clearly not perfect enough if you’re walking on your own now,” he purrs in your ear.

You smile and look down. “There’s still time to fix that,” you offer.

“Of course there is,” he agrees with a light swat to your ass. He pecks your lips once more before following you through the entryway to your shared room.

[lady-ace]

The cities are alive

By now, it's a pretty common fact that the cities — yes, cities are in fact, alive.

They can project a body in their territory, thus showing their presence.

Lady Gotham is a dark mistress. Her wings are black like the fog that covers her whole city — as black as Gotham's night. Her long dress, even though seemingly soft and elegant in first glance, won't ever sway, not even in the harshest winter winds Gotham offers.

Even though she wears a blindfold, she sees all, is all. She sees beyond the surface of what eyes can see; knowing full well the pain and suffering every single Gotham citizen goes through, and bears that burden.

Her whole body seems to be made of pure, dark energy. Some accounts of eye witnesses say that if Lady Gotham wished so, she could easily blend into the shadows, as if she was never there. Ever watching over her people, even though unseen.

Legends say that if you ever feel like you're being watched even though there's nobody there, it's a sign Lady Gotham's spirit has her sights on you.

The person who have her favor, the ones she sees herself the most in, are her royal knights, who fight to keep her city and her people safe, every night.

Metropolis' spirit was very different, in many ways.

Metropolis was sunny and hopeful — a truly carefree soul.

Metropolis was the city that showed himself the most, simply enjoying being able to watch as the civillians go about their day, making the city burst with life.

Metropolis thrives on the energy of its people — that is reflected on the bright, sunny days with no clouds in sight, where the skyline gleams.

Of course, Metropolis' chosen is Superman, the most bright symbol of hope there is. Inspired by him, Metropolis even decided to encorporate a cape in their astral projection, said cape that shines like the sun and gleams like the sky no matter the time.

Everyone knows a city's spirit has at least something in common with their chosen.

Metropolis is the most boyscout city spirit out there. More often than not, the spirit can be found watching the sunrise, flying over the clouds, enjoying the freedom, or simply swinging his legs on a building, looking at everyone down below. The feeling of hope, of a chance of a better tomorrow — that is what Metropolis is looking for. And Superman has more than enough of that.

Even though Lady Gotham is cloaked in shadows, she doesn't wilt, she thrives— Just like her chosen, the Gotham Bats.

No one questions these things, they all make sense, don't they? The dark Lady has her dark Knights, the sunny city and the boyscout...

So imagine the faces of the League members when they find out through casual conversation that Fawcett is an actual child.

──────────────────────────

Green Lantern: “I know i shouldn't be talking about someone being childish, but the spirit that chose him is literally a child.”

Wonder Woman: “Are you certain that is the reason that the spirit chose to reflect a child's body? For his.. mentality?”

Green Lantern: “Yeah, pretty much. I mean, do you know any other reason that Fawcett could have chosen that form?”

Zatanna, who sometimes goes to Fawcett's magical market: “You all know that Fawcett's magical, right? What's more magical than a child's imagination?”

Flash: “If the spirit wanted to reflect something of Marvel's, why choose the mentality? The lightning bolt is right there!”

──────────────────────────

“Uno!” a child made of yellow energy exclaims, grinning devilishly.

Freddy gasps, holding a single card in his hand — having played the second to last one just seconds before. “Oh you did NOT just do that.”

Fawcett giggles like a goblin, watching as Freddy glares at them, pointedly making eye contact as he starts buying cards.

“Well, if you had been just a little faster..” Billy says, playing a reversal card. Freddy looks once at his new cards, then proceeds to sigh in frustration, buying even more cards while glaring murderously at the Champion.

“Batson, if i were you, i'd sleep with one eye open tonight.”

Billy can't contain his giggles anymore and bursts out laughing, Fawcett following suit.

[sightseertrespasser]

Mayhaps a lore dump on the specific Humans Are Space Orcs variations you're a fan of/including?

I like the concept in general since I like when humans are just as interesting as the aliens!

Within the setting as I’ve planned it, humans are not “Superman/Kryptonian” levels of powerful compared to other alien species. On the whole, humans are far closer to the average organic alien than anything on the scale of Cybertronians or Quintessons.

Removing those outliers from the equation, humanity as compared to the organic alien average ranks as “more durable than expected” and “weirdly sociable”.

For the first example, a broken leg is a broken leg across species, but humans are a lot less lethargic compared to other alien’s during the healing process. Similarly, if something doesn’t outright kill a human, it generally takes longer for the human to die.

A gunshot through the leg is just as deadly at impact, but the human is far more likely to recover afterwards assuming they don’t die from the initial hit.

For that second bit, I like the idea that humans compared to other aliens are unusually quick to personify other species (or objects) as fellow people. Normally, it takes at least a few hours to days (or generations) for regular aliens to make the mental adjustment to view a new kind of alien as a person person.

For humans? That’s basically automatic. “You’re smart enough to talk to me? Yep you’re a person.” I mean, look at our media and tell me if SpongeBob feels like a person. To you. A human. Yes? That’s not normal to other aliens.

Humans are odd physically and mentally but not that strange to any one species as compared to the rest of the galactic neighborhood. When your closest trading partners are giant robots, sentient goops and rat people, the lanky hairless monkey’s are not that weird.

What is weird however is just how much firepower humanity has for a pre-contact species. The only other aliens that fight each other on the same scale with the same frequency are Cybertronians.

Let’s just say they have a lot in common.

[shinynewwriting]

Finally, some good fucking Clex content again. Superman: Lex Luthor Special opens with a reminder that normally, Lex is the smuggest man alive:

But some time ago, Lex allowed his memories to be completely erased in order to stop Brainiac. Since then, he's been doing fuck-all besides growing a beard and taking pleasant walks around Metropolis. It's probably the closest thing to a vacation he's had in decades, but unfortunately it's because he is in permanent No Thoughts, Head Empty mode. (Or is he?)

During one such walk in the park, someone recognizes him (should have put on some glasses too, Lex. Amateur!) and throws coffee in his face. Superman, probably not for the first time, keeps a righteously angry mob from turning Lex into paste.

Possibility 1: Clark has been avoiding Lex because he feels tremendously guilty about not being able to prevent Lex's brain from being scrambled, and also because seeing the Guy Formerly Known As Lex weirds him out.

Possibility 2: Clark has been avoiding Lex because there's a really good chance Lex will just spontaneously redevelop the ol' murder-crush on him if they make eye contact for too long, and he feels guilty about that.

Regardless, for plot science reasons, they need the old Lex back. Amnesia Lex is...not enthused. (That brown splotch across his face is supposed to be the coffee that was thrown at him several panels ago. Liquids, how do they work?)

HNNNG Clark immediately noticing a difference in how Lex talked about himself, and Lex countering by dropping the big, nuclear question: 'Do you actually want Lex Luthor back? Is the world better with me him in it?'

Clark flees the scene immediately rather than answer 💔

Throughout the special, Lex has been flashing back to his horrible, abusive childhood in Smallville, guest starring not!John Glover:

I was very pleased to see them continuing the emotional beat of young Lex feeling desperately lonely and isolated from everyone else because of his mind. Birthright and The Last Days of Lex Luthor both used that to great effect to compare him with Clark, and it's a backstory I personally like.

Anyway, Lionel Luthor is terrible:

But Lex isn't ever as alone as he thinks:

In the present, a brooding Lex stares at the piano he was 'unable' to play earlier that morning:

And Superman gets a call from Mr. Terrific, who just received the Important Science Equation Thing he was hoping for from Supercorp. But Superman didn't send it...

[menacing lullaby of devotion intensifies]

Joshua Williamson loves us, Clex nation.

[candysparks]

Imagine Demon! Reader + Neglected! Wayne x Neglectful! Batfam

[This is the prologue for what might be a series. Also this does involve a Wayne Oc. This is NOT proof read, so sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes I make] There is another part for this Imagine if you wanted to check that out as well! Just click [This]

[Warnings for Death, cult talk, blood sacrifices and all that jazz, child neglect, demon stuff]

So basically what I'm thinking of at the moment is Neglected! Wayne is Bruce's bio kid from some one off fling. He fools around and has a one night stand with this really pretty woman and she ends up pregnant, but doesn't tell him. Months go by and she's the proud mother of one healthy, rambunctious, baby who she lovingly names Percy.

But wait! Since she's a prominent business woman so she has to have a rival who wants her to fail. This rival won't get a name, but they use her pregnancy against her by claiming she's been sleeping around so her reputation takes a slight turn. This, of course, isn't enough to bring her reputation or her business down so the rival takes a step up.

They get in contact with some shady people who start messing up her business. Just some light vandalism to ward off people from working with her. One night they break into the building and smash some stuff, just to get her scared, but it ends up going so wrong.

You see, it was a long day at work and she was just swamped with paperwork so she had to stay late. Of course Percy, freshly aged 9, was working on some homework right next to her because he loves his mother and can't stand being part from her more than necessary.

[And when I say Percy loves her, I mean he admires her the most in the whole world. If anyone where to ask who his hero was he wouldn't say Batman, or Superman, and he might say Wonder Woman if he gave it some more thought, but to him? His first instinct would to say "My mom!" much to her delight.]

But now you might be thinking, where does Demon! Reader come into this whole thing? Well as it would turn out, one of the people who broke in was a paranoid person with a trigger happy finger, and the other was ragging cultist who was just looking for a reason to try out this new cursed tomb he got.

Percy decides he needs to get up and stretch, get his legs moving. It's like his mother always said 'Sitting in one spot for too long leads to a slumped mind, and a curved back' so it was better for him to get up and move his legs once in awhile.

But what's this? The paranoid robber happens to turn the corner just as Percy opens the door and BAM! Percy's mother, who was standing right behind him, falls to the floor and starts bleeding out. Percy freaks out and tries to put pressure on the wound, just like those books he liked to read said to do.

Her blood is everywhere, its all over his hands, his shirt, oh god it's all over him and it wont stop. The robber is also freaking out. He just shot this woman and her child was right there, he felt so so bad about it all.

And then the other one turns the corner and gets a good look at what's happening. So he pulls out his phone and makes a few calls before turning to his partner who was still freaking out, leaving Percy to hear his mothers final words before she goes limp.

The cultist decides 'Yo this is a great time to test out this blood sacrifice page in this wicked old tomb!' and knocks Percy out and drags away his mother. Of course he can't just leave Percy behind, no that would cause unwanted issues because Percy is now a witness, though the robbers forget about the security cameras entirely.

So they shove the two of them in their get away van and instead of driving back to their boss they end up at an unused warehouse. The cultist one gets right to work, drawing out this huge elaborate circle with the mothers blood. Of course he lights some candles, but to make it all the worse he uses drops of Percy's blood instead of his even thought it's what the book says not to do.

The circle glows red and out pops Demon! Reader. Of course this is also the moment Percy wakes up and is rightfully horrified to know he's bleeding from his hand, and Percy is a smart kid so he can put two and two together. He knows his blood was used along with his mothers. Tears are falling from his eyes now because he can't seem to wrap his mind around everything fast enough.

This gets Demon! Reader's attention and so they end up shoving past the two robbers and sits in front of Percy. Demon! Reader is simply fascinated with this crying child. It's not every day a demon sees a living child, especially one that's so full of life and is currently crying.

Doesn't help that Demon! Reader can feel the blood bond between them. Demon! Reader can't hurt Percy, even if they wanted to, due to the fact that the cultist used Percy's blood in the summoning. Just demon things, you know?

This of course, pissed the cultist off and so he starts shouting. Though the shouting and insults don't really bother Demon! Reader, they can tell it's bothering Percy. So they do what they always do and simply devours the cultist.

Buuut that freaks out the other robber so he tries to shoot at Demon! Reader but that obviously doesn't work. So Demon! Reader eats him too! Percy has long since passed out due to the shock of it all, so Demon! Reader changes into the form of a cat and snuggles right up to him.

Demon! Reader can tell they're going to enjoy being tied to this human child. They've already taken it upon themselves to raise them into a strong and healthy person.

[Just gonna flash forward real quick and list out some stuff that happens.]

Percy gets discovered all alone in the warehouse and sent to the cops cause he's covered in blood. Demon! Reader gets to go along because Percy refuses to let go of them and they're still in cat form. Blah blah Percy gets sent to an orphanage who doesn't really care about him but notices the cat that's stuck to him like glue and that his eyes are very similar to Bruce Wayne. They do a blood test and gets shocked that he is a Wayne and then they ship him off to the Wayne Manor.

Though at this point in time Bruce is too busy with mourning the loss of Jason to properly take care of, or even look at, Percy. Then Tim comes along and he get's too busy with bat stuff, and then so does everyone else. Dick doesn't pay attention to them either cause he's always in Blüdhaven and all that jazz. But that's okay cause Percy has Demon! Reader and Alfred to look after him.

Then comes Damian and it all goes to shit from there. Damian, being Damian, pulls a sword on Percy to try and fight him for the title of blood child or whatever. Percy gets cut, right along his left hand [his right hand is the one with a cut from the summoning] and starts to panic because he knows what Demon! Reader would want to do in revenge.

So Percy runs off to his room and does everything he can to keep Demon! Reader from flipping the fuck out and throwing hands with a literal child. But that only makes Damian think less of Percy, seeing him as a coward who only runs away instead of fighting back like a "true" Wayne.

Percy is at least 16 at this point, so he decides to throw caution to the wind and GTFO, much to Demon! Reader's delight. But what's this? Everyone is taking an interest in this forgotten Wayne and don't want him to go.

But who is this stray cat that keeps following him around the manor? And his weird/feral friend who constantly wears a red headband that has demon horns and has a bad habit of biting people? No, no, this simply won't do, Percy needs to make new friends, better friends.

Or better yet, forget the friends, Percy needs to stay with his "Family" and not run off into the big scary world all alone. Moving? Why would Percy move when he has a home at the Wayne Manor?

Cue Demon! Reader flipping their shit and trying to convince Percy to let them kill get rid off his annoying "family" so they can finally travel the world like they'd planned.

[And that's all I can think of at the moment. But just to clear up some stuff, Demon! Reader adores Percy like their own child. And due to Demon customs, Demon! Reader has taught Percy all about being a demon. From how to fight his battles with his own nails and teeth to even manors and habits of demon kind. In this AU Demons are very clingy and affectionate with their family, similar but also different dynamics compared to a wolf or a cat pack. The Strong protect the weak and all that jazz, and in Demon! Reader's eyes Percy is weak but has potential to be strong. So Demon! Reader mother cat's him, picking him up by his 'scruff' when they feel he's in danger, or that he's been away from them for too long.] [If you have any questions about this au, or if you wanna request some more lore/character stuff, my ask box is open!]