thatweirdo466

[thatweirdo466]

when we weren’t looking

pairings: poly!superbat x fem!reader, superman x reader, batman x reader, superman x batman, parental!reader x batkids, parental!reader x superkids

summary: You were there from the beginning - a Justice League founder, a guardian to Bruce’s and Clark’s children, and the glue holding two chaotic families together. Love grew slowly, quietly, in lingering touches and missed chances, until it was buried beneath years of duty and heartbreak. Now, when the kids are grown and your heart dares to look forward again, Bruce and Clark must face the truth they’ve both been avoiding: they’ve loved you all along. Will you let them, or has it been too long to let two of the world’s finest heroes into your heart?

wc: 6.1k

content: justice league founder!reader, magical!reader, parenting, jason todd death mention, grieving, lois lane dies, angst, misunderstanding, MISUNDERSTANDINGS, good intentions, accidental child acquisition, parental!reader, inaccurate timelines, unreliable narrator, tags to be added

a/n: guess what! it's a part one, for now, because i apparently don't know how to keep an idea short and sweet. what the actual hell, this wasn't supposed to turn out like this. when will it come out? hmm, i don't know, but i am writing it currently! okay, i hope you guys enjoy! like, reblog, comment and follow for more like this!

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You were there from the beginning. Not as shining, iconic, or universally adored as Superman, Batman, or Wonder Woman, but you never minded. Let them be the faces of the League, the gods walking among mortals. Your place had always been steadier, quieter. And with that came something they rarely had: time.

It started with Robin. The first one. Richard Grayson.

The League needed to fly off-world to face whatever galactic tyrant was threatening Earth that week, and Bruce couldn’t exactly bring a thirteen-year-old into deep space. You volunteered without hesitation. “I’ll take him. He’ll be fine with me.”

That was how you ended up driving Richard Grayson—Robin, in all his excitable glory—to school in your little blue car, the radio cranked up and both of you butchering whatever pop song was popular that month. He sang off-key, you exaggerated the harmony, and by the time you dropped him off, he was grinning ear to ear. The karaoke tradition was born that morning, entirely by accident.

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t hear the faint hum of the Batcave’s boomtube as he returned, nor did you notice him shedding the cowl at the cave’s edge before stepping into the hall. What you did notice was the figure leaning against the doorway, arms folded, exhaustion written into the corners of his mouth as he watched. But in his eyes was a spark of joy that didn’t appear often, yet made Bruce look younger every time it did. 

He hadn’t expected to see his son doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his hair. Or Alfred, straight-backed and dignified as always, holding a mixing bowl like it was a microphone. Or you, spatula in hand, hips swaying with the beat on the radio like the kitchen was a stage. Upon completing your circle, you looked up to see the man of the hour stoic, just enjoying the scene.

You froze for only a second when you saw him, then grinned. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on.”

And you danced your way toward him, extending a hand. Dick immediately perked up, cheering: “C’mon, Bruce! Just once!”

Bruce started shaking his head, “No, I’m too tired. Just wanted to see what all the noise was when I came in.”

But you didn’t let him get away with it, and started dancing around him, slowly herding him into the kitchen, into the positive energy there. Excited by the turn of events, Dick eagerly starts teasing Bruce and showing him some sample moves he could “borrow if he didn’t have any”. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He’s Bruce Wayne, of course he knew how to dance. 

Even Alfred arched a brow, lips twitching. “Master Wayne. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.” Bruce said smoothly before rolling his sleeves.

“We both know that’s not true at all, Master Wayne.” Alfred calmly replied, pulling Dick to the side with him as Bruce approached you.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and it made him pause slightly to admire you. Even in the morning, with your slight bed head and pajamas that are well-loved, you were a sight to behold. He extended his hand towards you, waiting for you to place your hand in his, before leading you through a waltz. Yes, Bruce Wayne knew how to dance, just not the dancing you or Dick expected this morning. A loud, joyous laugh ripped from you while Bruce led you through a turn, his eyes lighter than you’ve seen from him in a while. 

Dick whooped. Alfred allowed himself the smallest chuckle. For one fleeting second, the walls of Wayne Manor held something softer than duty and shadow.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It wasn’t long before the table grew larger.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn’t ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark’s DNA, and Clark himself… he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, unsure of where he fit, but you saw the goodness in him immediately. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen.

Sometimes those breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket. He always looked a little disheveled, tie half-done, hair mussed by wind instead of gel, and once, memorably, with powdered sugar stuck to his sleeve because he’d grabbed donuts in a rush.

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the spatula. “God, you look like a dad who overslept carpool duty.”

Clark froze for a beat, then laughed too, the sound soft and sheepish. “You’re not wrong. I’m still… figuring this whole thing out.” His gaze drifted to Conner at the table, head bent as Dick showed him how to draw a smiley face in pancake batter. Something uncertain flickered in Clark’s expression — guilt, wonder, fear, love, all tangled together.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow as you flipped a pancake. “That’s all anyone’s doing, Clark. Figuring it out as we go.”

His shoulders eased a little at that, the weight lifting if only for a moment. He reached out, ruffling Conner’s hair, and the boy wrinkled his nose but didn’t pull away.

“See?” you teased, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “You’ve already got the embarrassing dad move down. Give it a year, and you’ll be threatening to wear socks with sandals.”

Clark rolled his eyes, chuckling as he pulled up a chair. “Lois would never let me live it down.” Then, quieter, almost to himself: “But… thank you. For doing this. For giving him… something normal.”

You met his gaze across the counter, spatula in hand. “He’s not the only one who needs normal, Clark.”

And for just a second, it wasn’t Clark but Superman who looked at you like you were holding up the sky for him.

For a time, the mornings belonged to all of you: pancakes, off-key singing, two boys finding their place together, Bruce lurking in the corner until you dragged him into the dance, Clark slowly learning what it meant to be more than just a symbol.

And you. Always you, steady at the stove, making sure they were fed and laughing and cared for.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Not every memory was bright.

Jason came next, loud and brash and secretly the one who craved the sleepovers the most. He swaggered into the Manor like he owned the place, quick to mouth off and quicker to fight for his spot at the table. He claimed he was too cool for karaoke but always stole the microphone halfway through and belted the loudest, voice cracking but proud.

Dick and Conner never let the age gap keep them apart from him. If they were heading out for pizza or training in the yard, Jason was right there with them. They slowed their pace when he tried to keep up, pulled him into their circle with a brotherly arm around his neck, and made sure he knew he belonged. Sometimes it was chaotic, three boys bouncing off the walls, but it was good chaos — the kind the Manor had needed for years.

And Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy, you’d drive him to the library. He’d wander the aisles for hours, losing himself between shelves, asking you a million questions about every cover that caught his eye. Afterward, you’d stop by the used bookstore downtown, and you made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up, and he’d hold it like treasure all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and cups of coffee. It was a small tradition, but it was yours. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

The night Jason died shattered you in ways you didn’t think possible. You held Dick as he sobbed and raged, you held Conner as he tried to process death in a way no one should have had to. You held yourself together just enough to be strong for them. But when the nights stretched too long, when the bed stayed empty, grief turned sharp and ugly inside you.

You became reckless in the field. Violent. Too violent. You went for the kill more than once, your fury a wildfire you couldn’t always leash. The League benched you after one close call — after Martian Manhunter caught the intent in your mind, caught the image of you driving your weapon into Joker’s chest. He told Bruce. He told Clark. And you never forgave him for it.

You and Bruce clashed constantly during those months. He needed someone steady, someone who could share his silence — but you couldn’t sit still in grief the way he could. You wanted blood. You wanted justice that would never come. Sometimes you thought you hated him for being able to pull back when you couldn’t. Sometimes you thought you hated yourself more.

The only thing that anchored you was your weekly visits to Jason’s grave. You’d bring fresh flowers, sweep away the leaves, and read a new poem each week like he was sitting there listening. It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

The night Jason returned to Gotham, older and angrier and wearing scars you didn’t understand yet, he went to his grave first. And there you were, kneeling in the dirt, brushing soil from the headstone with gentle hands. When you turned and saw him standing there, your knees nearly gave out.

“Jay?” Your voice cracked, fragile as glass.

He didn’t let you touch him, not then. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he ever could be. But you knew him well enough to see what was left unspoken: he had come back, and he had come to you first.

It was hard after that. He wanted nothing to do with the Manor, especially when he saw Tim wearing his costume, his mantle. He spat venom and pain in every direction, and you caught most of it without flinching. You didn’t push, but you didn’t let go either.

It took time. Months. But eventually, he came back to one of the sleepovers. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care about the smell of pancakes or the sound of music drifting from the radio. Dick raised an eyebrow, Conner waved him in, Tim froze, and you… you simply handed him the microphone.

Jason scowled, muttered a curse under his breath — and sang anyway. Loud. Angry. Alive.

You cried quietly into the spatula you pretended was your mic.

And just like that, the tradition lived again.

Through every change, every new child, every heartbreak and return, the tradition lived on. The tradition kept evolving, the kitchen table growing fuller as the years went by.

Tim arrived while Jason was gone, sharp-eyed and shy, carrying the weight of knowing too much and trusting too little. You caught him lingering in doorways, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he belonged, until one morning you pressed a whisk into his hand and told him to beat the eggs. He did it silently, but you caught the ghost of a smile when the radio kicked on and Dick dragged him into an off-key duet. By the end of the week, Tim had stopped lingering and started sitting at the table.

Then came Cass. She didn’t need words to tell you how much the tradition mattered. She just slipped into the kitchen one morning, silent as shadow, stole the spatula from your hand, and twirled in place. You laughed, joining her, and she smiled — bright, unguarded, rare. From then on, she danced every chance she got, the radio her favorite language.

Jon arrived like a storm that broke the world.

Lois had died in childbirth, and Clark unraveled. He was a man who could move mountains, stop aliens, hold the Earth itself in orbit… but he couldn’t save her. For weeks, he drifted, hollow-eyed and guilty, clutching the baby like he was made of glass. He didn’t know how to keep going. It was then that the three of you became something more than teammates.

Bruce opened the Manor without hesitation. You moved into the guest wing, with Clark and Jon in the room next door. Suddenly, the vast, quiet house was alive with the sounds of an infant's cries at 3 a.m., soft lullabies, and little fists pounding against anyone who held him too tightly. 

Alfred adapted instantly, setting bottles beside his tea service. It reminded him of days long past of doing the same for a younger Bruce, and it brought him much joy to see Bruce be able to experience some of the same joy.

The three of you found a rhythm so quickly it felt preordained. You took the late-night feedings, humming along with the radio as Jon curled against your chest, soothed more by your heartbeat than anything else. Clark would stumble in a few hours later, bleary-eyed, sheepish, offering to take over. Half the time, he fell asleep in the rocking chair with Jon sprawled across his chest, cape draped over both of them like a blanket.

Bruce claimed he wasn’t good with babies — “I don’t do small talk, let alone small children” — but Jon had other plans. By six months old, Jon would gurgle and reach for him the moment Bruce entered the room. You’d find them in the study sometimes, Bruce working at his desk with Jon in his lap, little hands tugging at his tie while Bruce signed League reports one-handed.

And when Clark’s grief threatened to consume him, it was you and Bruce who steadied him. Bruce gave Clark structure. “Routine,” he said flatly, and forced Clark into it. Early runs at dawn, sparring sessions in the cave, and scheduled check-ins with Alfred. It anchored Clark when he might have otherwise drifted away entirely.

You gave Clark grace. You told him it was okay when he cried. That grief wasn’t weakness. That Lois would have wanted him to keep going, not drown in guilt. You slipped photos into his hands, reminded him of Jon’s smile when he doubted himself, and pressed warm coffee into his palms when words weren’t enough.

Together, the three of you carried each other. And the kids carried you, too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Whenever missions took Bruce or Clark away, Dick, Jason, or Tim would step up. You’d walk into the kitchen to find Dick or Conner trying to feed Jon from a bottle while Alfred supervised like a hawk. Jason would read him stories in dramatic voices, turning Goodnight Moon into a Broadway performance. Tim was the calmest of the bunch, cradling Jon against his hoodie while researching League files with one hand. Even Cass — silent, graceful Cass — would sit on the floor, letting Jon tug her hair without complaint.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was seamless. Every revolving door of Wayne Manor only added more hands to hold the baby, more laughter to soften the nights. For a while, you didn’t just survive grief — you lived through it, together.

There were nights Clark would look at you and Bruce, Jon asleep in his arms, and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

And you believed him. Because back then, you weren’t just teammates. You were family.

Jon was four in the summer Alfred finally bullied you into taking a holiday. “You’ll blink and he’ll be grown,” he’d said, packing enough sandwiches for an army.

So you went. A day at the beach: Bruce chasing Jon down the shoreline, his sleeves rolled up, sand clinging to his calves; you laughing as you splashed after them, scooping Jon into your arms as he shrieked with delight. Clark stood back with a camera, trying to capture everything at once, grinning so wide it softened even the grief that still haunted the corners of his eyes.

By the time the sun dipped low, Jon was worn out, asleep before his head even settled on Bruce’s chest. The three of you stretched out on the blanket, the ocean hissing against the sand, the world held still.

Bruce sat to your right, a steady weight against your shoulder. Clark lay on your left, arm stretched behind you, his fingers brushing yours in the sand. Jon’s tiny fists curled into Bruce’s shirt, anchoring you all together. It was perfect. Too perfect.

You turned your head, found Bruce already watching you, his eyes darker than the dusk around you. He didn’t look away.

Clark’s thumb began tracing soft circles over your knuckles. Slow, deliberate, tender. His gaze shifted from Jon to you, lingering, heat simmering low in his chest.

Your heart raced. The air was heavy, humming with something you’d all been dancing around for years.

Bruce’s hand slid down, brushing against yours from the other side. Two points of contact, two anchors pinning you in place — Clark warm and open, Bruce steady and intense.

No one spoke, but everything was said in the silence. Clark finally broke it, voice low, husky with something that wasn’t grief anymore: “We don’t have to keep pretending… that this isn’t what it feels like.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell them both you’d been theirs for years. Bruce’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on yours, a silent agreement that he felt it too.

And then the comms went off.

First Bruce’s, then Clark’s. A League emergency.

The sound shattered the moment like glass. Clark cursed under his breath — rare, raw. Bruce’s jaw clenched, the mask of Batman sliding back over his features. You tried to smile, tried to pretend it didn’t ache, but the weight in your chest was crushing.

They stood, brushing sand from their clothes, already slipping into soldier mode. Clark pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, lingering a second too long, and Bruce tucked the boy gently into your arms before straightening to his full height. Neither man looked back as they focused on the mission.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

They came back different. Not obvious. Subtle. They stood closer. Their words overlapped like a practiced duet. When Clark laughed, it was often at something only Bruce had said. When Bruce allowed himself to soften, it was often when Clark was at his side.

It didn’t take long for you to piece it together. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to if not for all the time spent in each other’s company. You knew them too well and could see the truth hidden within their body language. They had each other.

And if they had each other, why would they ever need you?

The loneliness crept in like a tide. You smiled at them, smiled at Jon, kept the breakfast and sleepovers alive — but you began to pull back. Not because you stopped caring, but because it was the only way to protect your heart. Buried your feelings under duty and routines. They noticed, of course. They misread it, assumed you weren’t interested, and let you slip further from the space you’d once shared. 

The next outer space mission, you volunteered. You needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve what could have been.

When you returned months later, you didn’t go home to Wayne Manor. You went to a small, modest apartment in Metropolis. Modest on the outside, anyway. Magic had its perks — you expanded the space to fit what you needed. A proper kitchen for the kids’ sleepovers, bookshelves for Jason, extra beds tucked away for whichever Robin or Super wandered through on any given night.

Because the kids still needed you. And you would always be there for them.

The first night back, you slipped into the Manor while Bruce and Clark were out at dinner. Alfred knew — of course, he knew — and didn’t stop you. He only gave you that soft, sympathetic look as you moved through the halls, quietly packing the things you’d left behind.

It didn’t take long. Magic made sure of that. Books floated from shelves into boxes, clothes folded themselves, framed photos wrapped in protective charm paper. By the time the boom tube hummed with the men’s return, you were gone, your room empty save for the lingering warmth of what once was.

The Manor was quiet when Bruce and Clark returned that night, their dinner still lingering as small talk in their heads. Jon was already asleep, tucked in by Alfred, who waited for them at the foot of the stairs with a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins:

“She’s gone.”

Clark was the first to move. He stormed down the hall to your room, Bruce close behind. The door opened to stillness, to shelves stripped bare, drawers empty, walls missing the small touches of you that had made them warmer. The air smelled faintly of your magic — lavender and smoke — the last traces of you fading into nothing.

Clark’s voice cracked as he gripped the doorframe. “She came back… and we missed her. We missed her, Bruce.” His fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild with guilt. “We’ve gotta go get her. Right now. We’ll explain. We’ll fix this—”

Bruce’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. “Clark.”

“She thinks we don’t want her. She thinks—”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was low, even, but softer than Clark expected. He turned toward the empty room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “But if she made this choice… we can’t force her back. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her completely.”

Clark’s breath hitched, the weight of it settling like lead in his chest. “But she belongs with us.”

“She belongs in our lives,” Bruce corrected gently. “One way or another. It’s better to have her in some capacity than not at all.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at the space where your books used to be. “That month she was gone… it was hell. I never realized how much I needed her. How much I—” He broke off, voice rough. “She makes everything turn, Bruce. She makes the world make sense.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the bare shelves, the hollow quiet of the room. For once, the walls of Wayne Manor felt too large, too empty. “I know,” he said finally. “She makes my earth turn, too.”

They stood there in silence, two men who could fight gods but couldn’t fight the absence you’d left behind.

And in your modest Metropolis apartment — stretched wide by magic, humming with laughter from the kids who refused to let go of you — you told yourself you were healing.  It was better this way, you told yourself. They needed space to grow together. And you needed to remember how to stand on your own feet again.

Even if a part of you still ached for the life you almost had. The loneliness followed you into your new apartment. Into the quiet nights when Jon asked if you’d still sing him to sleep. Into the mornings when you woke, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The sleepovers and breakfasts never stopped. They just moved. The kitchen was slighter, the ceilings lower, but the laughter was the same. Pancakes tasted just as sweet when eaten in a cramped apartment. The kids still sang, still fought over who got to flip the next batch. The tradition lived on.

But the trio? The three of you? That had been left at the beach, half-buried in the sand, drowned out by the sound of a League comm.

But you never left the kids. You never could.

Especially when Damian arrived, he wasn’t a result of violence, no matter what the uglier rumors whispered. He was a weapon born in a lab, Bruce’s worst nightmare made flesh — his DNA spliced with Talia’s, an attempt to craft the perfect heir. Damian entered the Manor fierce, arrogant, and prickly with mistrust. A boy engineered for war but given a family instead.

Damian entered the tradition like a cat into water: claws out, hissing, refusing to admit he wanted in. He sneered at the karaoke, insulted the pancakes, folded his arms at the table, and declared he didn’t need any of it.

And yet, you made him a plate anyway, slid it in front of him without comment. You corrected his posture when he chopped vegetables, guided his hands when he learned how to whisk. You told him stories about Jason and Dick, about how Conner used to sulk through sleepovers until he realized the fun in them. You let Jon drag him into the chaos, refusing to give him the luxury of staying on the sidelines.

It took time. Months. But the first time he sang under his breath, soft and unwilling but audible, you pretended not to notice. Jon noticed. Jon whooped, dragged him to the center of the kitchen, and you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile from Damian before he masked it with another scowl.

From then on, he was yours too.

Your relationship with Bruce and Clark shifted in those years, too. The wound of the beach and the space between you never fully healed — but it scabbed. 

Bruce was patient, quieter with you. Clark was soft, gentle, careful not to push. They never stopped loving you. If anything, their love only deepened, year after year, as they watched you guide their children with a steadiness neither of them could muster. As they watched you throw birthday parties, show up at recitals, and even parent-teacher meetings when you could. 

They never forgot how it had felt on that blanket. How close they’d come to making it real. The warmth of your bodies close together, the heat within each look. The want never left — it lingered in every look, every brush of fingers, every moment you laughed too hard at something one of them said.

At first, you couldn’t bear to stay. After dropping off one of the kids, you’d leave the Manor immediately, unable to linger in halls that echoed with memories of what almost was. Bruce and Clark never stopped you, though the way their eyes followed you to the door was its own kind of ache.

But when Damian arrived, something shifted. He was young, sharp-edged, in desperate need of patience, and you couldn’t just drop him off and walk away. So you stayed. At first, it was only for tea — a cup in Alfred’s study before heading home. Then it was breakfast, Damian stiff-backed in his chair until Jon made him snort orange juice out of his nose.

A year later, you found yourself staying for entire afternoons. Letting Jon drag you out into the garden, while Bruce lingered nearby under the guise of trimming roses. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Damian with homework, while Clark “happened” to return early from Metropolis, setting his jacket neatly on the couch before joining you both.

And little by little, the walls you’d built began to crack.

You started laughing at their jokes again — Clark’s terrible puns that had Jon in stitches, Bruce’s dry one-liners that made Jason wheeze. You let Clark’s hand brush your shoulder when he leaned over you, and you didn’t flinch when Bruce’s palm steadied you by the elbow. Once, Clark smoothed an errant curl from your cheek, thumb lingering a moment longer than it should have. Once, Bruce’s hand brushed yours over a coffee mug, and you didn’t pull away, but gifted him a smile. 

It wasn’t everything. But it was something. And that something was enough to remind you how dangerous hope could be.

Bruce and Clark noticed. They talked about it — often, quietly, usually on the Watchtower between missions. 

“Now might be the time,” Clark murmured once, watching you from across the hangar as you comforted Cass after a brutal debrief. “She’s letting us in again.”

Bruce only hummed, low, but didn’t disagree. “We go slow. She has to trust this isn’t temporary. We can’t let her down again.”

They began to plan — nothing elaborate, nothing rushed. Just… chances. Dinners, quiet moments, gentle confessions, waiting for the right time.

So, of course, when they thought they had a handle on things, everything gets flipped around. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The knock at your apartment door was insistent, a chorus of voices arguing outside.

You pulled it open to find them all there: Dick at the front with a bright grin, Jason juggling takeout bags, Tim holding a stack of board games, Cass tucked in quietly behind them, Conner hovering like he’d been dragged along, Jon beaming, and Damian scowling like someone owed him money.

“Surprise!” Dick announced, holding up soda bottles like a prize. “Sleepover night!”

You blinked, stunned — then laughed, ushering them in one by one, kissing Jon’s temple, hugging Cass tight, ruffling Tim’s hair, letting Jason nearly knock you over with a bear hug. “All of you? At once? My poor neighbors.”

Jason smirked. “Please, you love it.” The kids were scattered around your apartment, settling in for the night. Some were setting up the living room, while others were organizing the food. Looking around, it made your heart happy and full to have all the kids here with you. It’s been months since you’ve been able to hang out with them outside of League business. 

You understood, they were young, growing into the heroes they want to be, and having fun while being young. But the loneliness crept back again, the same that lingered after Bruce and Clark. You decided it was time to put your big girl panties on and date outside the hero world, just in case you had better luck. And it’s been going great, a little over a month since you started seeing Jackson, and tonight was another hopefully successful date. Now, to break the news to your overprotective kids. 

“I do, and of course you’re always welcome,” you admitted, smiling. “But… kids, I actually have plans tonight.”

That stopped them in their tracks. Like deer in headlights, they all turn their heads to look at you. Jon’s brows furrowed. “Plans? Like… with people?”

“Like… with a date? You’re dressed nicer than usual.” Dick guessed, eyes narrowing.

You hesitated — and that was all the confirmation they needed.

“A date?!” Jon blurted, jaw dropping. “You can date?!”

Jason smacked him upside the head. “Of course she can date, idiot.”

Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are you surprised by this?”

Conner crossed his arms, suspicious. “Who is he? Do we know him?”

Cass said nothing, just watched you with sharp eyes and a knowing smile.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped into your bedroom to keep getting ready. “I don’t owe you an interrogation, detectives. When it's time, I'll introduce you all.”

That didn’t stop them from trailing after you, peppering you with questions while you pulled on earrings and fixed your lipstick.

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “Is he taller than me?”

“Yes.”

“Does he make more money than Bruce?”

“No one makes more money than Bruce.”

Jon frowned. “Does he have powers?”

“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.”

Tim sighed. “Where did you meet him?”

“Out,” you said vaguely, slipping your feet into heels. “Now — black jacket or red?”

They all paused. “Black,” Dick and Cass said at the same time.

“Red,” Jason argued immediately.

“Black is more mysterious,” Tim muttered.

“Red shows power,” Damian countered.

You laughed, trying on both, twirling for them like it was a runway show. They shouted over one another until finally you picked the black, smoothing it over your dress as you moved toward the door.

That was when Jason spotted the small overnight bag tucked beside it.

His eyes went wide. “Wait a damn minute— is that an overnight bag?”

Chaos.

“You’re staying the night at his?!” Conner shouted, horrified.

“You cannot be serious,” Damian hissed.

Dick threw his hands up. “We’ve lost her!”

Jon looked like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real, which is slightly alarming since you had the conversation with him last year when Damian told him so. Maybe you’ll have to have the conversation with him again. Maybe have Clark take him to the North Pole to show him how he’s not there.

You raised your hands, firm but gentle. “Enough. I love you all, you know that. But I am an adult, and I am allowed to have my own life.”

“But—” Jon started.

“No buts. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll have pancakes together. Just like always.”

They quieted at that, grumbling but placated. Jason muttered something under his breath about “being replaced by some guy,” but you kissed his cheek and handed Cass the spare key.

“Be good,” you warned as you grabbed your bag. “Don’t burn the place down.”

They chorused their goodbyes as you slipped out, waving. But the second the door shut, they bolted to the window, watching you climb into a sleek car none of them recognized.

The silence was heavy until Damian sniffed disdainfully. “Disrespectful. What kind of gentleman doesn’t open his date’s door?”

That earned a round of muttered agreements as they slumped back inside, half-heartedly unpacking food and setting up Mario Kart on the TV.

Normally, sleepover Mario Kart was a blood sport. Tonight, the game sputtered — no one yelling, no one throwing controllers, everyone oddly subdued.

Finally, Tim broke. “So we’re just… not gonna acknowledge that we all thought she’d end up with Dad and Clark anyway?”

The silence cracked like glass.

Jason threw his controller. “Thank you! Exactly!”

Conner groaned. “Oh my god, finally someone said it.”

Jon looked around frantically. “Wait— wait— is that allowed?”

Dick buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. We’re having this conversation now?”

Voices rose, overlapping, chaos spiraling again until Cass quietly stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down the glittery, bedazzled tube that you had made years ago. She held up the Sparkle Talking Stick.

It was needed when you had so many... passionate loved ones in your life. So, for a bit more order and maybe 1% less chaos than normal, you created the Sparkle Talking Stick that each kid signed as an agreement to listen when someone held it.

Immediately, everyone shut up.

Cass placed it on the table. Jason reached for it first, glaring at the others. “She’s obviously happier when she’s with them. She should just say it.”

Conner took the stick next. “Then why the hell is she sneaking out on overnight dates with randos?”

Dick grabbed it after. “Because maybe she thinks they don’t want her anymore! And whose fault is that?”

The Sparkle Stick made its way around, each kid venting in turn, until Damian finally snatched it, glowering. “Enough. The conclusion is obvious: Father and Kent are cowards. Their attempts at wooing are laughable. If they had done their jobs properly, she wouldn’t be entertaining other men.”

He pulled out his phone without hesitation. “Father,” Damian said crisply when Bruce answered. “Due to your and Kent’s lukewarm efforts, she is now pursuing other men. Do with this information what you will. Goodbye.”

He hung up before anyone could stop him.

The kids stared at one another for a couple of minutes.

Jason leaned back, smirking. “Well. Guess we’ll see what they do about it.”

[thatweirdo466]

clark x gn!reader

synopsis: you meet krypto.

"He's usually never this calm," Clark says, in awe as he observes Krypto laying peacefully on your lap. He wasn't barking or causing mass amounts of destruction—he was just...there.

Calm and steady.

"Is he not?" You ask, smoothing a hand through Krypto's soft fur. You also scratch behind one of his ears and coo when Krypto leans into it, his tail wagging happily. "He seems like such a good boy, though."

Clark snorts. "If causing mass amounts of trouble counts as good, then yeah, he's a good boy."

You shrug. "He probably had his reasons," you say, your smile soft. "I'm sure you did, sweet boy."

Krypto basks underneath the praise, tail wagging faster to show his content. He raises up a little to brush his nose against yours, his tongue flicking out to kiss your cheek.

Clark watches the two of you, his heart oddly warm at the sight. Usually, Krypto is a pain in his behind and causes more chaos than good. But seeing him with you and how he's being so careful settles him. It allows him to know that Krypto would never hurt you; in or unintentionally.

Still.

"Who's my best boy ever?" You continue to coo, your smile widening as Krypto now shakes with excitement in your lap. "Yes, it's you! It's you!"

Krypto barks in obvious agreement.

Clark frowns a little.

He used to be your best boy ever.

[thatweirdo466]

— hardly discreet !!

clark kent x reader warnings: angst to fluff, clark using his superhearing to spy, jealous!clark, not proofread :0 word count: 3,000k

clark kent doesn’t do love. he tells himself he doesn’t have time for it. i mean, how could he, with the weight of an entire world on his shoulders? one more person to worry about would be a distraction, a weakness. at least, that’s what he used to believe. but then you came into his life. you waltzed into the daily planet with your perfect smile and beautiful features, and swept him off his feet—literally (lois still teases him about it). and everyone sees it, even if he thinks he’s good at hiding secrets. he hovers without hovering, the kind of man who will cross a crowded newsroom just to put your coffee down exactly where your hand is about to reach for it. he buys your lunch when you forget, pulls your chair out before you can, nearly trips over himself when you say thanks, clark, with a bright smile.

so when he walks into the bullpen that afternoon, balancing two coffees because he knows your usual order and wanted to surprise you, it feels like the floor drops out beneath him because his hearing snags on your voice. “…jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him.”

the cup nearly slips out of his hand. his jaw clenches, something sick curling in his stomach, because you sound so sure—like it’s been sitting heavy on your chest for weeks and you finally let it out. he freezes in the doorway, coffee cup creasing between his thick fingers, staring at you and lois huddled by her desk like the world didn’t just tilt sideways. he forces himself to move, to keep walking, though each step feels wrong, like wading through cement. he sets the extra coffee down on your desk without a word, the gesture suddenly hollow, stupid. his throat is tight, his ears ringing with the echo of your confession.

"ugh, my hero," you grin, looking up to see him. he just nods, eyes looking everywhere but you. then, without a sheepish goodbye, or a murmured compliment, he trudges to his desk. you furrow a brow, watching the way his shoulders slump and his mouth curves downwards. you shrug and sip the coffee, practically groaning at the taste.

clark can barely focus for the next ten minutes because lois is still laughing at whatever you said, patting your back, and putting way too much sugar in her cup. when he moves his chair farther away from her chattering, he's met with the sight of perfect little jimmy olsen. clark knows it's wrong, but he can't help but feel hatred towards the red-head. of course you’d want jimmy. why wouldn’t you? he’s—he’s everything. he’s normal. he’s good. he's not…clark. he exhales deeply, pushing the thoughts out of his brain and rising to his feet. he mutters something about interviewing superman to lois before slinging his bag over his broad shoulder. for the first time in months, clark passes your desk without tripping over his own feet or offering to bring you back lunch. he just keeps his gaze straight, ignoring the small smile you send him that would've had him in cardiac arrest last week. when he shuts the door to the stairwell, he slams it harsher than usual.

"huh," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. it’s odd, the absence of his usual stammer, the way he doesn’t even pause to ask if you’ll need anything while he’s out. clark kent doesn’t just leave. not without fussing. not without that earnest, big smile that always makes you laugh under your breath. you glance toward the glass doors just in time to see the back of him vanish into the street. his frame seems even larger when weighed down with that invisible heaviness, his shoulders hunched like the city itself pressed down on them.

lois waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to dream girl. what’s got you staring holes into the exit sign?”

“nothing,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your coffee. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. “he’s just…weird today.”

lois smirks, like she knows something you don’t. “maybe you’ve finally scared him off.” you roll your eyes, but there’s a seed of unease tucked somewhere beneath your ribs. clark, ignoring you? clark, walking out without a word? something’s off, and you don't like it.

meanwhile, he’s already halfway down the block, jaw tight, breath sharp against the collar of his shirt. every noise in the city seems louder, harsher. he wants to fly, to tear through the clouds until the ache in his chest evaporates, but even that won’t fix the image burned into his head—your smile, your voice, the certainty when you said something about loving jimmy. he adjusts his glasses, forces his hands into his pockets. you deserve jimmy, he tells himself. you deserve someone simple. someone safe. not a man who lies every day just to keep you from finding out what he is. but god, it really does feel like he’s been punched through a building.

~

the next morning, the newsroom is its usual chaos of ringing phones and rustling paper. you’re perched at your desk, expecting the familiar shadow of clark kent to appear at your elbow with a steaming cup balanced carefully in his hand. but he doesn’t. he walks straight past you, no “morning,” no stammered compliment about your outfit, not even the ghost of his bashful smile. his stride is stiff, mechanical. he sits, adjusts his glasses, and pretends the stack of notes on his desk is suddenly urgent.

your brows pinch, the silence where clark usually is buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. from across the bullpen, lois notices immediately. she grins like a cat with cream, rolling her chair over until she bumps against clark’s desk with a little thunk. “wow,” she drawls, crossing her arms. “no coffee or expensive danish for your girlfriend today? what’s the world coming to, kent?”

normally, clark would flush bright red, choke on his words, maybe even sputter something about she’s not my girlfriend. today, though, he just stares at his computer, jaw tight. “it’s not funny, lois.”

her smirk falters, curiosity sparking. “okay, grumpy. what’s crawled up your cape?”

he exhales slowly through his nose, voice quiet enough that only she can hear. “i heard you two yesterday. by your desk. i wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but i couldn’t not hear it. she basically confessed her love for jimmy.”

lois blinks, letting the information sink in, then lets out a bark of laughter so loud perry pokes his head out of his office and scowls. she waves him off, shoulders shaking. “oh, clark,” she says finally, grinning like she’s just been handed front-page gossip. “you are so out of your depth.”

he looks at her, confused and a little wounded. “lois-” but she’s already rolling back toward her desk, still laughing under her breath, deciding it’ll be far more entertaining to let him stew in his own misery than clear things up for him. from your desk, you glance between the two of them, unsettled by the storm cloud hanging over clark’s usually sunny face.

~

by the end of the day, you’re convinced something’s wrong. it’s not you—at least, you don’t think so. clark isn’t avoiding eye contact out of shyness, he’s dimmer. a man sized shadow slumped in his chair, typing but not seeing, answering questions with one-syllable words. it unsettles you. so, on impulse, you stop by his apartment that evening, balancing a warm paper bag of his favorite takeout against your hip. you knock, humming under your breath, rehearsing some lighthearted line about him looking like he needed it.

when the door creaks open, you almost drop the bag. clark stands there, hair mussed, tie still crooked from work. his glasses slide a fraction down his nose and he doesn’t even push them back up. his expression is blank, exhausted—nothing like the clark kent that you know. “hi,” you start, lifting the bag like an offering. “i, um…thought you might want dinner. you seemed…i don’t know. sad, today.”

for a beat, he just blinks at you. no blush, no stammer, just an emptiness that makes your stomach twist. and it’s impossible not to remember the last time you stood at this doorway. it was months ago, when you came to return the coat he’d forgotten at the office. he’d opened the door with his shirt half-tucked, papers scattered behind him, his ears blazing red. he’d practically yelped, slammed the door in your face, and by the time he opened it again—thirty seconds later—his hair was brushed, his apartment spotless, his shirt pressed like he’d just stepped out of the dry cleaner. you never questioned it, just laughed at how adorably flustered he was.

but tonight, none of that frantic effort. no rush to impress you. just clark, a shell of himself, standing there like he doesn’t quite know what to do with your kindness. “you didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, voice low, almost flat.

you frown. “clark, it’s just noodles. not exactly a grand gesture.” he steps aside reluctantly, letting you in. the apartment is dull, curtains drawn, papers stacked haphazardly on the table. he doesn’t make any excuse for the mess, doesn’t try to straighten anything. you set the bag down, glance back at him. “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do i have to guess?”

his throat works. he looks at you, then away, as if the sight of you burns. clark rubs a hand over his face, glasses skewing, and mutters, “it’s nothing. really.”

you narrow your eyes. “you look like your dog died.”

“i don’t…have a dog. well, not really,” he says, almost defensively, before realizing how stupid it sounds.

you huff out a laugh despite yourself, unpacking the food. “exactly my point. sit down before you collapse on me.” he obeys, but slowly, like his body weighs twice as much tonight. he doesn’t even move to help, just watches as you set the cartons on his table and search his cabinets for plates. normally, he’d be at your side in a second, fumbling for napkins, tripping over a chair leg in his rush to make himself useful. “you’re freaking me out, clark,” you say finally, sliding a plate of noodles toward him. “yesterday you were fine, and today you’re like this. did perry yell at you? did lois make some crack about your tie again?”

“no.” his fork stirs aimlessly through the noodles, appetite nonexistent. his eyes flicker up to yours for a heartbeat, then drop to the table. “just—don’t worry about it.”

but you do. you can’t not. this is clark, the man who once apologized three times in a row because he accidentally bumped your chair. the man who leaves sticky notes on your desk when you’re having a bad day, with scribbled little cartoons that always make you smile. seeing him dulled, detached, is like finding the sun burned out overnight. “too late,” you murmur, softer than you meant to. “i’m already worried.”

his throat tightens. he pushes his food away, elbows braced on his knees, palms clasped so tightly his knuckles blanch. he wants to say it—that he heard you, that he knows you’re in love with jimmy, that it’s tearing him apart. but the words wedge in his chest like shards of glass. so instead, he shakes his head. “you don’t have to take care of me. i’ll be fine.”

you stare at him, unsettled. the clark you know would’ve blushed at the sight of you standing in his doorway with dinner, would’ve tripped over his gratitude, would’ve told you a dozen times you didn’t need to, but thank you, thank you, thank you. this version of him? he feels distant—even untouchable. “so who will?” you sigh, reaching out to rub your manicured nails up and down his arm. he flinches at the sudden contact. “if i don’t take care of you, who will?” you repeat the question, voice quieter this time.

for a beat, there’s nothing but the hum of his old refrigerator, the distant honk of a horn outside. then, the sudden snap of his words. “maybe you should go take care of jimmy instead.” the words land like a slap. sharp, petty, and completely unlike him. his voice isn’t raised, but it cuts through the room like glass.

your lips part in confusion. “what?”

instantly, his face crumples, shame flooding in. he drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “i—god, i didn’t mean that.”

but you’re still staring at him, confusion knitting your brow. clark kent doesn’t snap. he doesn’t sulk like a child or spit out jealous little barbs. he doesn’t tell you to go take care of someone else. except, apparently, tonight he does. you whisper, incredulous, “where did that even come from?”

that’s when the words begin to spill out like you’d given him truth serum. “iheardyouandloistalkingaboutjimmyyesterday.” he babbles, eyes pinching shut in pure embarrassment. “i wasn’t eavesdropping—well, i guess i was—but that’s only because i have really, really good hearing.” you blink at him, stunned into silence. his words tumble over themselves, frantic and messy, and it’s so painfully unlike the careful, gentle clark you know. “you said he was super amazing and he was perfect and blah blah, and it really upset me because i really like you.”

your chest goes still, like the air’s been punched out of you. clark’s face is pink, his glasses slipping low on his nose as he finally dares to glance at you. his expression is raw, almost desperate. and then, all at once, it clicks. the conversation he must’ve overheard. the laughter with lois. the exaggerated tone you’d been using.

your lips part. “oh my god.”

he flinches. “i knew i shouldn’t’ve said-”

“no, clark,” you cut in quickly, leaning forward across the little table. “you didn’t hear the whole thing.” his brows pinch, confusion warring with the nerves flickering across his face.

“jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him,” you’d said, slouched against lois’s desk, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. lois had nearly spit out her coffee, laughing as you mimicked the wide-eyed gush of the new intern who couldn’t string two sentences together without swooning over poor jimmy olsen. “and she didn’t know that he was right behind her! i almost died.”

back in clark’s apartment, you cover your mouth, a laugh threatening despite the tension. “clark… i wasn’t talking about me. i was making fun of that new intern, melanie. you know, the one who brings jimmy muffins every morning like she’s feeding a baby bird?”

his entire body stills. he blinks once, twice, the words catching up like bricks tumbling into place. “…oh.” clark’s ears flame instantly, red creeping down his neck. he scrubs a hand over his face like he can hide inside his palm. “i-” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “i thought—i really thought-”

“that i was in love with jimmy?” you supply, a mix of incredulity and something softer curling around the words.

he groans, deflating like a balloon and dragging his fingers through his hair. “god, this is humiliating. i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have assumed. i just—i heard it, and it felt like someone punched a hole straight through me. and then tonight i went and…” his jaw tightens, guilt coloring every syllable, “snapped at you. you didn’t deserve that.”

you study him, the way his shoulders slope in defeat, the way his chest still rises and falls too fast. you’ve never seen clark kent like this. it makes your heart ache. “clark,” you say gently, resting your hand over his where it grips his knee. he jolts at the touch, eyes flying to yours. “you like me?”

the question cracks something open in him. his throat bobs as he nods, slow, reluctant, but honest. “more than i should.”

your lips curve into a wide grin. “you’re serious.” you try your best to feign disbelief.

his laugh is humorless, quiet. “painfully.”

you tilt your head, studying him, the way his broad frame looks so small slumped forward on the couch. “i had a hunch.”

that makes him look up, startled. “you…what?” sure, maybe he was a little obvious. okay, more than a little. but in his defense, how else was he supposed to act around you? how do you look at someone who makes the whole room feel like it’s finally in color and not trip over your own feet? he thought he’d been careful. that the coffees and lunches and endless, nervous “thank yous” were just gentlemanly. the kind of things anyone would do for a coworker. except no one else at the planet is lining up outside your favorite deli to grab your lunch when you’re too swamped to get it yourself. no one else memorizes how you take your coffee down to the sugar packet.

but you noticed. of course you did.

you shrug, trying to bite back your smile. “clark, you bring me coffee every single morning without fail. you pull out my chair like we’re in a black-and-white movie. you once carried my bag down three flights of stairs because you said it looked heavy—it had one book in it.”

his ears are glowing now, eyes wide behind his lenses. “i—i thought i was being-”

“discreet?” you finish for him, laughing softly. “you aren’t very discreet.”

he groans, hiding his face in his hands, muffling something that sounds like, “oh, god.”

but you reach forward, gently prying his hands away until his flustered face is bared again. “hey.” your voice is softer now. “for the record i like you too. i have for a while.”

his mouth parts, a little stunned breath catching like he doesn’t quite know how to hold it. the corners of his lips twitch up, like a smile is fighting its way through all that disbelief. “you—really?”

“painfully,” you echo back, teasing but oh so true.

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[thatweirdo466]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦

Your washing machine breaks, and Clark Kent—perfect, helpful, devastatingly kind Clark Kent—immediately offers his. The same Clark you've been pathetically avoiding because being around him hurts too much when you're this gone for him. But it's late, it's raining, and he's being so characteristically sweet about it that you can't say no. What could go wrong?

Your washing machine is dead. Not 'making a funny noise' dead, but utterly, stone-cold silent. You’d pressed the power button three times, a desperate little prayer on your lips, before accepting your fate. A mountain of laundry sat mockingly in its basket.

You’re staring into the abyss of your empty detergent bottle (another problem) when your phone buzzes on the counter.

Clark: Heard a suspicious amount of cursing coming from your apartment. Everything good?

Your fingers hover over the screen. It’s mortifying. You should just not answer. All your efforts to distance yourself from him, to slowly ease his warmth out of your life, will be for naught if he gets even the slightest sense of you needing help. Clark Kent doesn’t ignore cries for help. Clark Kent swoops in, with his gentle smile and strong, broad shoulders.

Clark Kent makes it hard for girls like you to get over him.

But if you don't answer, he’ll probably show up at your door to investigate, which would be much, much worse.

You: My washing machine has passed on to the great appliance store in the sky.

His reply is almost instantaneous. A small bubble with three dots appears and disappears before the message lands, and you hold your breath.

Clark: Oh no! Problem solved. My machine is your machine. Come on over whenever.

Shit.

You: Thanks, but it’s OK! I’ll just hit the laundromat. It’s late and I don’t want to bother you.

You’ve already put on your jacket and are hunting for your keys, a grim determination setting in. The walk will be cold. It will be annoying. But it will be blessedly, wonderfully Clark-free, so it’s a small sacrifice in the long run. Your thumb hesitates over the power switch on the machine. Might as well give it another shot. You jab the button with your index finger.

The phone screen in your hand lights up with his name.

He's speaking before you've finished getting the phone to your ear. "You don't honestly think I'm letting you go out at 11pm in the freezing rain to sit at some laundromat by yourself, do you?"

"I..." What were you going to say again? He's turning the concerned voice on and your stomach is flipping. "It’s not raining that much." It is. You can hear the distinct tink-tink-tink of water hitting your windowpane.

"Okay. It’s not freezing rain. But it’s still late. And that laundromat is… not the best. Lois was just telling me about an article she’s editing about how many streetlights are out on that block."

Lois.

The name lands like a small, smooth stone dropped into your stomach. Of course. Lois. Beautiful, brilliant Lois who makes Clark laugh in ways that light up his entire face, who writes the front-page articles and has the world at her fingertips. Who Clark is undoubtedly, irrefutably in love with, if you had to guess. Maybe they’re even together now. You've been so busy avoiding him that you wouldn't even know.

"I’m not gonna be able to focus on my work if I’m worried about you," he continues, blissfully unaware of the small, quiet devastation he just caused. He’s weaponized his own kindness, and it’s ruthlessly effective. "Please?"

You lean your forehead against the cool surface of your dead washing machine. He could convince the moon to come crashing down into Earth with just one well-placed "please", you think.

"You working on something?" you've moved on to stalling for time.

"Don't change the subject. Grab your laundry and get over here before I come drag you myself."

You're a goner. "Clark."

His laugh is bright and warm and reminds you of a lot of what you miss about him. "Come on," he coaxes, and the gentle, cajoling tone is going to make your heart leap straight out of your throat and into his hands. "I’ll order us some pizza. Or have you eaten already?"

"Don't get me pizza," you protest. "You need to work."

"I need to take a break anyway. I’ve been staring at this screen too long. I’ll be braindead if I don’t take a break soon."

"Then have a break. You don’t have to share it with me. I don't want to impose."

"Alright," he says, and you hear the telltale squeak of his desk chair as he gets to his feet. "Then I'm coming over and dragging you and your laundry across the hall."

"Clark!"

"Y/N!"

You laugh despite yourself, despite the way your stomach hurts. He's too good, too much, too kind. You can't keep up. "Okay, okay," you say, your shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm on my way."

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

"Come in," he calls before you can knock. Of course he heard you coming.

You push the door open to find him tidying up the living room, shoving papers into neat stacks and fluffing couch cushions. He looks up when you enter, hair falling across his forehead in that way that makes your fingers itch to brush it back.

"Sorry about the mess," he says, though his apartment is immaculate as always. "I wasn't expecting company."

He's wearing his flannel pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, glasses on. You'd have a hard time figuring out whether this or the suit is worse on your heart. 

"You don't have to clean for me, Clark. It's just laundry."

"I know, but..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I wanted things to be nice. It's been a while since you've been over."

You feel a stab of guilt at that. You can't explain why you haven't been over in so long. You can't say, I have a ridiculous crush on you and need to save whatever is left of my dignity by keeping some distance between us.

So, you say, "Oh... yeah." Like an idiot.

"I missed seeing your face around."

"Did you?"

It's out before you can take it back. Clark freezes, then turns to look at you.

"Of course I did." There’s something like hurt behind his glasses. "Why would you say that?"

"No... I didn't mean..." you stammer. You want to go hide in a closet somewhere. "That sounded weird. I'm sorry. Just forget it."

Clark is still studying you with that puzzled, concerned look, but he eventually lets out a little huff of a laugh. "I’ll never understand how you don’t realize how much people like you around."

"Maybe I'm just fishing for compliments," you say in an attempt to play it off.

"Mm," he hums, taking your laundry basket with such ease one would think it was full of cotton balls instead of two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes. "Well, you're welcome to fish here anytime."

You follow him to the tiny (immaculately clean) laundry nook. It's not a room so much as a closet off the kitchen, with much less space than you need for a successful Clark Kent avoidance technique. If he stays to chat, you'll be standing no more than an arms' length apart at best, and you're not sure how that’s going to work for the duration of a full cycle.

"Have you eaten?" Clark asks again. He's leaning against the doorframe of the laundry nook, watching you with an easy sort of patience as you start to load the machine. The space feels impossibly small; you have to keep reminding your lungs how to do their job.

"Yeah," you lie, your voice tight as you untangle one of your t-shirts from a pair of jeans and pray that you didn't throw anything too embarrassing into this basket. "I ate."

"Liar. I can hear your stomach from here."

You freeze, utterly mortified. He’s just joking. Probably. "You cannot."

"I can," he insists, a grin spreading across his face that makes your stomach do a nervous little flip. "It’s telling me very sad stories about an empty fridge." He pushes off the doorframe, taking a single, deliberate step into the nook. The fluorescent bulb above flickers once, as if startled. He fills the space completely, blocking the light from the kitchen.

Your hands are suddenly clumsy. You become hyper-aware of the contents of your basket—the worn-out state of your favorite pajamas and, god forbid, your underwear. You try to discreetly bury a pair of frankly embarrassing floral underwear beneath a towel while he leans over your shoulder.

He’s reaching up, his body twisting around you to open a small cupboard above your head. The soft cotton of his t-shirt presses against your shoulder blade as he stretches, and a warm cloud of something clean—laundry soap and fresh air and just him—envelops you. You hold your breath, your universe shrinking to the inches between you, the faint scent of his shampoo, and the solid wall of his chest at your back.

He pulls back just as you think you might pass out, holding out a bottle of detergent. He’s completely, devastatingly oblivious to the five-alarm fire he just started in your nervous system, it seems. His expression is open, friendly, his gaze searching your face. You'd like to curl up inside the washing machine with your laundry and go on a spin cycle right now.

"Laundry detergent for your thoughts?" he asks, offering you the bottle like he hasn’t just driven every rational thought from your head.

You look down at the bottle, trying to remember how words work. "My thoughts are boring."

"That’s impossible." He unscrews the cap for you before passing it into your hands.

You take it, but he doesn't move back. You can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes behind his glasses.

You turn back to the washer, desperate for something to do with your hands and a way to escape his gaze, but your mind has gone completely, utterly blank. What comes after adding detergent? Cold wash? Warm wash? What exactly are you supposed to do with your arms, your legs, your shoulders? How do people even stand normally?

"Let me get that," he says, gently, quietly. His hand brushes yours as he takes the bottle, and he’s pouring the soap in, setting the bottle aside, twisting a dial. The washer rumbles to life, filling with water, and it feels like the air in the tiny nook is being sucked out through the pipes. He closes the lid and turns to look at you. He's so tall you have to tilt your head up to see his face properly.

"There," he says softly, like he's accomplished something monumental instead of just starting a load of laundry. "All set."

You nod, acutely aware that you should probably leave the nook now, give him space to escape back to his work. But your feet seem rooted to the spot, and Clark doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move either.

"So," he says, leaning back against the dryer, arms crossed. The position makes his t-shirt pull slightly across his chest, but at least now he's a full arms' length away from you. "What's really going on with you lately?"

Your heart stutters. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. The avoiding me thing. The way you practically sprint in the opposite direction when you see me in the hallway."

"I don't sprint."

"You do a very fast walk," he says with a small smile. "It's actually pretty impressive. I didn't know you could move that quickly."

Despite everything, you find yourself fighting back a laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm also right." He tilts his head and looks at you for a long moment, like if he focuses hard enough, he can figure out what's going on inside your head without you having to say it out loud. It's an unsettling feeling, as if he might somehow peel back all the layers of your walls and see your pathetic little crush sitting at the core.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks.

Your heart sinks. "No, Clark, you haven't done anything wrong. Jesus." You run a hand over your face, letting out a sigh. "That's not—you're just—"

He's just perfect. He's kind and patient, he helps an elderly woman carry groceries back to her apartment every Thursday night. How do you tell someone like that that it feels like dying every time he mentions the coworker he's clearly in love with?

"We're good," you finish weakly. "You don't have anything to worry about."

He gives you a look that says he doesn't believe you for a second. "You just hate being around me?"

"Oh, yes. I hate you. Absolutely despise you," you joke.

"Hmm."

"Repulsed," you're holding back a laugh now. "Completely repulsed by your very—"

Clark takes another step forward, and whatever words were in your mouth evaporate. The laughter fizzles, turns less playful and more nervous as he invades your personal space like he's been doing your thoughts, 24/7, for maybe a solid year.

Playful Clark is almost worse than kind Clark. Kind Clark can fill your stomach with butterflies, sure. Kind Clark will stay on your mind, will fuel daydreams of late mornings and gentle hands, but you've built up a tolerance. Playful Clark—bold Clark—might actually shatter the very carefully maintained equilibrium you've worked so hard to create around your relationship with him.

"...face," you manage to squeak. He's much too close and much too comfortable, taller than you've ever really allowed yourself to consider.

What a terrifyingly wonderful feeling. If he leaned down, if you got on tiptoes...

"Clark," you say. The word is a weak warning.

He doesn't move, but his eyes flicker down to your lips and back up. You can feel the blush creeping over your cheeks. "What?"

"Clark."

He's smiling. "Y/N."

You can barely hear your own voice over the roar of your blood in your ears. "Are you just... gonna stand here?"

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. "I don't know. I'm enjoying the view."

"Clark."

His smile widens. "It's not my fault. You're cute when you're flustered."

"Stop. I'm not flustered."

He leans in a fraction closer. "So, I could get closer?"

He knows. He absolutely knows. And you know that he knows, and he's playing chicken. "Clark," you whisper, a final warning. If he gets any closer...

"Y/N." He mimics the tone of your voice. He's trying to tease, but he can't keep the soft, warm edges from creeping into it, the gentle affection he can never hide.

Clark Kent wants to kiss you, you think, distantly, as his nose brushes yours. As a big hand reaches up and cradles the back of your head.

"Is this okay?" he asks, breath fanning over your lips. And god, if that isn't just about the death of you.

The air has solidified, turned to glass, and it's lodged in your chest. "Clark."

"Can I?" His fingertips are warm against the base of your neck. The contact sends electricity racing up and down your spine. "I'm tired of waiting for you to catch on."

"Me catch on?! My biggest problem is that you, Clark Kent, you are the most—"

He's kissing you. He's laughing against your lips as he's kissing you, and your mind has been reduced to a collection of sparks going off in a vast expanse of darkness.

"You're so oblivious," he's saying, his lips moving against yours. "You're the most oblivious person on the planet. I swear."

"I'm oblivious? You're—"

But he's kissing you again—this time more insistent, less patient, a little bit needy and a whole lot of something you can't name, but you want to drown in. Any argument you might have made melts under his touch, vanishes like dew on a sunny morning and leaves nothing but this in its wake.

"I hope your machine is dead for good," he murmurs against your lips.

Your answer gets lost somewhere in the shape of his mouth and the warmth of his hands.

At least, the Clark Kent problem is solved.

[thatweirdo466]

Can you do smut with clark Kent, he is so big so he goes to deep and has to take you to the er, even though he hurt you he is very proud of him and his dick

Three inches from heaven

Pairing: david!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

A/n: as you can tell i'm really enjoying posting weekly extras

Summary: Every inch counts...especially when he knows how to use them.

Classification: Smut +18 | safe vaginal sex, praise, use of X-ray vision in a sexual context, depictions of bruising and visit to a hospital/ER, including unprofessional or comedic remarks from medical staff. Clark is extremely caring but also hilariously anxious, tending toward over-the-top worry and protective behavior but yk...it's Clark.

Word count: 3,7k

Divider by me ;)

“Kinky” wasn’t the word you’d use, it was more “adventurous” than anything else. You’d never had a partner you could trust this much before, so when you and Clark became official, naturally, you wrote a list of everything you wanted to try sexually. It was a long one, scribbled out with the kind of excitement you’d been too shy to ever act on before and Clark had been just as eager, if not more, to work through it with you. 

He treated it like a mission dossier, equal parts thoroughness and enthusiasm, even adding his own notes in the margins sometimes. You were getting close to “Sitting on Clark’s face” which he underlined and punctuated with five exclamation points, as if to make absolutely sure it wasn’t skipped, but tonight’s experiment was prone bone.

The night began like any other with a modest dinner, small talk, him cleaning up while you lingered on the couch, a soft kiss here and a brush of fingers there. You never planned when to cross something off the list, it always came after you were already warm, flushed and at least halfway undone from the way he worshiped you and tonight was no different. 

Two orgasms in, when your muscles were loose and your mind was humming, you finally asked for it.

Face down on the couch, you gazed out at the glittering skyline of Metropolis through the wide windows of Clark’s apartment. Your chest rose and fell in steady anticipation, your body already tingling. Behind you, Clark shifted into position, his knees bracketing your thighs as he bent over you while his lips brushed soft, reverent kisses along the damp trail of your spine.

“Are you sure?” he asked for the second time, voice low while his lips pressed against your shoulder blade.

You hummed your answer but he wasn’t satisfied with just that.

“You can stop me at any time. Don’t wait until it hurts. Even if it’s just uncomfortable, you stop me. You hear?” His tone was firm but gentle, a voice that left no room for doubt.

“Loud and clear,” you whispered, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze. He tilted your chin up and kissed you languidly, sealing the promise between you.

When he pulled away, he slid a pillow under your hips, lifting you just enough and adjusting you until you were perfectly angled. The cool air brushed your heated skin and then came the warmth of him. Clark’s tip nudged at your entrance, before he pressed forward with care, the stretch was immediate and the invasion enough to pull a groan from your throat and press your forehead hard into the cushion beneath you.

He stilled instantly. “Baby, you okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, voice tight, before lifting your head to make sure he knew. “I’m okay.”

And you were. The position was intense, restrictive and it made him feel impossibly big inside you. He knew it too, you could hear it in the rough sound of his groan as he pushed deeper, every inch claiming you in slow increments. The way your body clenched down on him, walls fluttering tight around his length, had both of you struggling to catch your breath.

He inched forward until he was nearly bottomed out…nearly. You didn’t have to say a word before he was already checking with that telltale pause as he used his x-ray vision to confirm your body’s limits. His tip brushed your pelvis and he still had a few inches left, but he wasn’t about to risk hurting you.

“We’re gonna go nice and slow,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your hip, reassuring you. His voice was steady but there was an edge of strain beneath it, like it was taking everything in him to hold in his release.

All you could do was nod, gripping the couch cushion as he began to move with careful precision, every thrust calculated and every pause a silent check-in. The city lights spilled across the room as his warmth enveloped you from behind, you felt at once completely overwhelmed and utterly safe.

Clark’s chest pressed fully to your back now, the heavy weight of him both pinning you and shielding you. Each deliberate thrust came in that slow, scooping motion and you felt it all, in the best way possible. The way he carved himself against your velvety walls, the way his hips rocked to angle deeper and the way his cock seemed to drag and nudge at every tender ridge inside you until your entire body shuddered.

“Uhhh–fuck, you’re…so deep,” you moaned, voice breaking on the words. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You’d thought maybe after two orgasms your body would be less sensitive, that you’d float in the afterglow but the opposite was true. Every nerve was heightened, raw and open and all you could do was cling to the moment. Your focus narrowed until all that existed was him, the ridges, the veins and the delicious weight of his cock stretching you. Your nails dug deep grooves into the leather cushions, desperate for anchor, while your blurred gaze caught only fractured streaks of city lights beyond the window. Your mouth hung open, letting small hiccups of sound escape each time he rocked into you while the pleasure bubbled uncontrollably.

His lips brushed the damp curve of your shoulder, his nose nuzzling into your skin. He murmured into you like he was kissing a secret there. “You’re taking me so good, baby. So darn good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, head tipping forward and you whispered with ragged need, “F–faster.”

He stilled just enough to ask, his voice still low and careful, “Are you sure?” Even now, even with the control it must’ve taken for him not to simply give in, he waited. He needed your confirmation.

You nodded quickly, desperately so. “Yes, Clark. Please...I- I need more.”

The change was immediate. He wasn’t ruthless, he never would be but the shift was enough that your body reeled. His pace picked up, hips rolling with heavier intent and faster, until your moans tumbled free with no control at all. Your back arched further, chest pressing harder into the couch while the tension in your body snapped tighter with every thrust.

“Mmmm–you’re so big…filling me up so good.” you cried, the words ripping free, unfiltered. You didn’t care how shameless it sounded, didn’t care if it made his ego swell, the only truth in that moment was the stretch, the fullness and the overwhelming pulse of him inside you.

He groaned against your skin, his voice dark and low as his arms locked tighter around your middle. “You’re taking it like a champ, baby.”

“Mmmmyeah?” you gasped, the syllable fractured by a sharp intake of breath.

“Mhm,” he hummed, warm and rumbling against the shell of your ear, his thrusts never faltering. His breath was hot, heavy, every exhale ragged. “I’m so proud of you.”

The words hit you almost as hard as the pleasure itself, leaving you trembling in his arms as the rhythm of his hips drove you closer to that unbearable edge.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long before your bodies found a rhythm that bordered on devastating. It was steady, hypnotic and deep enough to leave you dizzy. Clark’s pace never faltered, never reckless, yet it carried a precision that left no part of you untouched. The air in the apartment grew heavy and humid with the sharp mix of your moans and his groans, the slap of skin against skin filling the darkened room until it sounded like the walls themselves were trembling with you.

Then his hand slid up, warm and broad, wrapping around your throat with a pressure just firm enough to make your head spin. He squeezed lightly, careful yet commanding and your eyes immediately rolled back. 

“Fuck…I’m…Uhhh–I’m coming. Yes–” You choked.

The sensation tipped you over the edge with startling force, your orgasm tearing through you in a whimpering, broken sound that was equal parts whine and cry. It might have embarrassed you if it had come from anyone else’s touch but with him, there was only trust and relief. Only the gentleness threaded through every inch of his strength.

The pulsing of your release gripped him tight, milking him until he groaned loudly, burying himself deep as he spilled into the condom. The sound he made, low, guttural and raw, vibrated against your spine as his forehead dropped to the top of your back. Both of you were shuddering, caught in the tail end of the storm, your breaths ragged and uneven as the room gradually quieted again.

You stayed there like that for a while, two minutes, maybe more, bodies heavy and languid in the aftermath. When he finally pulled out, the absence was met instantly with the comfort of his arms wrapping you close.

As it always did with Clark, the intensity of sex melted seamlessly into tenderness. Aftercare came like instinct, his lips covered you in soft kisses while his voice murmured reassurances, his laugh breaking into warm little chuckles when you did too. There was something almost comical in the way he padded across the room, completely naked, just to grab the list and dramatically cross off “prone bone” with a grin.

You both ended the night in the shower, washing each other with lazy strokes and shared smiles, before collapsing into bed tangled together. His arms caged you gently, his warmth draped around you like a blanket and the last thing you heard before sleep was his quiet, content hum against your hair.

You slept peacefully for about three hours before the unease started creeping in. First a little shift here, a toss there and then the ache bloomed sharp enough in your lower stomach that you curled around it, clutching the spot. The mistake was letting a tiny wince slip out. It was soft, barely audible but of course, nothing ever got past Clark. He sat up so fast it nearly startled you more than the pain.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was low, urgent and already thick with worry.

You tried to brush it off, rolling onto your back with a weak laugh. “You and your superhearing. I’m fine, Clark. Go back to sleep.”

But “fine” had never once been good enough for him and you should’ve known better. He flicked on the light from his bedside table, casting a warm glow across the room, then promptly pushed the blanket off you.

“Excuse you!?” you protested as he straddled your hips and tugged up the hem of the shirt you’d stolen from him. “What do you think you’re doing? Hey, pervert–”

He didn’t even look at your face, his mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a grin. “Funny, you didn’t call me a pervert earlier when I was inside you.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “Well, that’s–”

But your retort cut off when he began pressing gently on your lower stomach, carefully as well as methodically, watching your expression like it was the most important readout in the world. The second you winced, he reacted like you’d been scorched. He practically leapt off of you, hands fumbling for some sweatpants as though fabric could shield you from whatever he’d just confirmed.

“Clark–”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he rushed out, voice strained as he guided your legs into the pants and tugged them up with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re bruising. I can’t see clearly how bad, so…” He trailed off, swallowing hard before helping you sit up, his hand splayed against your back.

The soft sound you made as the motion tugged at your stomach almost broke him completely. His jaw tightened and you realized his eyes were frantic. “We’re going to the hospital,” he said firmly. “We’re making sure it’s not too bad. No arguments.”

His statement was only half a lie. Clark could see perfectly well but his mind had already jumped ten steps ahead, imagining every possible worst-case scenario.

You blinked at him, both touched and exasperated. Superman, absolutely unshakable in every other way and here he was, pale and rattled over the thought of accidentally hurting you.

“Okay then, but Clark I can dress myself,” you said as he tied the drawstring of your sweatpants, trying to act casual even though the subtle brush of his fingers against your skin sent heat racing through you.

He nodded rapidly, eyes soft but frantic. “I know, baby,” he murmured, cupping your face and pressing a string of gentle kisses to your cheeks and forehead. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should’ve been more careful. I just—Well, it’s you and I–” His hands lingered as he slipped off your sleep shirt.

“You didn’t. I mean, not really… hard to tell when I was cramping around your dick,” you said, letting your voice take on that teasing edge, “but you know… details.”

He froze for a second, brow furrowing. “Are you… smiling? Why are you smiling?”

“Sadistic, right? Thought so,” you said with a small grin, the corners of your mouth tugging up as you watched him fumble with a clean shirt for you. “I’m trying to keep it in, but… you look really hot when you’re worried.”

Clark’s lips twitched into a nervous chuckle as he pulled the fresh shirt over your head. “Arms…I’m glad you find my worrying hot,” he said, his voice a mix of relief and self-conscious pride, before moving on to dressing himself. “But this really isn’t the right time.”

By the time you both got into the car and drove to the ER, your stomach still ached with cramps, but for some inexplicable reason, you couldn’t stop giggling. Half from discomfort and half from the absurdity of it all. His anxious nature made it almost impossible to keep a straight face. 

Clark hovered over you in the waiting room like a hawk, pacing slightly and muttering under his breath about how no one seemed to understand the urgency of your “condition.” He leaned over the receptionist counter, using his most serious, authoritative voice.

“My girlfriend was… uh… injured,” he said, trying to choose his words carefully. “It’s a… pelvis situation, very sensitive. We need a doctor, immediately.”

The receptionist blinked at him, confused. “Uh… okay… do you have an insurance card?”

Clark flinched, muttering something about bureaucracy slowing down life-or-death situations, then spotted a nurse strolling by, who he waved over frantically.

“Excuse me. Nurse!” he called, his voice full of desperate urgency. “She’s… giggling but bruised. Lower abdominal area. Pretty sure she needs professional evaluation. Stat.”

The nurse stopped and raised an eyebrow, taking one look at Clark’s intense, almost panicked expression and then at you curled slightly on the chair, clutching your stomach with a mix of pain and giggles.

She tilted her head, lips twitching. “Uh-huh… yeah, that tracks,” she said dryly, her eyes flicking back to Clark like, no wonder. “Room 3. You can wait there.”

Clark practically scooped you into his arms and carried you to the room, muttering apologies for the dramatic scene while simultaneously shushing your giggles. You could barely stop yourself from laughing at the sight of him tiptoeing as if the entire hospital were a crime scene.

Once you were settled on the hospital bed, Clark hovered like a shadow, wringing his hands and muttering, “I told the lady at the front desk, twice. I–”

“Clark, it’s a bruise,” you whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “People don’t come to the ER for bruises.”

His brow furrowed as he leaned down, lowering his voice. “People also don’t wake up in the middle of the night wincing. What if it’s not just a bruise? What if it’s a fracture? Or an internal bleed?”

You blinked at him. “You think you broke my pelvis?”

His ears flushed red. “...It’s possible.”

The nurse who had come in to take your vitals, clearly overheard and had to bite back a smile as Clark rattled off every symptom you didn’t have. “No fever, no nausea, no weakness in her legs but she winced three times on the way here and–”

“Clark,” you interrupted softly, pressing his hand, “I think I can handle answering the questions.”

“Sir,” the nurse said patiently, one hand on her hip. “She’s going to be fine. You can take a breath now.”

You tried to muffle a laugh. “Yes, do that before you get hospitalized,” you whispered, still clutching your stomach.

Then the doctor finally arrived, striding in with her clipboard and scanning the room. Her eyes landed on Clark, frozen mid-pacing next to the bed, pale and panicked and she immediately let out a soft laugh, as well as letting out a quiet comment on how giant your boyfriend looked perched in the corner, hands clasped like he was waiting for news of a life-saving surgery. 

“Oh… yeah. Okay. That’s the problem,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of her. But you?” she nodded at Clark, “Anything wrong with you besides the clear panic attack?”

He shook his head dramatically. “I’m completely worried, normal, casual about this and utterly terrified. All of the above…minus a few, maybe.”

“I know for sure ‘normal’ doesn’t belong on that list,” the nurse muttered. You laughed so hard your stomach pulled uncomfortably.

“He’s just…large,” you managed between chuckles.

“Unreasonably so,” she agreed, with the solemnity of a medical observation as if physics itself should’ve intervened.

Clark flushed bright red but didn’t back down. “I’m concerned. This is a… a delicate… very delicate situation.”

The doctor shook her head, smirking. “I can see that. Let’s get her checked and maybe… keep the heroics to a minimum?”

“He’s never been very good at that.” You snickered, letting your head fall back on the pillow. Clark gave you a pointed glare but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face as the doctor started her exam.

Even in the ER, Clark’s mix of worry, pride and ridiculous intensity made you laugh between groans and you both knew this was going to be a story retold many times, much to his chagrin.

The doctor, still suppressing a grin then gestured for Clark to step back. He hovered reluctantly, arms crossed over his chest like a storm cloud, peeking over her shoulder anyway.

“Alright,” she said, leaning over to examine you, “let’s see what’s going on here.” Her fingers pressed gently along your lower abdomen and pelvis, eyes flicking up at you with professional focus but her gaze couldn’t resist darting to Clark, who had gone completely pale.

“Uh… I’ll just… stand right here,” he muttered, inching closer than strictly necessary.

“Yeah,” the doctor said, raising an eyebrow. “This is… exactly what I expected. Very… inflamed,” she murmured, glancing at Clark. “Not from an accident, I take it?”

Clark stammered. “Uh, no! I mean–well, technically…yes? It was consensual, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“She wasn’t,” You mouthed.

The doctor tilted her head, eyes narrowing like she was solving a puzzle. “It happens. It’s nothing permanent. She’s perfectly fine, just bruised.” she said, letting out a small laugh.

You laughed weakly from the bed, covering your face. “See? Told you I’m fine.”

Clark froze. “Well you know I don’t like that word.” His cheeks burned red but there was no hiding the mixture of pride and embarrassment.

The doctor handed you some ice packs and gave Clark a pointed look. “Ice, rest, maybe a bit of over-the-counter pain relief and you,” she said, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, “next time, dial it down to… human levels. Got it?” The doctor joked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Clark said solemnly, almost saluting, though his lips twitched into a grin.

By the time the nurse finally waved you both out, Clark was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had insisted on carrying you to the car to make sure you weren’t in pain, occasionally glancing at you like he might tackle anyone who even looked at you wrong.

“So…” he began as soon as you were buckled in, voice quiet but intense, “maybe we should… reevaluate the list. Make sure nothing on there…physically overpowers you again.”

You laughed, shaking your head, the seatbelt pressing across your midsection a sharp reminder of the last few hours. “Yeah… no way, I’m not gonna do that. God forbid I actually enjoy the stretch! You have a big dick, Clark, get over it! I knew exactly what I was signing up for when I wrote that list and trust me…I’m loving it so far.”

He blinked, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly. “I… okay. That’s more sincerity than I expected and I’m…very proud of you.”

“Been working on it,” you said with a playful smile.

Clark nodded, his expression softening. “I can see that. I still need to make sure you’re safe,” he murmured, tugging gently at your hand that rested on your thigh.

The doctor had insisted on rest, no activity, just to let the bruises heal but your mind had already wandered. “Which I’m sure you’ll enforce, Superman,” you said, pausing with mock seriousness. “Umm… so, about this whole resting thing…”

“Sweetheart–”

“How far are we taking that? Face sitting doesn’t really count, right?” you asked, smirking. “I mean, technically…”

Clark froze mid-hand squeeze, his eyes widening. “We’re still in the ER parking lot and you’re thinking about sitting on my face?”

“Yes,” you said, trying not to giggle. “It’s literally zero impact on the bruising. The doctor said no activity, but… come on, Clark… that face is begging for it.”

He blinked slowly, then cleared his throat, releasing your hand to push up his glasses and discreetly, or not so discreetly, readjust himself. “We’ll… uh… we’ll see,” he muttered, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as his mind raced.

“Will I… get an answer by morning?” you asked, glancing at the darkening sky where the first hints of sunrise were creeping in.

He started the car, eyes flicking to you with that mix of exasperation and mischief only he could pull off. “Baby, you’ll get an answer when I stop… leaking into my underwear,” he muttered, voice tight with effort. “Then I can think straight.”

You bit back a laugh, trying not to let the growing smile take over your face. “Will that be… soon?”

He shot you a glance, one brow quirking and lips twitching as if he were fighting his own amusement. 

“It’s unlikely,” he said flatly, though his eyes betrayed every ounce of delight and torment you were causing and you understood then, with a devilish grin, the absolute importance of depth. 

Clark clearly took it very seriously and you intended to test every inch of it.

A/n: If you had to write your own list, what are the top three things you’d put on it? I'll go first! 1. Having the guy wear a ghostface mask, motorcycle helmet or literally anything that covers his face while we... yk, 2. Cockwarming, 3. Watching my partner jerk it *bites finger* (If you judge me you'll have diarrhea for a month straight) Anyway!!

Thank you lots for reading, reblogging, commenting, requesting and following guys! love interacting with you all. See you later this week! 🫶

[thatweirdo466]

clark kent x f!reader

synopsis: you'd like to hear clark curse.

"say fuck."

"no."

"say fuck, please?"

clark huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes before looking down at you. you return his gaze with wide blinking eyes, a symbol of feigned innocence and utter cuteness. it takes a lot of strength for clark to not crumble beneath that heavy load.

"why do you want me to say it so bad?" clark asks, curious and watches as you shrug.

"just want to hear how it sounds," you reply. "like i hear you say gosh and golly all the time. which is absolutely fine by me, i love the whole innocent farm boy thing you've got going on."

clark's ears turn a soft red as his cheeks bunch up with his amused smile.

"but i just want to hear it'd sound with your voice. and if it's going to be just as panty-dropping worthy as it is in my head."

clark's smile widens. "so you think about me?"

"slow your roll, smallville," you reply, smiling just as wide. "so what do you say? please say fuck. i'll give you $20."

"i literally can't be bribed," clark says, amused. "but if i was willing, i would require more than $20."

you eye him with playful suspicion. "what would your terms be?"

clark pretends to think about it, humming as he draws closer to you. he curls his arms around you, pulling a very willing you into his embrace. you steady yourself with your hands on his chest, peering up at him as you await his answer.

"a dozen kisses and three cuddles sessions," he says after a minute and you nod solemnly.

"plus the $20?" you ask and clark shakes his head, working you both into a gentle sway.

"it's never about the money. it's just about me spending time with my favourite gal and fulfilling her oddly specific desires."

"aw, aren't you the sweetest?" you coo, reaching up to cradle his dimpled cheeks. "okay, deal. a dozen kisses and three cuddles. now please say fuck."

"okay, sweetheart," clark agrees, clears his throat, and leans in until his lips are brushing against your slightly warm ear. your heart pounds loudly in your chest, anticipation rising as you await for the word to jump.

then clark says:

"ffffiddlesticks."

and cracks up to the point of tears as you push his bulk away with little success.

[thatweirdo466]

Does He know?

You wake up expecting your dear boyfriend in the kitchen but to your surprise find Superman making breakfast.

content: pure unfiltered fluff, a bit of innocent kissing

work count: almost 2k yipe

note; hi lovers! first fic ever, hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing. kept thinking of that one scene in diary of a wimpy kid as i wrote this. does he know about the d-o-r-e? the what! the door (rolls eyes)

Sunlight pours through the curtains by the time your consciousness graces you. An act of instinct urges your palm to trace the fabric and curves of the blanket, arm extending over the expanse of the bed onto what should have been warmth. Steady, firm, and permanent.

Clark Kent.

Your fingers tip the end of his pillow, till they reach the end of his side. The softness of the bed lacked his warmth, no crevice of his shape that dips the mattress- nothing to remember the memory of his body next to yours. You sigh deeply, then crane your senses for a sign.

Ceramic clatters from somewhere far away. A buzzing sound followed by a loud ding then an even louder “Shush!”.

There were two options left. You pretend to be asleep until he’d softly stir your awake, dimpled smile gazing down at you, or you could attempt to unsuccessfully surprise him with a back hug. Curse his superhuman senses.

Your hand rips off your blanket before your mind can catch up. You slip on his oversized shirt and step out of the quiet, sombre comfort of your shared room and into the bright kitchen. Screw the surprise there’s nothing more you yearn for than the way Clark’s body melts into yours upon touch.

However, the sight near the kitchen has your brows meeting your hairline, eyes blown wide. You embody a living statue as your mind tries to take in what it supposes is a mirage. A mismatched puzzle piece, your thoughts connecting faster than your comprehension or realisation can.

With his broad back turned you to, he speaks. Words drenched with maple and adoration; you can picture the smile on his face. “I was just about to wake you, Sleepy-pants”, he stretches the affectionate nickname out, “Who wants pancakes?”

He scrapes the final piece of the pan to place on the heaping stack of pancakes, clicks the stove off, then turns to meet you halfway.

Though its your lack of enthusiasm and the strange expression that stops him in place. As quickly as he pauses, he rushes to gather your face in his warm, big hands. Clark brushes the messy strands of hair out of your face.

“Hey, what’s wrong? You feelin’ alright, hon?”, his voice is gentle, as if it would shatter you if he spoke in a normal tone.

Your eyes don’t stray away from the door, and the sight of red boots- incredibly, extremely familiar, without a doubt those same red boots that you see every single day and hour of your life. Although it’s through a pixelated screen, or just barely visible in the sky far far up from the ground where you and numerous civilians stand.

They ‘stand’ right there next to your over piled coat rack, steady and waiting as if they’ve always belonged. It’s a sight that brings comfort but dawns answers to questions you hadn’t even asked. But it all made concrete sense.

Carefully, he nudges your head to the opposite direction and all you can see is a pool of the clear blue sky, staring at you with worry. And love, so much adoration you could drown in it.

“Let’s sit down, hmm”, he places a tiny kiss on your forehead, and slowly moves you to the couch. His hands slide up and down your arm to soothe you but it’s mostly to calm his nerves. Once he’s sure you’re snug, he plops down next to you. Hands fit each other and fingers automatically intertwine.

Your eyes drop to inspect his hands. They’re not calloused but rough, and rigid from years of farm work and superhero duties. Memories of how much he preens like a cat when you massage his hands with lavender lotion flood your mind and you let out a soft giggle.

Clarks sighs in relief. “You must have gotten dizzy from standing on an empty stomach”. He misunderstands in the most adorable way.

So, you turn your body to his, knees bumping and your bare legs brushing his work pants. A reminder of how he needs to bring more of his clothes and you need to do laundry (because all you wear at home are his clothes) (“I love seeing you in every part of me”, he says. ‘Clark Kent, you big baby’ you could go on for hours).

A deep breath in, and a huge smile to muffle how you’re vibrating from excitement, anxiety, fear, admiration and courage. It needs to land perfectly, a firm but soft blow. So he knows you love him all the same, nothing has changed, no secret could change the bond. If anything, his constant excuses and date cancellations make more sense now.

“Thanks for saving me, Superman”.

It’s quiet for a minute, only the clock ticking and the occasional hum of the radiator. Clark’s gaze never wavers, nor do his expressions betray him. His lips stretch, dimples carved into his cheeks, he laughs loudly. So loud that his shoulder shake with him, and unsure of what to do, you awkwardly laugh along.

He shakes his head in disbelief then moves an inch closer to boop your nose, “Okay, I’ll admit that was good.” Your face scrunches and eyes squint in disbelief.

“No-no, I mean-”.

He interrupts you with another boop to the nose but this time you swat his hand away. The motion makes his glasses shift and he hastily pushes them back until his eyelashes clash against the glass.

“I’ll relay this to Superman the next time I interview him”, he resumes his chuckle and looks at you with so much adoration you want to kiss him silly. But you pull back when he leans close.

With your back against the cushion, and arm rest you glare at him. There’s no heat behind it but his nonchalance eggs you on. The dopey smile on his face doesn’t waver as he looks at you crossing your arms, his arms slowly trace the edge of the couch so he can trap you.

It’s Clark’s classic move. He’ll wrap you in his strong arms, hold you chest to chest for a tight hug to breathe in your scent. But now’s not the time for that.

“Clark, I know”.

“Know what, hon?”.

You huff in annoyance and try to get up but he doesn’t budge. His arms rest next to your waist as he hovers over you. “You don’t need to hide anything from me”, you chose a different approach, voice sweet and low. Coaxing him into confessing. A finger trails over his shoulder until it meets the collar of his crinkled white button down.

“It’s just to two of us”, the tip of your nail almost grazes his chin and his head bows to kiss it. “Clark Kent is Superman, right?”, you whisper.

Immediately he scrunches his eyes shut, whining your name as he leans backwards until he’s sat on his knees. His chest heaves with a heavy sigh, burdened enough to bury his secret.

“Angel, do you know how many times I’ve been called that before?”, he’s pleading now.

You huff once more and turn your nose to the side. “It’s not just how you act Clark. You’re not only kind and heroic like him. You look like him too!”

Clark sputters, eyes wide and unable to meet your own so they bounce of your features until he tries to form a defence. “I do not. And besides it’s a widely known fact that each person has seven doppelgangers-”.

You deadpan stare makes him bite his tongue.

He scratches his neck bashfully, “And one of mine happens to live here. Superman was probably living a normal life here before I moved from Smallville. If anything, I’m his doppelganger”.

Your stare doesn’t waver, lips pulled back taunt. You aren't backing down and despite his deflated shoulders, neither is he.

“Look at the door”.

“Hm? What was that?”.

“I know you heard me, Kent”.

You watch him closely when his eyes travel above your head and down the hallway where the door was next to the new addition in your house. His body undergoes a series of motions.

Broad shoulders hunch stiff when he eyes the shoes, fingers on his right-hand twitch, his tongue wets his lips and his pupils shake. Then, as quickly as it all happened, his body uncurls from the coil and he slouches, his head bows meeting his chest. It’s slow yet the pictures woosh in a fluid motion, like watching a glass fall; it’s slow motion yet the fastest action ever.

 He closes his eyes, out of what you hope is relief. Carrying that weight alone could be a burden-even for a metahuman.

Clark sighs. It’s like he exhales all the air ever present in his lungs. A beat passes before you lift yourself and wrap your arms around him. You try to cover as much of his body as possible, bury him under your tender touch and care.

His nose tickles the spot under your ear, his breath warm as it hits your neck.

“I knew I was forgetting something”, muffled but it reaches your ears clearly. It’s not regret he feels, but there is a part of him that feels he’s opened a new, uncharted world for you. One where he has to work twice as hard to keep you safe.

“Yes, I’m the world’s best detective I know but I love you, Clark. You, Superman, farm boy, journalist, every version of you, I love you”, you mumble into his hair.

His body slides on the couch to mould you onto him as he takes your waist into his arms, pulling you over his lap but not moving his head from the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply once more.

“You don’t have to carry this burden alone. I’m here, it’s always been us”.

He shakes his head. “Not a burden…I was born for it”.

You rake a hand through his heavy curls and he pulls you impossibly closer.

“I’m talking about the secret”.

He places a chaste kiss on your neck, and you squirm from how much it tickles. The apple of his cheek curves upwards from how hard he smiles.

“Whenever you need me, I’ll always be here, Superman. Cheering you on, helping you or taking care of you. You save us, I save you, Clark”.

“I know”. Finally, his head pulls back to look at you. It’s intimate, staring into his blue eyes like he can see right through you. Speak right to your soul.

“I love you”. He says it like it’s a fact, it’s the law. And for Clark it might as well be. You shift your arms so your fingers rest on his cheeks, brushing the soft skin.

“Wanna have cold breakfast?”.

His soft eyes crinkle in glee, “You know it”.

Your thumb presses into the skin, squishing it and he closes his eyes. Now that you know he’s not just physically strong but meta-human-ly strong, you’re going to squish, pinch and hug him as hard as you can. Call it love, or cuteness aggression, Clark’s thrilled to be receiving it.

“My boyfriend makes me the best breakfast. You should meet him sometime”.

He laughs. You squish his cheeks once more; his left hand leaves your waist to place the warmth onto yours.

“Maybe later. Right now, I want to have the best cold pancakes with you”.

You place a quick kiss to his nose, and before you can jump off his lap, his grip on your waist returns and tightens , then he stands up so fast you almost suffer a whiplash.

“Clark!”, your hands scramble to hold onto his shoulders as he carries you all the way to the kitchen.

It’s not silent or tense now. The air is lighter with the sound of his laughter and the weight of his secret off his shoulders. There’s a bounce in his step and the purpose of his calling in his arms. Held tight, secure, and swimming in love.

A/N: thank you for reading! Hope you liked it. If you have any thoughts feel free to share. I hate editing and formating but This was so fun to write, i mostly did laugh at the joke it randomly came in my head. First fic here ah im so nervous but lets goo people! Have a great day :)

[thatweirdo466]

late bloomer

clark kent x fem!reader

summary: After a game of truth or dare, your new boyfriend Clark comes to pick you up and take care of you. You drunkenly confess to the reason why you haven't had sex yet: you're a late bloomer and he is your first boyfriend.

cw: drunk reader, embarrassed and ashamed reader, clark the perfect, understanding bf, slight angst, major fluff, SMUT!! (18+ MINORS DNI!!): penetrative protected sex, oral (f), fingering/masturbating, mentions of toys, size kink, sweet, romantic aftercare

wc: 5.2k+

author's note: here's to my new fic!! i've seen fics where the reader is hella experienced but never where she's had sex before but hasn't done it in so long due to whatever reason or whatever, same goes for inexperienced fics. here's to late bloomers!!! always remember you are on your own timeline and that comparison is the thief of joy xoxo

It starts over a game of truth or dare.

You’re at Cat’s apartment with Lois and a handful of other women you work with at the Daily Planet for a girl’s night. You felt a slight buzz but didn’t want to be a party pooper if you left early. The thought of participating in a game of truth or dare made you queasy.

“We should at least set some ground rules,” you said as everyone settled around the living room.

“Oh, c’mon,” Kelly groaned, “where’s the fun in that?”

You frown, sinking into your spot on the couch. “I think if someone doesn’t want to do the truth or dare, they shouldn’t have to,” you grumbled, “just take a shot instead.”

“I like that idea,” Lois hummed, nodding towards you. You smile appreciatively at her.

Everyone agrees quietly and you take a long sip of your wine when you catch Cat set shot glasses and a handle of tequila on the coffee table in front of you.

Your mind wanders to Clark. You wondered what he was up to. When he asked to come over to your apartment and make dinner for you tonight, you had to regrettably, and politely, decline. You told him about your plans with Cat, Lois, and the others, and promised to call him if you needed him to stop by and pick you up if you got too drunk.

You haven’t been together that long. It’s only been six weeks since your first date, and Clark has been nothing but a perfect, dotting boyfriend. He’s memorized your coffee order and helps you into your jacket when it rains. He walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street and laces his fingers with yours. He keeps an extra sweater at his desk just in case you get cold. His kisses are soft and chaste. He hasn’t even brought up the s-word yet.

You were embarrassed to tell Clark he was your first boyfriend. You could count on one hand, with one finger, how many times you have had sex. It was your freshman year of college with some frat guy that left you empty and hallow afterwards.

Instead of focusing on dating and having boyfriends, you busied yourself with school and then eventually work. You didn’t have the time or energy to go on dates.

And then you met Clark.

You were friends first. You’re the designated copy editor for the International Politics section of the Daily Planet. You’re directly responsible for editing Clark’s, Jimmy’s, and Lois’s articles to make sure they were smooth, accurate, and free of errors.

Clark asked for your assistance more than anyone else on the team. You didn’t realize it until Cat brought it to your attention, and then you brought it up to Clark when you were running through edits late one night when you and Clark were the only ones still at the Planet. You remember it like it was yesterday.

“You know,” you hummed, writing in the margins of Clark’s first draft on the budget proposal by the city council, “Cat told me you ask for my help more than anyone else on the team. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush on me.”

You only meant it as a joke. Your friendship was built on light jabs and harmless teasing. He kept you on your toes and made the stress of the workday easier with his warm laughter and infectious smile.

Clark stiffens beside you. You glance at Clark from the corner of your eyes and watch him fix his posture until he’s sitting up straight. His glasses sit at the bridge of his nose and pink flushes his cheeks. You set your pen down in your lap and turn to get a better look at him.

“Did I make you uncomfortable? I only said it to tease you, I’m sorry,” you apologized, embarrassment hitting you square in the chest. You should’ve kept your mouth shut. Now Clark will want nothing to do with you, and you ruined a perfectly great friendship, despite your hidden feelings for him.

“No, no!” Clark stammered, reaching to take your hand and gives you a reassured squeeze. “You didn’t. I know you said it to tease me, but what you said is true. I do have feelings for you.”

Your jaw drops in surprise. You turn your body, so you face him. Clark smiles bashfully, scratching the back of his neck before pushing his glasses up his nose. His beautiful dimples poke out from his cheeks.

“What?” you asked in disbelief. “You do?”

Clark laughs quietly and grins at your reaction. “C’mon, Ms. Grammarly. You’re telling me you haven’t noticed how nervous I am when I’m around you?” he teased.

Your head spins at the revelation. “I thought that was just your personality.”

Clark shrugs, “I mean, partially, yes, but it’s mostly because I don’t know how to act when I’m around you. I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to tell you, but you beat me to it.”

You laugh softly and feel the warmth of his stare creep up your neck and across your face. Your knees brush his you feel the heat of Clark’s hands brush your chair, pulling you closer to him. His soft blue eyes find yours and you swallow hard. Your heart settles somewhere between your stomach and your throat.

“If it makes you feel any better,” you whispered, eyes flickering to his mouth, “I’ve been trying to hide my feelings for you.”

An elated smile rips across Clark’s handsome face, and he leans to brush his nose against yours. His warm breath fans across your cheeks. His fingers reach to hold your chin between his fingers before he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

A soft laugh bubbles from your throat, and you nod slowly, “Yes.”

Clark’s soft mouth presses against yours in a slow, romantic kiss. His large hands cradle your face, and a quiet sigh vibrates against your mouth. Butterflies burst in your stomach, and you let Clark lead you through the kiss.

You haven’t been kissed like this. Ever.

Clark kisses you like he wants you, like he adores you. It’s nothing like the kisses you’ve had when you were younger. Those were hungry and hard and made you feel empty afterwards. This kiss is soft, delicate, warm. It’s a kiss you’ve read about in all the books you’ve read. It’s a kiss you could only dream of having.

Your fingers grasp at his tie and feel the hard ridges of Clark’s chest as you kissed in the dim light of the bullpen before pulling away. He pulls away and his striking blue eyes find yours. His cheeks are flushed, and his pupils are blown. His warm breath mingles with yours.

“Whoa,” you can’t help but say as you catch your breath.

Clark grins and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “Is that a good whoa or a bad whoa?”

You laugh and your eyes crinkle as you look at him with a grin. “Good! Great, even. I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

Clark’s tender laughter fills the silence of the Daily Planet before he mumbles against your skin, “Let’s do it again.”

Since that moment you kissed at the Daily Planet and started dating shortly after, all you thought about was telling Clark how inexperienced you actually were when it came to sex. Sure, you had ideas on what you thought you liked from reading books, watching shows and movies, and even using toys, but it wasn’t the same. You haven’t experimented and you were too shy and embarrassed to tell Clark you’ve only had sex with one person. It’s one of the reasons why you haven’t had sex with Clark yet. You don’t want to face the embarrassment of telling your new boyfriend that you’re a late bloomer and don’t know what it’s like to actually enjoy sex.

You’re broken out of your thoughts with your friends yelling your name and a gentle shove from Cat. You blink back to reality and ignore the pit in your stomach.

“It’s your turn,” Kelly said, “truth or dare?”

Your mind races and you avoid the concerned expression on Cat’s face. “Uh… truth.”

Kelly smirks, leaning on her elbows as she looks at you. “What’s your sex life like with Clark?”

Your eyes widen at the question, and your jaw drops in surprised. Heat spreads across your body and pricks at your skin. You rather drop dead than tell your friends you haven’t had sex yet with Clark. You’re too embarrassed to admit your sex life is nonexistent.

You swallow hard and reach for a shot glass and the handle of tequila on the coffee table. Your friends groan as they watch you pour a shot.

“C’mon…” Theresa groaned, “you can’t share one itty bitty detail?”

One itty bitty detail that doesn’t exist because you’re too ashamed to admit you’re a late bloomer and don’t even know what you like? Yeah right.

Instead, you say, with a teasing lilt in your voice, “I don’t kiss and tell,” you hummed, knocking the liquor to the back of your throat.

It’s like that for a while whenever it’s your turn to go during the course of the game. With each question, you get drunker and drunker with each shot you take.

Is Clark dominate or submissive in bed?

Take a shot.  

Have you done any role playing, and if so, what have you done?

Take a shot.

What’s your favorite sex position with Clark?

Take a shot.

Have you had sex at the Daily Planet?

That was an easy question to answer. “No,” you slurred drunkenly, sinking into the couch and leaning against Cat as she types away furiously on her phone. Little did you know she was texting Clark to come pick you up.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Cat says, setting her phone beside here. “Miss Drunk Skunk over here is officially cut off and out of the game. Please ask invasive questions to somebody else.”

The group of women who’d been asking you the questions groaned, and Lois thrusted a glass of water into your hand. You take slow, methodical sips, your body buzzing from all the alcohol you’ve drank. You zone out of the conversations surrounding you and focus on drinking your water and calming your breaths. All you want is Clark to come and take care of you. You know he would be good at it.

After a while, you hear the doorbell to Cat’s apartment ring, and she hurries off the couch to the front door. You’re too distracted by the noise around you to notice Clark enter. You feel the couch dip beside you, and you turn to look, meeting the soft blue of Clark’s eyes.

“Clark!” you exclaimed in surprise, his name slurred on your tongue. “You’re here! I missed you.”

Clark smiles sweetly at you and brushes hair out of your face. The rough skin of his thumbs caresses the smooth skin on your cheeks. “I missed you too, sweetheart. I’m here to take you home, Miss Drunkie,” Clark teased, kissing your forehead.

“Heeeeey,” you whined, weakly shoving at his chest, “that’s not nice.”

“’m sorry,” he apologized quietly against the shell of your ear as he stood in front of you, “’m only teasing. Cat texted and said you need help to get home.”

“That’s nice of her.”

He hummed, nodding in agreement before helping you to your feet. You sway slightly and Clark wraps a warm, solid arm around your waist to keep you from falling. You turn your head towards his chest and your nose brushes against his shirt. Breathing in deeply, you smell the crisp clean air and warm soft musk on Clark’s shirt.

God, did he smell good.

Clark says your goodbyes for you and guides you out of Cat’s apartment, through the elevator, and out the building to his car. He unlocks the passenger side door and carefully settles you into the seat. He kisses the crown of your head before shutting the door and making his way to the driver’s side door.

The car starts and you feel Clark’s warm, gentle hand on your thigh. It sends a jolt up your spine and settles in the pit of your stomach. He squeezes gently.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Clark commands quietly with his eyes on the road as drives towards your apartment.

You hum softly and take the hand on your thigh and wrap your hand in his, resting it on your lap. Clark squeezes your hand this time and his thumb brushes the back of your hand.

“Did you at least have fun?” he asked to keep you awake and get you talking.

Your brows pinch together and a small frown forms on your lips. Your fingers toy with his and you can’t help the drunken hiccup that breaks through. “For a little bit,” you muttered, frowning into your lap, “until we started playing truth or dare. They kept asking me questions I didn’t want to answer so I had to take a shot for every question I didn’t answer.”

Clark laughs quietly, stealing a quick glance at your adorable, drunken pout as he drove. “Yeah? What kind of questions did they ask you?”

Your face flushes at both the question and the reminder of what your friends asked you. Your frown deepens. “’s embarrassing.”

“Oh, baby, you know you can tell me anything, right?” he asked you as he pulled into the parking lot of your apartment building. “I’ll never judge you or make you feel embarrassed about it.”

You turn to face him as he parks, and you hold out your pinky to him. “You promise?”

Clark grins and wraps his own pinky around yours before kissing the finger softly and letting it go. “I promise.”

Clark watches you square your shoulders and swallow hard. Your eyes are red and glassy from the alcohol, but they’re wide and earnest. You let out a careful breath.

“They were asking questions about our sex life,” you confessed quietly. “And obviously I couldn’t answer them because one that’s disrespectful of you and our relationship and I won’t kiss and tell, and two, because we haven’t done anything besides kissing.”

Clark’s cheeks redden at your words, and the tips of his ears turn pink. You’re too embarrassed to stop now, so the words spill out of you, and you can’t stop.

“And I know it’s my fault,” you rambled with shaky hands. “I’ve been too shy and embarrassed to tell you just how inexperienced I am. I’ve only had sex once and that was in college. I did it with someone I barely knew, and I hated how empty and hollow I felt afterwards. I focused on school and work and went on a few dates that weren’t serious. I didn’t want to freak you out by telling you that I’m a late bloomer and that you’re my first boyfriend. I didn’t want you to think I was a prude or anything since we haven’t had sex yet and now I’m drunk and didn’t have the balls to tell you all of this sober. I just thought you should know.”

Your confession hangs in the space between you. Your heart beats outside of your chest. The weight lifts off your shoulders, but the shame and embarrassment digs into your stomach. Pathetic tears spill over cheeks. You swallow hard and catch your breath, turning to look away from Clark, when he gently reaches across and holds your chin.

“Hey,” he murmured gently, brushing away your tears, “you have nothing to be embarrassed about. It doesn’t bother me. At all. I’m sorry you thought that telling me I’m your first boyfriend would freak me out. You shouldn’t ever be embarrassed to tell me things. Ever.”

“But—”

“Nope,” Clark gently interrupts you, holding the side of your neck. The warmth of his fingers presses into your skin. “Experience is not a prerequisite for a relationship. It means absolutely nothing to me. Whoever made you feel that way can kick rocks.”

You laugh quietly and lean into Clark’s tender touch. He brushes the last of your tears away and your hand rests against his broad chest. Your fingers squeeze the fabric of his shirt, and you pull him towards you. You kiss gently before Clark presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Let’s get you inside,” he hummed, opening the door and getting out of his car.

Clark opens the door for you and takes your purse and swings it on to his shoulder before lacing his hand with yours. You walk quietly through the apartment complex before you stop in front of your door. You watch Clark take your keys out and unlock the door. He guides you inside and locks the door behind him.

You stumble through the foyer and Clark races to catch you before you fall. His hands squeeze your waist as he pulls you up. You giggle drunkenly and Clark laughs into your ear.  

“Careful,” he smirked against your hair. The deep timbre of his voice makes you shiver.

He takes you by the hand again and walks the two of you into your bedroom. The light flickers and you sit down on the bed. You watch Clark move around your room, grabbing an old shirt and pajama shorts for you to change into.

He kisses your forehead and says, “Change into these pajamas while I get you some water and Tylenol.”

You hum and watch him disappear out of your bedroom and into your kitchen. You move sluggishly as you change into more comfortable clothes. You listen as Clark opens cabinets and turns on the faucet. He returns to you and with a delicate, heartwarming smile, hands you the glass and pills. You thank him quietly and take the medicine before standing.

“Where do you think you’re going, missy?” he teased.

“Must brush teeth and wash face,” you answered drunkenly. “Have to do bedtime routine.”

Clark laughs and watches you make your way into the bathroom. You wash your face and brush your teeth quickly when Clark steps in beside you. You move over and watch him do his own nighttime routine. You stare unapologetically at his bare, muscular chest as he washes his face and brushes his teeth.

He catches you staring and grins slyly at you before looping his arms around you. Clark nestles his face into your throat. “It’s not polite to stare, y’know,” he hummed, nibbling at your skin.

You giggle at the sensation and shrug. “Can’t help it. It’s not my fault you’re so pretty, Clark.”

He laughs and kisses along your throat and jaw. “Let’s go to bed, baby.”

Clark tugs you out of the bathroom and shuts all the lights off before helping you into bed. He climbs into bed and pulls you flush against his chest. You press a linger kiss to his chest before falling asleep in Clark’s arms.

…

You’re lighter now that Clark knows everything. The shame and embarrassment disappear, and Clark makes you feel safe and secure in your relationship despite your lack of experience. He adores you and doesn’t judge you. This is the happiest you’ve ever been with someone.

You giggle into his mouth as he fumbles with your keys after a date. You’re warm from the glass of wine you drank from dinner and Clark’s touch makes your skin sizzle. Clark’s teeth kiss your lips and you nearly tumble to the floor when the door to your apartment is pushed open. Clark laughs and catches you by the waist.

He closes the door and locks it behind you before reaching for you again. You kiss fervently as you kick off your shoes and shrug off your coats. Clark’s hands grip the back of your thighs and lifts you into his arms without breaking the kiss. You gasp into his mouth and his tongue slips into your mouth.

The ache between your thighs grows with each second. You hold Clark’s face between your hands as you kiss, and you pull a part briefly to look him in the eyes. His face is flushed, and your chests press against each other.

You brush a loose curl out of his face and whisper, “Bedroom. Now.”

Clark’s blue eyes are blown as he catches his breath. “Are you sure?”

You nod eagerly and press a soft kiss to his lips, “Yes.”

He grins and his mouth finds yours again before he walks the two of you into your room. Clark lays you down on the bed towards the headboard. You wrap your arms around his neck and hook your legs around his waist.

Clark hovers over you, kissing you like you’ve got all the time in the world. They’re slow and deep. It makes your toes curl, and your fingers tug at the curls on the base of his neck.

“Wanna take care of you, sweetheart,” he whispered hotly against your skin. “Wanna show you just how much you mean t’me. Can I, baby?”

You nod, too hot and overwhelmed to speak. Clark bites against your throat and you moan.

“Hmm, as much as I like that reaction, I need words. Tell me.”

“Yes! Yes!” you babbled.

He grins against your throat, “There we go,” Clark nipped again, “you tell me if you need to stop,” another nip, “I’ve thought about this for so long.”

You melt under his touch and hug him against you, “Me too,” you whispered, twirling his hair between your fingers.

“Yeah? What’ve you thought about?” Clark asked, his hands settling on your waist, bunching the fabric of your dress up on your hips. He helps you sit up, dragging the dress up your stomach and up your arms until you’re left in just your bra and underwear. You shiver under the intensity of his stare and swallow hard.

“You going down on me,” you answered with hot, prickly skin as you watch Clark drink your nearly bare skin. “I’ve read it in a lot of books.”

Clark grins smugly at you, his fingers brushing against your bare belly before skimming against the edge of your panties. “Yeah? Anything else?”

You arch into his touch, and your fingers squeeze Clark’s upper arm in anticipation. You nod again, swallowing hard. “When I masturbate or use my vibrator,” Clark groans into your chest, “I think about you doing it instead… using your fingers.”

Clark’s hand slips underneath your bra and his fingers toy with your nipple. You shake beneath him, rocking your hips into his growing erection. Your hands paw at the hem of his shirt and your drag it up and off his chest. You feel the hard curves and ridges of his broad and muscular body.

Clark’s mouth trails kiss down your chest, past your sternum, nibbling at your naval, before looking up at you from between your legs. His hands slowly tug your underwear down your hips before you kick them off. Clark spreads your knees a part and pulls your legs over his shoulders.

“Gosh, sweetheart,” he hummed, kissing up your thighs, “you’re soaked, and I’ve barely touched you.”

Through hooded eyes, your eyes find his as Clark buries himself between your legs. You gasp loudly and tug on his hair harshly as Clark sucks on your clit. You throw your head back against the pillows beneath you as you lose yourself to the sensation of Clark’s tongue against your weeping hole.

Your hands grip the back of Clark’s hair harshly and his groans vibrate up your spine. His hands hook underneath your thighs as he laps your juices up with his tongue and pulls you even closer to him. You gasp again and Clark looks at you from between your legs and you take one of his hands and gently rest it against your throat.

With your hand on top, you squeeze his hand, silently begging him to just squeeze softly. You whine at the warm sensation building in your belly as Clark moved his mouth between your folds and throbbing clit. With the hand not wrapped around your throat, he slips a finger inside you.

You jolt against his face. “Clark!” you cried, arching against the bed as the pressure built between your legs. “I’m close!”

The bastard smirks at you and hooks another finger inside you as he brough you closer towards your orgasm. Stimulating your clit with his tongue, you cum with a sob and collapse in the bed.

You’re gasping for air as Clark works you through your orgasm before crawling up your body and pressing his mouth against yours. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you taste yourself against his mouth.

You kiss slow and deliberately as you catch your breath. Clark pulls away to look at you and grins at your glazed eyes and fucked out expression. He kisses the side of your mouth.

“You still with me, baby?” Clark asked against your cheek.

You nod profusely and turn your head to kiss him again. “Yeah, yeah.”

Clark hooks a hand behind your back and undoes the clasp of your bra. You shrug it off and stare at him.

“Holy Moly,” Clark gasped in awe, brushing his fingers down your hot, bare skin, “you’re so beautiful like this.”      

You laugh quietly and reach for his hips, “And you’re overdressed,” you teased, quickly working his belt loose before unbuttoning his pants and pulling the zipper down. Clark shimmies out of his pants and underwear. You feel the weight of his erection against your thigh and gasp against his mouth as you kiss again.

“Condoms in drawer,” you mumbled into his mouth, scratching your nails down his back.

“Since when do you have condoms?” Clark joked, biting your lip before leaning over the nightstand and pulling out a condom from the drawer.

“Since our conversation in your car,” you answered with wide eyes as you watched Clark tear open the condom with his teeth.

He leans back on his heels, and you watch Clark tease the head of his cock before shuddering as he tries to put the condom on. You gently grab his wrist, your eyes meeting his. “May I?” you asked quietly, reaching for the condom.

“Y-Yeah,” Clark stammered as he passed the condom over to you.

You let out a careful breath and reaching for him. Clark groans your name quietly and precum leaks from the tip as you slide the condom over his cock. He’s long and thick and your legs shake at the thought of him inside you. You grasp him between your fingers, and your thumb teases the head.

Clark presses his mouth against yours and he tongue slips into your mouth as he pushes you down into the mattress. His hand wraps around yours and you tug once, twice, before Clark bats your hand away. He takes ahold of himself and gathers the slick between your legs at the head of his cock before slowly pushing himself inside you.

You gasp at the burning sensation between your legs. Your fingers scratch his shoulder and slide down his back. You kiss deeply and Clark hooks one of your legs around his waist to get a better angle. Clark moves slowly and he hides his face into your neck, kissing and biting at your throat.

“You’re so warm, sweetheart,” he gasped into your ear, rocking further into you, “’s like you were made for me. Makin’ me feel so good.”

Your fingers squeeze his hand hard, and you arch your back against the bed and wince as Clark bottoms out inside you, his pelvis flush against yours. He’s snug, tight, and hot inside you. It feels like he’s tearing you open, and he’s barely moved. You feel impossibly full with him settled inside you.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered into your mouth, his fingers brushing down your sides as you adjust. You nod quietly and follow Clark’s breaths until the burning between your legs subsides.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, brushing curls out of his face so you can get a better look at him, “you can move.”

Clark rocks back and then pushes into you again. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you. His hands squeeze your ass, and Clark pulls you up and into his lap. With you on top, you roll your hips with every thrust. It’s slow and deliberate, like you have all the time in the world.

You sigh and moan into Clark’s mouth. The pressure from before settles in between your legs as Clark brings you closer to your orgasm. The headboard hits the wall with each thrust, and you shriek when Clark presses his finger against your clit.

You cling to Clark and the sound of his grunts and groans fill your ears and takes root in your chest as he helps you to your release and chases him own.

“Clark!” you cried, hiding in his neck, “I need—”

“Let go, baby,” Clark murmurs, pressing his finger against your clit again, “I’m right behind you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and see stars behind your eyes as your orgasm washes over you. Clark fucks you through your release before nestling inside of you. He bites the nape of your neck and cums with a groan of your name. He kisses you through his orgasm and you cling to Clark as you slowly come down from the high of your orgasm.

Clark kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your throat tenderly. You wince and Clark grunts as he slips out of you and lays beside you on the bed.

“You okay?” Clark asked, carefully pulling the condom off and tying it before throwing it in the trash. His fingers brush up and down your arm, feeling the goosebumps on your skin.

You smile softly as you catch your breath, turning your head to look at Clark’s flushed cheeks and sweaty skin. “’m perfect,” you sighed, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “You spoiled me.”

Clark laughs quietly and sits up, “Good. Now it’s time for you to go to the bathroom, don’t want you to get a UTI.”

You laugh and watch Clark hurry into your bathroom. The sink runs and Clark returns with a damp wash cloth. He carefully wipes the slick and juices spilling from your legs and down your thighs. You wince from the stimulation and Clark kisses your forehead.

“Sorry, baby, know you’re sensitive,” he apologized, wiping you clean.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled.

Clark tosses the rag into the dirty clothes bin and helps you to your feet. You take a step on shaky legs and nearly fall to your knees. Clark catches you and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up your throat. Clark smirks and helps you into the bathroom.

“Get that smug smirk off your face,” you laughed, shoving him in the chest.

“No way,” Clark retorted, “I took care of you so well you turned into Bambi!”

You roll your eyes and fight the smile threatening to form on your cheeks. “At least I know you’ll take care of me when that happens.”

Clark takes your face between his hands, and he kisses you slowly before whispering, “Always, my sweet Bambi.”

[thatweirdo466]

Rock Me, Sway Me

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader

summary: superman accidentally reveals his secret identity through a hug

word count: 2.9k

content: fem!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, minor angst (if you squint) but mostly comfort, clark and reader are kinda sappy, use of pet names, kinda sorta follows a plot point in the movie

a/n: this is the first fanfic i've ever written! feedback is appreciated. i love clark so much, he's such a sweetie pie. not sure how consistently i'll write, if i do write more, but i hope you enjoy! dedicated to dina <3

Clark knows you like the back of his hand.

He thinks he's pretty good at reading most people's emotions in general, but with you it's like he's got this psychic sixth sense.

He can tell how you're feeling with a single glance. Nobody's sure how he does it. Clark isn't a prideful man by any means, has no intention of ever becoming one, but he allows himself this one thing. Sometimes he imagines that knowing and loving you manifested itself as part of his special abilities. It's simply something he was born to do.

For example, he knows when you're happy before you can even smile. Your posture is straighter, you've put extra effort into styling your hair, and you're wearing your favorite office outfit. You'd look beautiful sitting atop your desk, hands flying around as you enthusiastically explain ideas for your next project to Cat, who nods along as you speak. He'd stride over, politely clearing his throat before talking.

"Mornin'! Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." He'll hand over your coffee, made just the way you like it. He'd memorized your order the day you told him. Once you grab the cup, he'd put a hand over yours and squeeze, eyes twinkling. Then he'd wave goodbye to you and Cat and walk over to Lois and Jimmy.

"How cute." Cat would comment, crinkling her nose as you stick your tongue out at her.

When you decide it's time to make your big announcement, he'd pretend to be as surprised as anyone else. He would've already known—super hearing and all—but he doesn't mind listening to you tell your small group of friends how, after months of hard work and sleepless nights, you'd finally landed front page. Lois nods in approval, Jimmy gives two thumbs up, and Cat squeals in delight. Clark reaches under his desk, where he's hidden a bouqet of flowers, and offers it to you. You take the flowers and he takes you.

"Well done, sweetheart." He'd say as you giggle in his arms.

He knows when you're irritated, too. It's as obvious from this side of the street as it would be if he was standing right in front of you. Your arms are crossed, your foot is rapidly tapping against the pavement, and you're trying to control your breathing but he can almost visualise the smoke coming out of your nostrils and ears. Plus, you're allowing yourself to be soaked by the merciless downpour of rain. Perhaps irritated is too light a description. You're pissed.

He'd brace himself before crossing, thinking whatever happened to him would be rightfully deserved, though getting hit by a car would be less painful than knowing he'd hurt you. He really hadn't meant to leave you hanging but he'd gotten caught up handling a hostage situation a continent away. He'd stick a hand while weaving through oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding being run over by some stupid luck. He'll sweep his suit jacket off in one smooth gesture and unsuccessfully attempt to shield you from the rain.

"I'm so sor—"

"You stood me up." You'd snap, maneuvering away from the giant of a man towering over you and his ill fitting excuse for proper work attire.

"I can't apologize enough for being late but you know that I would never stand you up. Take some cover, you'll catch a cold." He'd insist, shooing you beneath the roof of a nearby bus stop.

"Oh please, like you care." You'd shoot back, turning away from him.

"Gosh, how can you say that? 'Course I do." His voice would crack as he'd step back into your line of sight, trying to plead his case. "No amount of apologies could ever express how sorry I truly am, but please allow me to spend every waking moment trying to make up for it."

Above all, he's most grateful to possess this gift when you're feeling down. He'd knock on your door, brows knitted in concern. Stare past the piece of metal at your hunched form, knees pressed to your chest, hugging yourself, and will you with all his might to get up and come over to him. You'd take so long he'd consider bursting through, hand grasping the doorknob so tight it should've broken. You'll open the door shortly after, eyes red and puffy, cheeks flushed. Your hair would be toussled and you'd be wearing an oversized t-shirt of his, for comfort, he'd assume. Upon seeing his face, your eyes would cloud over with tears.

"Oh, honey," he'll say as he folds you into his chest, blanketing you from the world with his broad form. An open palm splays against your back, rubbing in slow circles. The other hand reaches for your hair, petting in a steady tempo while he periodically presses kisses to the crown of your head. He'll rock you side to side, whisper sweet nothings into your ear, remind you that he's got you and you're safe in his arms.

When your tears begin to slow, he'll pull back just enough to see your face and flash you a gentle lopsided smile as he works at wiping the damp stains on your cheeks with his thumbs. After deciding that he's done a satisfactory job, Clark will place a chaste peck on your left cheek, then your right, then prompt you with, "do you wanna talk about it?"

He won't pry, of course, but he makes it a point to always ask. That's Clark for you, ever the gentleman.

Today, Clark is especially chipper. Even after being sternly reprimanded by Perry for his late arrival, he still manages to carry that dopey smile across the bullpen, all the way to the cluster of desks that belong to you, Lois, and Jimmy. He's brought a cupholder with four drinks inside, each cup of coffee tailored specifically to your respective tastes. He hands yours out last, letting your fingers touch for longer than necessary. When you turn it over you find a sticky note on the side, where he's written a small message with a heart at the end. Lois and Jimmy notice and exchange a knowing look.

"What's gotten you so giddy today, Smallville?" Lois inquires, taking a sip of her sugar loaded drink.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lois." He replies. You can really see his dimples when he smiles like that.

She narrows her eyes but waves him off, choosing to focus her energy on continuing the research for her latest article. It's not like you and Jimmy aren't curious too, but the three of you have surmised that it's easier to move a boulder than get him talking once he starts acting all mysterious. You figure he'll tell you later in private if you ask nicely. For now, you're content with watching him walk to his desk, adjusting his clothes before settling into his seat. You suppose you should get to work too.

At first the words come easy, flowing steadily as your nimble fingers fly across the keyboard, but then the creativity slows and eventually stops. You've hit a roadblock. You're questioning if your tone is right, if you've used the best quotes, if your voice is clear and assertive. Scanning over the entirety of this draft, you wonder if it's up to the standards of the Daily Planet or slop better suited for its lesser known competitors. You groan, trying to shake the doubt from your mind. You're good. You wouldn't be here if you weren't. You just need to focus.

Your gaze drifts over to Clark. His face is scrunched up and his lips are pursed, an adorable display he puts on when he's deep in thought. His curls are looser now, falling messily over his forehead. He must've been playing with his hair. You've found that he does that when he's nervous or unsure. He probably doesn't know what to write next. You and him both.

He twitches, just slightly, so inconspicuous you doubt anyone else would notice. You were only lucky to have caught it because you'd been studying his features, a habit you'd gotten into whenever you were feeling uninspired. Whatever's got his attention has halted his work entirely. He's stopped typing in favor of placing a hand under his chin to think, furiously clicking a ballpoint pen he's picked up from his stash.

Then he's leaping out of his chair so abruptly it makes you flinch. He glances at the window, then looks at you. Your eyes meet for a second before you're drawn away by the gasps and hushed chatter of your colleagues. The building trembles. You follow their gaze, landing on a creature of monstrous proportion breathing fire and barelling towards the Daily Planet, leaving mass destruction in its wake.

Chaos ensues. You watch as your coworkers shove files in their shoulder bags and briefcases, scrambling towards the nearest exits. By your side, Lois is wasting no time trying to preserve all the progress she's made this week. Jimmy, on the other hand, has grabbed the bare essentials. You can tell he's itching to join the others and get away, but he refuses to leave his friends behind. You whip your head around to check where Clark had just been standing, but it's like he'd vanished into thin air. It feels like you're stuck in a bad dream. You fight against the crowd, calling for your boyfriend, but there's no response.

The wall begins to collapse as the beast crashes into it, though it doesn't get very far thanks to Superman, who gives it a forceful push. You'd been knocked over from the impact, coughing as dust and debris scatter around your workplace, but you weren't willing to give up. You find your footing, ready to continue your search for Clark, but someone grabs a fistful of your blouse and starts dragging you backwards. You yelp in surprise, rearing your head to give the perpetrator a piece of your mind, but when you look back you find that it's Lois pulling you along. You spot Jimmy by her side, worry written all over his features.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? We need to go!"

"But Clark!"

She offers a regretful but resolute look. "You have to trust that he's okay. Maybe he got swept into that sea of people and was forced to leave with them. Maybe Superman got to him. Whatever the case, we couldn't find him but we found you, and I will not allow you to die here alone."

You can't accept that. You permit Lois and Jimmy to usher you down the staircase, but once you reach the last floor, you break free from Lois' hold. You shove your friends towards the exit while you sprint back up the steps you had just crossed. You can hear them shouting your name in protest but you don't dare to look back. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins. Your legs move on their own accord, propelling you at lightning speed up each flight. By some miracle, you aren't hit by the huge pieces of rubble that are starting to fall. You push back your worries about the building's structural integrity to the back of your mind.

You finally reach the right floor, lungs burning from a mix of overexertion and the inhalation of all the dust in the building. Your throat hurts but it doesn't stop you from shouting Clark's name over and over. The Planet continues to crumble, a chunk of the ceiling falling overhead. You try to run but you're getting tired and sluggish. You close your eyes and think of Clark, calling for him one last time.

You're shaking so much that Superman seems afraid to let you go. When you finally open your eyes, he's positioned in front of you, strong arms underneath your own, palms cupping your elbows. The iconic "S" symbol is at eye level, glistening in the sunlight. You lift your gaze. He's watching you with such an intensity that you can't help but squirm.

It's hard to talk, let alone breathe crying like this. Your shoulders heave with each sob, you're about to choke on your own spit and you're certain that snot is running down your nose. You look absolutely disheveled right now but you couldn't care less. You were going to find Clark Kent, even if it was the last thing you did.

"Deep, slow breaths, ma'am." Superman instructs, eyes never leaving your face. "You're gonna be fine."

"No!" You wail, shaking your head furiously.

He furrows his brow at this, confused. Immediately he's squinting his eyes, darting his head around, checking for injuries he must have missed. He only stops when you shove him backwards, forcing some distance between the two of you.

"My boyfriend. He's out there. Save him."

He can't help but wonder if this message is more for him or for you. He watches you take a few wobbly steps forward and push past him, looking at the wreckage of the Daily Planet as if you could fly over and save him yourself. It breaks his heart.

One step is enough for Superman to be in front of you again. He looks guilty, as if he is the reason your precious Clark is missing. He rests his hands on your shoulders, touch light as a feather, like he's afraid to hurt you. He opens his mouth to speak but as soon as your eyes meet his, something in you bursts. You break down, sobs drowining out any words he might've had to say. You can't bear to look at him for some reason, opting instead to examine the floor, hugging yourself for much needed comfort.

"Oh—" he breathes out, as if he just got punched in the gut.

He says nothing else as he pulls you into his chest. He's warm. Big. You're completely enveloped in his arms. He rubs your back in slow, soothing circles. Pets your hair just the way you like. You start to crumble in his embrace. He just holds you closer, swaying you back and forth in a way that is so sweet, so familiar. There's a puff of breath that tickles your ear, Superman reassuring you in hushed tones that he's got you and that Clark is safe.

You let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding. Your shoulders relax and your breathing evens out. Eventually, the tears stop flowing. Superman pulls back to study your face. He's got this silly lopsided smile, dimples peaking out, as he wipes away the dampness on your cheeks with his thumbs. He attempts to wipe the dirt and grime away too, dusting you off as best he can. When he's done he gives you a look, like you are everything. More than the sun, the moon, the stars, the universe. Then, suddenly, his face is inching closer to yours. Just as quickly, he reels back, blinking down at you with wide doe eyes like he's shocked himself with his actions.

You blink back, ghost of a smile on your face, like you've just been told a secret you weren't supposed to know.

He gives you a different look this time, one you can't quite place, then clears his throat. "Your boyfriend is fine, please don't worry."

"Right," you respond, nodding slowly. "I forgot. You two know each other quite well."

He huffs out a laugh, shrugging his shoulders. "Sure, I guess you could say that."

A booming roar scares you out of the moment. Seems like the Justice Gang is here, and they're giving that Kaiju hell. It's a mangled mess of bright green constructs, feathers, and T-Spheres mixed with a giant blob of teeth and horns. Superman springs into action, hooking an arm under your legs and carrying you bridal style as he floats from the roof of the skyscraper to the roads below. He drops you off near Lois and Jimmy, who are taking shelter with the rest of your coworkers, and offers one last smile before vanishing into the sky, nothing but a red blur.

You take your time walking over to them, still recovering from your near death experience and the weight of the discovery you've just made.

Once Lois and Jimmy catch sight of you, they rush over, obviously relieved to have you back.

"God, I'm glad you're okay." Lois says, clutching your shoulders. "That was some reckless stunt you pulled back there."

Jimmy nods in agreeance, patting your back. "Had us real worried."

"I'm sorry." You whisper. "I had to."

They don't nag any further. They understand, they've seen how you look at each other. Lois and Jimmy sit you down. They keep close, comforting you while keeping an eye on the battle that is unfolding. After a while, the Kaiju is rendered limp and lifeless, thanks to a finishing blow by Mister Terrific. You watch as it's carried off by the Justice Gang. Since you're no longer under threat, Lois and Jimmy stand off to the side, debating the next course of action.

"Maybe we should call him again. There's no way he's gone." Jimmy suggests, though he's already dialing Clark's number.

Ring, ring, ring.

"Goddammit, Clark. Pick up the phone."

It's like they've summoned him just by speaking of him. There he is, emerging from some alleyway, waving timidly at you and your friends. His curls are running wild, his glasses lay crooked on his face, his tie is missing, he's covered in dust, and he looks perfect. You run to him with no hesitation and he scoops you up in his big arms, where you belong. He rocks you gently, the way he always does. You hide yourself in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

"I know, darlin'. I know. We have a lot to talk about."

[thatweirdo466]

Hidden in Plain Sips

| clark kent x fem!reader

summary: (1.9k) just a lot of fluff! you’re a news reporter working alongside clark, trying to dig up more about superman. instead, on a coffee date where he forgets his glasses, you find yourself completely enamoured by clark’s sweetness and clumsy charm more than any scoop. 💐☕️

a/n: my first clark kent fic!! i just thought it’d be nice to write some fluff since superman’s been brainrotting me <3

no content warnings! just some fluff and comfort.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏⎚-⎚﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Here you were, typing away on a meticulous article on none other than Superman, blue screen blaring right in your eyes as you squinted trying to make sense of it all. You only had one interview from the hero, and knowing just snippets of his backstory—only made it harder to conjure the article that supposedly captured his life.

Meanwhile, the Daily Planet buzzed around you—papers rustling, phones ringing, chairs swivelling, like everyone was moving forward, but you.

“Everything alright?” Clark’s voice carried over from his desk, gentle but concerned, like he could sense the tension behind your furrowed brows, or your slightly quickened heartbeat that only he could pick up on.

You, being the one of the best journalists this news building had to offer, wanted to brush it off—but talking to Clark made that impossible, he just had that effect. Him in his reporter suit and thick framed glasses, hair slightly messy in an effortless way. And with your date later that day looming, you knew he’d eventually coax the problem out of you anyway. So you sighed and let him in.

“I wish, just—ugh, this article is going nowhere! I mean—how am I supposed to know who Superman even is when I’ve only had one interview?”

You ran your fingers through your hair, staring at the screen like it was mocking you. Across from you, Clark had cleared this throat, fumbling with his pen before giving that hesitant shy smile of his you always adored.

“Well, it might just be because he’s uh…busy, y’know, saving the world and stuff—” He gave a shrug, voice soft, and you shut your eyes for a second. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t wanna be understood though.”

There it was, that steady empathetic version of him. Clark was always a little awkward like this, but that nerdy awkwardness never annoyed you—it charmed you. You liked guys who were genuine, who didn’t perform with confidence, ones that were grounded underneath. The way Clark sometimes stumbled but always caught himself, smoothing it out with emotion, tugged something at you—something entirely endearing.

“I know I know…” You just groaned as a response, rubbing at your face. “He’s just hard to pin down, y’know? One more interview—just one and maybe I’d have him figured out.”

On the wall, the TV murmured in the background, constantly cycling through the news of Metrapolis’ chaos for the day, a distant chattering of news anchors.

Clark shifted again, pushing his glasses up, speaking more carefully this time.

“Yeah…I guess. I mean—maybe start small? I don’t know. Sometimes even heroes open up about the little things before the big stuff.” His dimples flashed briefly, and you felt your stomach flip, like you could just melt at his sheepish smile.

“Right, little stuff.” The words slipped out dreamily, your lips tugging upward at the sight of him. His ears turned pink and he ducked his head like he was caught staring at you for too long.

“Y-yeah, like maybe his favourite music…uh favourite food—”

Just then, Lois had turned up the volume on the TV, leaning against your desk as the news anchor’s tone echoed throughout the room: ‘According to witness reports, a fire has broken out in the Metropolis office buildings in the city centre. Smoke has been seen in the air and citizens are trapped—’

Clark stood up abruptly, and you swivelled in your chair, quirking a brow. “Where you—”

He was fumbling with his tie, practically already to the lifts, back turned to you. “Uh just remembered—gotta feed my fire—I mean, dog—uh—see you later!”

By the time you blinked, a slight whooshing sound and he was gone. It seemed more often than not, that whenever any news broke out, he seemed to vanish. You were about to question it more until your thoughts snagged on what he left behind—his glasses, sitting abandoned on his desk.

You scooped them up, shaking your head with a little smile. Clark couldn’t see two feet in front of these, practically blind—and it was a stupid bargain to ever leave without them. Still, you carefully tucked them into your bag, saving them for when you’d see him later that day.

—⎚-⎚—

You were slightly late, bustling through the streets to get to that corner coffee shop, mumbling clumsy ‘excuse me!’’s and ‘sorry!’’s—until you bursted in, looking around.

Clark wasn’t hard to spot at all, considering he was a towering, broad man—hard to miss—another thing you liked about him. As hot and nerdy as he was, he was tall. Very tall. Usually in his white button up whenever you went on dates, jet black hair that curled at the right places. Not to mention you were positive he was muscular underneath all that nerd too, like he did some undercover superhero workout nobody knew about.

For some reason, all you could see were a few couples, singles, and the barista, of course. You figured to order two coffees anyway, seeing as he wasn’t there. You leaned against the counter, a nod to the older woman with a smile.

“Hi, yes. A latte and a black coffee, please.”

She tapped the register, her eyes kind, a few of her grey hairs shining against her dark ones in a bun. “With two coffees, you get another latte on the house! Would you like that?”

Free coffee? Score. Who wouldn’t turn that down? You nodded immediately. “Yeah that’d be great thanks.”

After you slipped in some bills—and a few coins as a tip, you looked around again. Still some couples, a few sitting alone and—a muscular looking man, sitting at an empty table with…something on his face? You padded forward, clearing your throat.

“Uh, Clark?”

“Oh! Hmphhh…You’re here!” Came a frantic muffled voice from behind a napkin, still held up to his face.

He got up in a bolt and pulled back a chair for you, ever the gentleman he was—even with a tissue practically taped to his face like some miserable ghost costume.

In front of you was a bouquet of flowers, pink and yellow tulips that made you flush in that same shade of bubblegum. He was always so thoughtful, even if it was just your third date. It momentarily distracted you from Clark’s napkin mishap, picking up the bouquet to give them a whiff. “These are gorgeous, Clark.”

As he walked past you, somehow knowing his way back to his chair, you could smell the faintest scent of…something burning? Maybe cigarettes. You hadn’t known him to smoke, but then again people could surprise you.

“Well, gorgeous flowers for hmphh…a gorgeous girl.” He mumbled shyly behind the tissue, which made you raise a brow to finally address it.

“Uh, care to explain why you’re impersonating a Kleenex commercial?” You teased, sliding into your seat to shuffle through your bag.

“It’s just…the lights, real bright in here.” He mumbled, pushing for a smile that you couldn’t even see.

You frowned a bit. Surely that wasn’t convincing enough for you, but you had already pulled out his glasses, sliding them across the table. “Here, you left these on your desk. Not even sure how you walked into this cafe without them.”

“Oh thank heavens…you really saved me there. Trust me, I don’t even know how I even made it across the street.” Clark said with a sighing chuckle of relief and a flicker of gratitude.

He picked up the glasses effortlessly, like he knew exactly where they were, before they disappeared behind the napkin.

That’s when he finally lowered it, and your chest warmed instantly. Seeing his face that was flushed, a little sheepish, but still undeniably Clark—made you feel a rush of pure affection. You couldn’t help but grin, that somehow, all his little mishaps only made him more endearing.

He had a way of doing strange things that somehow became part of his charm: vanishing whenever the news broke out, forgetting ordinary details, yet somehow always knowing exactly where to find things even when he couldn’t see clearly. And now, his quiet insecurity about his face without glasses? It made your heart twist a little as you caught yourself staring, thinking that it was impossible for him to be self-conscious. His features were perfect, strong and refined, chiselled like he was sculpted by the Romans themselves—but also softened by a warmth and kindness that no sculpture could capture.

You gave him a reassuring smile, tilting your head. “You’re always so handsome.” The compliment just fell out of your mouth, undeniably sincere, before you cleared your throat. “Anyway, so I got us some coffees, hope you don’t mind. I just didn’t see you—well you were hard to spot.”

You just said with a soft reddening chuckle, watching him lean forward with a grin, cutely flushed in the cheeks with a curl that was unkempt—probably brushed away from the napkin. You mirrored his movements, gently brushing his hair back, and he leaned into your touch, before you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Uh, great! Yeah—Oh gosh.” He scratched the back of his neck again, bashful as ever. He rarely went in for kisses, not wanting to overstep—but on the inside? He was glowing with how you welcomed it so easily.

“Sorry, would’ve pecked you before but I didn’t wanna compete with a piece of cloth.” You mused with a chuckle and Clark chuckled awkwardly back, eyes gleaming at you like you were the only person in this cafe—and to him, you were.

“Well thanks, darling.” The pet name slipped out so effortlessly before his eyes widened—and before he got the chance to speak, the barista chimed in.

“Two coffees and one latte on the house. Enjoy!”

The barista then left, and of course that pet name didn’t go unnoticed. How could you ignore it when it was the most gorgeous man calling you that?

You piped up softly, tracing the rim of your cup. “You can keep calling me that, you know? Those endearing names…” Your cheeks warmed, barely able to meet his eyes.

Clark’s dimples flashed as he cleared his throat. “Well…anything for you,” he said, voice soothing, a little crooked smile tugging at his lips. He hesitated, his heart skipping, probably wondering if that sounded okay.

Then, leaning slightly forward, he added with a soft husky tone, “Sweetpea…if that’s alright.”

You looked down sheepishly with a grin, nodding, before your eyes caught the latte in front of him.

“Aw, they did a little design!” You stared at the coffee cup, twisting your head to see it, before you beamed at the sight of the S emblem, the Superman symbol.

Clark slightly stiffened, brows twitching. Of all symbols?

“Pretty neat though. They got it perfect.” You murmured as you took a sip of your own coffee, foam clinging to your lip. He caught himself staring at it, feeling a small, fond smile tugging at his lips—so cute, he thought.

“Clark?” You snapped him out of his gaze and he blinked, leaning back in his armchair, clearing his throat.

“You okay?” Your had your foam licked away, eyes with soft concern.

“Yeah, yeah—uh just reminded me of your article, y’know, Superman and all.”

You let out a soft laugh, leaning back with the mug in your hand, amused at how flustered he had gotten before you took another sip. “So, does Superman like lattes then?”

Clark hesitated for a beat, and then smiled into the cup, gazing right back at you over the rim. “I’d like to think he does, maybe as much as he likes journalists who write about him.”

That made you pinken at his quiet charm, and you beamed back at him.

For a while, the both of you just sat there, coffees cooling between soft laughter and shy little pauses. And Clark thought that if he ever did tell you the truth—about Superman—it wouldn’t only be the capes or the powers you’d care about. Perhaps it’d be this: the ordinary, the clumsy, the quietly wonderful pieces of himself he gave to you so freely.

And you thought maybe figuring out Superman could wait. Because watching Clark fumble adorably with his cup, cheeks pink and eyes crinkling with every dimpled smile—you realised what you wanted to figure out most, was sitting right across from you. Someone that would be far more worthwhile to explore.

୨ৎ

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

©️siriuslystarman. this fic was not made by AI.

[thatweirdo466]

cat person – part 1

clark kent x reader (who doesn't know he's superman..yet!)

notes: inspired by the fact that david corenswet loves cats/is a cat person! which definitely solidifies him as a perfect man in my book, nerdy theatre kid who loves cats? c'mon! so anyways i'm here to spread my clark kent loves cats and cats love clark kent agenda

wordcount: 2k

You always knew that Clark was coming home long before you heard the familiar sound of him fumbling with his keys through the door.

Did you perhaps share Superman’s supernatrual hearing and were able to hear him walking home from miles away?

No, but you're starting to think your cat could.

Ever since you first introduced Toast (your rowdy orange menace of a cat) and Clark (your handsome boyfriend of 10 months) to each other, Toast has been completely obsessed with him.

There’s not a doubt in your mind that Toast prefers Clark over you now– you’ve had enough time now to go through all the stages of grief and just accept it, after all everyone knows that being a mother is a thankless job.

But at this point you think your cat might love Clark more than you love Clark. And that was saying a lot– because, boy, did you love that dork. 

You were leaning on the kitchen counter, staring at the toaster with a steely glare, waiting for your poptart to pop out. You weren’t going to get jumpscared– not this time.

You were an adult woman with an adult job and you had decided that you were simply past the point in your life where it was acceptable to still yelp and jump in surprise because of a toaster.

Especially considering you had lived in Metropolis nearly your entire life and witnessed many intergalactic “surprises”,  you’d think you’d be more desensitized by now.

Unfortunately your focus was broken by your cat suddenly jumping off the counter and skedaddling at high speeds across the apartment towards the front door.

You just glanced at the clock, barely phased by this now common occurrence. 12:34 AM. Clark must’ve worked overtime again.

Usually you weren't awake to greet him when he came home this late, but you had your day off tomorrow so you had decided to indulge yourself by spending the evening finally binging that new show on Netflix that all of your friends and their moms had already seen and almost entirely spoiled for you.

But you had still enjoyed it, evidently so much so that you hadn't even realized what time it was until just now.

You peered over your shoulder at your cat sitting and meowing loudly at the door, as if Clark wouldn’t be able to find his way home without the sweet screechings of your little ginger furball.

You knew it would be at least another minute before Clark even reached your apartment floor– how your cat already knew of his arrival was a mystery to you.

Must be whatever soulmate bond they shared that you obviously just wouldn't understand. You shook your head with a small smile, turned back to the toaster, were about to yawn when-

Pop!

You jumped back a little and gasped. “Goddamnit!” you groaned. It got you again. Stupid toaster.

You grumbled to yourself as you cautiously pulled the hot pop tarts out, trying not to also burn your fingertips off, and tossed them on a plate.

You’d save the second one for Clark. He did always tell you that sweets before bed weren’t good and caused nightmares but you knew he couldn't resist a little treat after such a long day.

Your ears perked up at the sound of jingling keys followed by a click of the lock. The door opened just a teensy bit when Toast, like always, tried to shove his face through the small crack that had now been created.

Before he could proceed any further though you could see Clark’s foot peek in and gently nudge the cat backwards– Clark was well acquainted with Toast's antics by now.

Clark squeezed himself into the apartment trying not to open the door too much. As soon as he successfully shut the door behind him, he crouched down and cooed a greeting at Toast who instantly jumped up and started pawing at him and bonking his head against Clark’s face.

A smile stretched over his lips exposing his dimples as he tried to pet the affectionate ginger who was practically climbing all over him, purring louder than an engine.

“Hey, buddy,” he chuckled, his voice low and gentle. Hearing it always felt like having a warm heavy blanket draped around your body that shielded you from all the stress and sharp edges of the outside world. You've always thought he would do well narrating audiobooks with a voice like that.

“Do I get a ‘Hey, buddy’ too?” You grinned as you leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

Clark’s eyes finally landed on you, but he didn’t seem caught off guard by your presence like you thought he would be since he was so focused on the little orange menace still pawing at him.

But it was actually pretty difficult to ever catch Clark off guard, despite the fact that he seemed like a frazzled mess about 70 percent of the time. He was surprisingly grounded.

“I think we’ve gone well past the buddy stage, haven't we?” he grinned, rising from his crouched position much to the dismay of Toast.

He steps towards you– almost tripping on poor Toast who had started rubbing against his legs.

You were about to give a quippy remark before Clark enveloped your waist with his strong arms and planted a longing kiss on your lips.

You giggled into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck. You could feel him lifting you up, just until your feet hovered over the hardwood floor. Gosh, he was an absolute building of a man. Tall, stable, strong.

You just wanted to cling onto him, have him hold you in his strong arms and carry you places– which was truly something you’d never thought you’d even think about anyone.

You were independent, and you liked it that way. You hated feeling infantilized, maybe sometimes even to a fault. Sometimes you confused being taken care of as being treated like a kid, as if you were some little helpless girl and not a grown capable woman.

And yes, of course you knew that that was silly. Wanting and accepting care was just human nature. But you don't think you had never truly been able to accept it. Not until Clark. 

You reluctantly pulled away from the dizzying sensation of his lips. Clark chased your lips for one last peck. Like he always did.

His glasses were just the tiniest bit fogged up on the bottom. He slowly put you back down but his hands stayed firmly planted on your hips.

“How was work?” You hummed, gently brushing a few unruly curls from his forehead. You loved his curls.

He let his head fall into the crook of your neck with a dramatic sigh. “Exhausting,” His lips tickled your skin. Your nails began to softly scratch at the back of his head. You knew that was his weak spot, because every time you did it you could without fail feel him shudder and then melt like putty under your touch.

“What’re you still doing up?” He mumbled, raising his head slightly to get a better look at you. “I was watching that new show: Celestial Celebrity. It was pretty good. Kind of a bummer ending though.”

“Really? What's it about?” he asked. You knew that despite the fact that Clark was probably completely spent right now he was still being incredibly sincere with that question.

He was the kind of guy that genuinely cared about the topics that regular people would just deem as small talk. "I don't get why people would ask things if they don't actually care to hear the answers." he had complained to you once.

Slowly you could feel him leaning on you more and more, so you decided it would be a good idea to gently steer him towards the bedroom before he accidentally falls asleep on top of you.

You loved a good weighted blanket but you weren't so sure how comforting it would still be if said blanket was 6’4 and 200-something pounds.

“Well–” you began as you began to slowly herd him towards the bed like a sheepdog with a very sleep-deprived sheep. “It's actually a super interesting premise. So it's like a reality show, right?”

“Mhm..” he mumbled.

“But like it's not? Like it's a drama show with actors and everything but it's just portraying its plot through the lens of a reality show. Well up until like the fifth episode. What's really cool is that it doesn't take place on earth, in fact most of the actors aren't even from earth. Anyways so what happens is–”

You kept chattering on about the show slowly getting quieter and quieter, while lowering the now half-asleep Clark into bed.

His body was practically asleep while his brain was expending all its leftover energy listening to you and thinking about how nice you smelled, how warm you were.

After he finally flopped onto the bed, you wasted no time sidling up next to him. No less than a second later Toast jumped up into bed with you and curled up on his favorite napping spot, which just so happened to be Clark’s chest.

Hey, you couldn't blame the guy, if you were a cat that would be your favorite place too.

Clark was really the ideal napping partner now that you thought about it. He was so big and firm but yet still so soft and cuddly. Must be that famous farm boy strength he's always talking about.

You got comfy next to him and began raking your fingers through Clark’s locks again, smiling at him with what you could only imagine was the most lovestruck expression any human being was capable of. You couldn't help it.

Every time you looked at him, every time you thought of him, it felt like a sparkler of joy and pure love was set off in your chest, its glowing sparks spreading throughout every inch of your body.

You were pretty sure he had fallen asleep the second his body had hit the mattress, his glasses were all crooked on his face and his cheek was smushed against the pillow. Trying not to disturb him or the glasses too much you carefully reached out to pluck them off his face and set them on your nightstand.

The warm orange light from your small bedside lamp spilled over his handsome face, coating all the angular edges of his well defined bone structure with muted shadows exposing the true softness in his features. He was a gentle and kind man.

Of course, you knew this. You could see it everyday, in his actions, in his choices.

But somehow you could see it even more now in the quiet of your home.

With his face relaxed you could truly see his kindness etched into every part of him, in the faint crows feet around his eyes, in his defined smile lines, in the tiny little worry crease between his brows that you had often smoothed out with your thumb.

You could even hear it, in the form of the loud purring of your small ginger cat happily splayed out on top of him exposing its tummy.

Toast clearly knew he never had to make use of his lackluster survival skills around Clark– because he would protect him.

Your cat saw him as the safest place on earth.

And as you cuddled into Clarks side after flicking off the light and you felt his arm instinctively curl around you, you knew that your cat was right. 

(BONUS)

“Honey?”

You grumbled in response as you sauntered into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“Did you make Poptarts for dinner last night?” Clark asked in a slightly disapproving tone. You noticed the abandoned plate of Poptarts still sitting on the kitchen counter.

You yawned, “Oh..yeah. Guess I'm having them for breakfast now.” Shrugging, you bit into the slightly stale sugary treat. Clark seemed somewhat distressed. “Please tell me you'll eat something with nutritional value after that.”

“Shouldn't you be at the Daily Planet by now?” you grinned. Sometimes it was just too much fun to rile Clark up. He furrowed his brows, “Yes, but-” 

You chuckled, “Don't worry, I'm gonna make myself a nice healthy breakfast, now go! You're gonna be later than you normally are.” You playfully shooed him towards the door, sending him off with a tap on the butt and a sweet sugary kiss goodbye.

[thatweirdo466]

kiss it better - c.k

♡ summary: clark comes home to you at night, all battered and bruised. What happens when he doesn’t have the sun to heal him? pairing: clark kent x fem!reader warnings: mention of injuries and blood, suggestive intimacy, wound care wc: 1.0k

You sat on his lap on the couch, pressing a damp cloth over the cut on his face. His hands were on your hips, knuckles bloodied, something you’d have to tend to next.

It was kind of touching to know that even superman could get hurt sometimes. It humanized him a bit more, not that he needed that in your eyes.

“Now… don’t get me wrong, honey, I love the little spandex, but-”

“Don’t call them that.” He grumbles ignoring the butterflies he’s getting from your finger fiddling with the thigh opening of his suit. Well, maybe a little more than butterflies.

“That’s what they are.”

“Yeah, I know they’re spandex, but you don’t have to call them little.”

“Okay- anyway, they’re cute and all, but I just think-”

“Well, I don’t know if cute is the right word either.” Clark cuts you off again and you send him a glare.

“Can I just finish my sentence?” He has the decency to look sheepish as he goes silent. “I think they could stand to have a bit more… protection, no?” He hesitates a second, making sure you’re finished speaking before he answers.

“Well, the suit isn’t really where I get my armor from, it’s more that I’m superhuman and-”

“No, I understand the logistics of it all, I just think a little more safety would be nice, so things like this don’t happen.”

“But then I wouldn’t have a reason to have you on my lap.” You laughed.

“Oh Clark.” You swept his hair back from his face, smiling down at him. “You don’t need a reason for that, baby.” He grins, his hand squeezing your hip three times. I. Love. You.

“I wish I’d known that earlier.” You smiled, but it soon turned somber as you looked down, focusing on cleaning his wound.

“I just… I worry, you know? I know you’re like… invincible, but… I’m scared that one of these times, you’re just- you’re not going to-” Your voice wobbles and you cut yourself off with another sigh.

“Hey, hey…” Clark shifts, sitting up more and reaching up to hold your cheek. “It’s okay. I promise, I won’t let anything like that happen.”

“But, you can’t know that, Clark. You just can’t. What if someone gets their hands on some kryptonite, and-”

“Hey, listen to me.” His voice is firm and he holds your face in both hands, making you look in his eyes. “I’m going to be just fine. You don’t have to worry about that kind of stuff, okay?” You nod and he drops his hands, letting them intertwine with yours.

“Clark-” He leans forward, kissing you before you can say anything else. Your nose brushes against his as he tilts his head, his hands sliding down your back, grazing the skin above your pants. “I’m here. I’m right here.” He murmurs against your lips.

You pull him closer by his jaw, your teeth grazing his bottom lip. He winces when you bite down and you quickly pull back.

“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry, I completely forgot you were- are you okay?” You reach out, your thumb brushing over his bottom lip gently but he doesn’t look pained at all. He looks rather captivated, actually. By you.

“Oh, I’m fine.” He smiles. “Actually, I feel a lot better. Why didn’t you tell me you had the power to heal through kisses?” He teases and you roll your eyes through a grin.

“Stop.” You said weakly, smacking his chest. He lifts a hand to where you just hit, feigning injury.

“Agh, that hurt! I think I’m gonna need another kiss to make it better.”

“Clark!” You whined, blushing.

“Sweetheart!” He mimicked your tone.

“Have you got any cuts under this or just bruises?” You asked, dragging your nails down the front of his suit.

“How about I just show you what’s under this?” He flirts, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“As much as I would like that,” You send him a pointed look. “It would only distract me. And I’d like to stay more concerned with your wellbeing right now, than… something else.” 

“Honey… it’s sunrise in, what, six hours?” He spares a glance at the clock. “And then I’ll have to get up and be ready for work, by which time I’ll be healed already.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I just think… the only thing that would make me feel better right now, is… you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean.” His voice is soft, sultry even.

“Clark… just for my own peace of mind, could I just clean your hands up, please?”

He sighs. “Alright, sweetheart.” He holds one hand out to you, letting you soak the cloth in the bucket before gently going over his knuckles with it.

When you finish with one hand, you switch to the other, cleaning until the water is tinted red. Until Clark’s hands look like the hands you know again.

The hands that cook you delicious dinners, or, technically breakfasts. The hands that rub your shoulders after a long day at work, even if his has been longer. The hands that caress your skin in the dark of night, that map every inch of your body with his soft but callused fingertips. 

“Feel better?” He said and you chuckled.

“I’m supposed to be asking you that.”

“Well, I mean… I never did get my kiss.” He lifts his hand a bit more and you grin, bending down to peck each knuckle before moving back to the other hand.

You turn his hand over, gently kissing the pulse point of his wrist, moving up his forearm with your lips. You trail up his bicep, to his neck, then his jawline and finally, his lips. He hums into the kiss, his hands finding your hips once again.

“Finished with your assessment, doctor?” Clark teases.

“Affirmative.” You joked back, leaning in to kiss him again. There were still six hours left until the yellow sun came out, but he didn’t care. All he needed right now was the sweet comfort of his girl on his lap, her hands in his hair, and he’d be a happy man.

[thatweirdo466]

heartbeat

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: you make Clark's heart beat faster < 3

Word count: 2.2+

Warnings: fluff, idiots being in love

A/N:

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.

The first time Clark asked you out, it was in the most un-Clark-like way possible.

Not the usual quiet charm he was known for. Not a well-rehearsed plan or a charming line delivered with that soft, blue-eyed confidence.

No.

It was a panicked, typo-ridden text sent from behind a stack of grocery bags while he was halfway through rescuing a kitten from a rain gutter.

Literally.

He’d seen you earlier that day—just in passing, outside the café you liked. You were laughing at something your friend had said, clutching a half-melted iced coffee, hair catching the sunlight in a way that made Clark blink a little too long. And in that moment, his brain had just… short-circuited.

He’d liked you for weeks. Possibly longer. Possibly since the first time you’d smiled at him in the newsroom and said his name like it meant something. You had this way of leaning in when you listened, like every word mattered, and it made Clark—who was used to being heard, but not always seen—feel like he was standing in sunlight, even on cloudy days.

But he hadn’t said anything. Because how was he supposed to? How did someone like him ask someone like you out without sounding like a weirdo? Or worse, without scaring you off?

He told himself he’d wait for the right moment.

The right moment never came.

Instead, he found himself standing outside a bodega at 7:13 PM with two bags of groceries balanced in one hand, a struggling orange tabby under his other arm, and an absurd amount of adrenaline in his veins. The kitten had been stuck in a drain. Easy save. But while he was floating her down onto the sidewalk behind a dumpster—carefully making sure no one could see—the thought hit him again:

You. Your laugh. Your eyes. That look you gave him this morning.

And then, completely unprompted, his fingers opened his phone. He wasn’t even thinking. It was like his thumbs had mutinied.

The message he typed (and almost deleted six times) read:

hey! this is clark (kent, from work lol). ok this is random and probably weird BUT i’ve been meaning to ask you out and i kept chickening out so here it is. me. asking. you. out. coffee? not weird coffee. normal coffee. unless you like weird coffee then i can—what am i saying. anyway, let me know :)

He stared at it. Too long. Every part of his brain screamed to throw his phone in the gutter with the cat hair.

And then the kitten meowed, claws digging into his jacket, groceries slipping.

Clark hit send.

Immediately regretted it.

“Oh god,” he muttered, shifting the cat. “I just sent a gremlin message to the most beautiful person I’ve ever met while holding a box of Frosted Flakes and a stray animal.”

His face was on fire. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

What made it worse—infinitely worse—was that he could hear yours too. Not in that moment, of course. But on normal days, when you were around him. Your heart always sounded warm, like a steady hum beneath your voice. And now, all he could think about was how fast yours would beat when you read his message. Would it flutter? Or would it flatline in secondhand embarrassment?

He nearly turned around and flew to the moon.

And then his phone buzzed.

hi clark kent from work :) i was wondering when you were going to ask. coffee sounds great. weird coffee preferred.

Clark’s knees almost gave out right there on the sidewalk.

And now, twenty-five days later—not that Clark was counting or anything—here you were. Curled into the broad warmth of his chest, his flannel shirt bunched slightly under your cheek, a half-finished bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and Pretty Woman playing its DVD menu on loop for the third time.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep. Just that it felt right—your hand resting lazily over his heartbeat, your legs tangled somewhere under the shared throw blanket, his thumb gently brushing circles into your back. Like your body decided this was the safest place on earth and clocked out early.

Clark stirred before you did.

He blinked up at the ceiling, the echo of animated music looping in the background, and immediately became aware of three things:

You were still asleep on his chest. His arm had gone numb. He didn’t want to move even a millimeter of you.

Because God—seeing you like this, sleeping so soundly, so close, so soft against him—it made something ache in the back of his throat. You weren’t just beautiful. You were luminous. Your lashes brushed your cheek. Your lips were parted just slightly. And even your breathing, rhythmic and slow, had a quiet elegance to it.

He felt like he shouldn’t be allowed to witness it.

“Not fair,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “You make gravity feel like it’s pulling toward you.”

He paused, cringing slightly at his own corny line. But you didn’t stir. Just shifted slightly, pressing your nose into the crook of his neck with a sleepy sigh.

Clark swallowed hard.

And then—because Clark was Clark—his heart betrayed him.

Beep. Buzz.

“Elevated heart rate detected.”

The robotic voice of his smartwatch whispered like a megaphone in the stillness, shrill and traitorous.

Clark’s eyes widened in horror.

No. No no no.

He moved too quickly, instinct overriding logic—his upper body tensed, trying to sit up—a mistake. A massive mistake. Because you stirred instantly, murmuring something incoherent as you shifted sleepily against him. Your hand slid down his chest, your cheek nestled closer.

Clark froze, mid-motion, his entire being stiff with panic, like a deer caught in the world’s coziest headlights.

His hand scrambled down to his wrist, fingers fumbling over the tiny touchscreen like he was trying to defuse a bomb with mittens on.

Buzz.

“Elevated heart rate—”

“No,” he hissed under his breath, swiping and tapping with increasing desperation. “Shut up, shut up, shut up—”

And that’s when your eyes fluttered open.

Still soft with sleep, half-lidded and glazed with dream haze, you blinked up at him, voice low and gravelly with just-woken rasp.

“…Clark?”

He froze mid-button-press, wrist still hovering in the air, guilt radiating off him like heat from a fire.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly, his voice rising half an octave like he’d just been caught sneaking cookies before dinner. His smile was crooked, apologetic. Adorable.

You blinked again, then turned your face into his chest slightly, frowning in confusion as the last remnants of sleep cleared. “Was that your watch? Did it just... talk?”

Clark groaned softly and let his head fall back against the couch cushion. “Yes. Unfortunately. It’s one of those fancy health tracker things. Monitors my heartbeat, sends me passive-aggressive updates. You know. Very cutting-edge, very humiliating.”

Your eyebrows knit, amused. “Why is it yelling at you?”

Clark glanced down at the offending device and scowled at it like it had personally betrayed him, which, to be fair—it had. “Because apparently my heart’s decided to throw a rave without asking permission.”

You smiled, one side of your mouth curling upward in that lazy, fond way that made his stomach flip. “Were you… running in your dreams?”

He laughed once—awkward and breathy. Rubbed the back of his neck with the hand not currently being held hostage by your entire body. “No, I—” He paused, caught between pride and panic. “I woke up. And, um.” Another pause. A helpless little shrug.

“I looked at you.”

You blinked at him, still too sleepy to process.

“And I guess,” he added with a quiet, self-conscious laugh, “that was enough to freak out my very expensive piece of wearable tech.”

There was a pause.

You stared at him, processing.

And then, squinting slightly, you said, deadpan: “Are you saying I’m so pretty I gave Superman a heart condition?”

Clark groaned like he was begging the ceiling to smite him. “Please don’t make it worse.”

“No, wait—this is gold.” You pushed yourself up just slightly, bracing your elbows on his chest, your face alight with mischief. “You woke up, saw me drooling on your shirt, and your heart rate spiked?”

“There was no drooling,” he said immediately, like he’d been prepped for that specific accusation. “I would’ve noticed.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“I have enhanced vision. I’d know.”

That made you snort.

“And anyway,” he went on, quieter now, the humor still there but gentled at the edges, “you looked… incredible.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. The shift was subtle, but real.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Clark glanced away, a faint flush climbing up the curve of his neck. He was open now in that rare, completely unguarded way he only got when he forgot to be careful. When the mask slipped—not the glasses, not the press badge, but the quiet emotional armor he wore when he was afraid of wanting too much.

“I mean it,” he said. “You looked so peaceful. And beautiful. And… I just thought, wow. I get to be the one who gets moments like this with her.”

He laughed softly, half in disbelief, half in awe. “And I guess my heart took that a little literally.”

You stared at him, the air catching quietly in your chest.

Your voice was smaller when you said, “You’re serious?”

Clark turned to face you again, his expression warm and honest, his eyes holding something so tender it made your stomach flutter and twist all at once.

“Yeah,” he said, simply. “I’m serious.”

And maybe it was the 2AM silence, or the flannel warmth under your fingertips, or the stupid DVD menu still looping behind you like a lullaby—but you didn’t tease. You didn’t joke. You didn’t throw back some clever reply to deflect how vulnerable that made you feel.

You just looked at him. Eyes wide. A little glassy. Full of something you weren’t quite ready to name out loud, but felt all the way down to your fingertips.

“…You’re kind of a sap,” you whispered.

“I warned you on our second date,” he said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I told you I get emotionally attached to coffee mugs. This was inevitable.”

You laughed under your breath, tucking your chin toward his chest again to hide the way your cheeks were burning. “You’re ridiculous.”

Clark dipped his head and kissed the top of yours—slow, quiet, reverent.

“You like ridiculous.”

“Unfortunately,” you mumbled into his shirt, “I really do.”

Then came the silence again. But not the empty kind. Not awkward. Not strained.

It was full.

Full of the things you were both starting to feel but hadn’t quite said yet. Full of trust being layered into the cracks of quiet moments like this. Full of his arm curling more securely around you, like your body belonged there, like he was holding onto something sacred.

And then—so softly, you almost didn’t hear yourself speak:

“Say it again.”

Clark blinked, looking down at you. “Say what?”

You lifted your eyes to meet his, voice hushed. “That you woke up… and looked at me. And thought I was beautiful.”

He stared at you for a moment. Just stared. And then something in his expression shifted, softened, like someone unfolding a secret with gentle hands.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

You bit your lip, exhaling slow.

“My heart rate’s up too, you know,” you said quietly, not even pretending to joke anymore.

He smiled—smaller this time, but impossibly fond. “I can tell.”

You blinked. “…How?”

He hesitated.

“Clark,” you said, suspicious now.

He scratched the back of his head, a sheepish little wince already forming. “Okay, so… slight confession.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What.”

“I can, uh. I can hear heartbeats.”

You stared.

“Like… generally. All the time. From across the city, sometimes. It’s a Kryptonian senses thing. I try not to listen in—it’s like tuning out background noise, but…”

He paused. Then looked at you, earnest.

“Yours is… loud. Not in a bad way! Just—distinct. Like it stands out. Like it’s in harmony with mine.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

“Wait—So you've listened to my heartbeat before?”

“Not on purpose!” he said quickly, panicking a little. “I swear! I don’t go around eavesdropping on people’s cardiovascular activity. It’s just—yours is different. It’s… I notice it. Even when I’m not trying to.”

You were silent for a long moment.

Then you cracked.

You let out a laugh that was so full and bright it made Clark smile just watching you.

“Clark Kent,” you said between laughs, “are you romancing me using super hearing?”

“…Is it working?” he asked, hopeful.

You groaned and dropped your head to his chest again, cheeks burning.

“Obviously.”

Clark beamed. He pulled the blanket back over you both, tucking it snug around your shoulders, letting the weight of it settle like punctuation over the moment.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. Not because there wasn’t more to say—but because silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of meaning. Full of breath and closeness and the kind of softness that made your whole body feel like it had exhaled.

His heart was still racing.

So was yours.

Beep. Buzz.

“Elevated—”

“I swear to God—” Clark growled, slamming the dismiss button.

You laughed into his chest, and this time, he didn’t mind the sound of his heart pounding at all.

[thatweirdo466]

I Think You Might Be Giving Me The Feeling I’ve Been Running From

Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s your reflex to push people away, never get too close, because love has always meant pain in the end. Could Clark Kent be different?

Warnings: alluding to people in readers past not asking consent before a kiss, previous relationships ending badly, insecure reader, some self sabotage

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: because I need someone who is gonna fight for me even when I push people away 🥺 title and fic inspo from this song. Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

“Can I kiss you?”

They are four fairly simple words that don’t require a high level of comprehension to understand, but the significance of those exact words strung together in a question is not lost on you.

They don’t just refer to the possibility of the physical expression of affection one would associate with a first kiss, but they are words requesting permission, asking for your consent to participate in an act most men have attempted to force upon you your whole life.

Whether it was your fathers friends who always pulled you a little too eagerly in for a kiss on the cheek when they said hello, boys you had grown up around who didn’t know the definition of boundaries when it came to your bodily autonomy or some random man at a bar who had a little too much to drink and couldn’t take no for an answer.

The fact that Clark Kent is standing before you, eyes darting to your lips as if the urge to kiss you is close to overwhelming him, and yet he is showing restraint to ask for confirmation, giving you the opportunity to decline his request, makes you want to kiss him even more.

“We shouldn’t.” Is your response. It’s not a no, because you can tell by the swarm of butterflies doing loops in the bottom of your stomach that you are indeed desperate for his lips on yours, but it’s also not a yes either.

You curse yourself for a desire so primal which churns in your chest. You can’t help your attraction to Clark - as much as you are trying to control the allure you have towards him, it’s like two magnets placed in proximity to each other, you have no authority over the pull below your belly button that surges to him.

You promised yourself after your last relationship ended in a kerosene fueled inferno of a screaming match that you were done with men. That you wouldn’t trust someone so implicitly and give your beating heart to hold in the palm of their hands, only for them to turn around and crush it to a pulp between their fingers.

You wanted your ex to follow out that door when you stormed out. Wanted him to care enough to fight for what the two of you had. But you were doomed to just keep walking, further and further away, wishing silently, with tears streaming down your cheeks, for him to give you a reason to stop.

But that plea never came. And the last words you ever spoke to him were an ultimatum shouted at the top of your lungs. The death of your relationship coming in the form of a non answer, which was response enough in itself.

Fuck all men, is the conclusion you came to.

But Clark Kent has proved to you, since the first day you met him at The Daily Planet and continually every day since, that he is not like every other man on the face of the earth.

“Okay, I respect that.” He pulls away from you, looking downcast, and your heart clenches at all the space between your bodies, knowing the only thing that has prevented his supple lips from caressing yours is your own self sabotage.

It’s not what you want at all, but it feels like the new life you have so carefully built brick by brick to prevent further anguish will collapse around you if you admit that you do want to kiss him aloud.

“Clark, you know I’ve sworn off men.” Is your way of trying to convey it’s not you, it’s me. Because all the fault does lie with you and your inability to let anyone close to you for fear that they will leave like everyone else has.

Clark is a good man, probably the best the male species has to offer, but it’s a reflex for you to push people away, because people who hurt you in the past disguised themselves as good, decent people for long enough to deceive you into loving them, and you can’t take that chance again.

“I know guys have hurt you in the past, but I’d treat you better than them, I’d treat you right.” He sounds sincere, like he could truly mean the sentiment, but experience makes you flinch involuntarily.

Though it’s hard to imagine sweet Clark - the man who brings you coffee and pastries in the morning just how you like them without asking him to, the one who spends his lunchtimes completing the daily crossword puzzle with you without teasing you about how nerdy it is, the guy who waits for you outside the office when it rains, umbrella in hand knowing you will have forgotten to pack one yet again, even when you insist you can walk home alone - hurting you.

But you remind yourself: they all end up hurting you in the end. Especially the ones who swore they wouldn’t.

“I know you don’t see it, just how special you are, but I do.” His voice is low, careful, as if he’s intentionally picking each word that leaves his tongue. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, thick and caught on something that you can’t swallow down.

You’re so used to every touch being with cruel intent, that even now when Clark reaches out with gentleness, your mind can’t distinguish it from a strike. So as his words wrap around you, and settle in your mind, your body doesn’t relax, it braces for impact.

“I see how you care about every detail of a story, even the minute things most people don’t take enough time and care to notice. That you won’t run a quote if it's fraction off, even if it would make the piece sharper. The way you always send sources follow up questions other reporters wouldn’t bother to ask because you want the story to not just be good, but to be right. You’re stubborn about the truth and the integrity of your work in a way that is so rare, but so true to journalism that it reminds me of why I wanted to do this job in the first place.” Clark inhales deeply, like he’s been carrying around this confession with him for a while and now he’s started, he can’t contain himself.

The instinct which sits tight and heavy in the bottom of your belly is telling you to run, to retreat and climb back behind the castle walls you’ve so carefully constructed brick by brick your whole life. Yet, something about the way Clark smiles brightly and keeps his distance, doesn’t crowd your space, keeps you rooted in place.

He’s not treating you like you owe him for his nice words, like there’s a reward for him if he manages to say the right thing. They aren’t rehearsed and perfectly polished, but instead earnestly spontaneous and seem to have taken his breath away getting ahead of himself.

“And don’t get me started on the magic you can weave with your words, how you breathe life into a story, your passion for writing and presenting the facts in such a carefully and creatively constructed way. I admire your storytelling and persistence to never give up on a lead even if Perry doesn’t always see the value in it right away.”

You can barely breathe given the overwhelming affection laced in Clark’s words and consuming his gaze. It feels like a lifetime since anyone has looked at you like that, as if you’re worthy of being truly admired, not the curated version people have shaped you into being, with smoothed down edges and scars hidden from view, but you just as you are, flawed, imperfect and vulnerable.

But all that reminds you of is how that fondness has previously turned to spite. The love which gradually morphed to hatred.

Your silence only allows for Clark to continue the momentum of his declaration.

“Your guardedness isn’t a problem I’m here to solve overnight. It’s evidence that you’ve survived things that require armour, that you have a strong sense of self preservation. I don’t want to pry you out of it, I want to learn it, respect it, treasure it. I won’t treat your ‘noes’ as a negotiation, or your anxiety as a flaw that needs fixing. I want to be the person who shows you that you can be cared for without needing to earn it first. That you are beautiful and I don’t need any other version of you other than exactly who you are.” His hands twitch, as if he wants to reach out to touch you, but he refrains. You’re grateful he’s respectful of your space, but it also makes your chest ache in a way you weren’t anticipating, in a way you think only his embrace could soothe.

This time, he waits for you to speak as if he has all the time in the world. It’s disorienting having someone show you patience when you’re so used to people either rushing you or chastising you for not being ready fast enough.

That’s what makes your throat tighten, not the pressure to respond in kind, but the absence of it. The way he’s waiting for you without expectation, it makes you fall just a little bit harder for him.

“Clark it’s not that I don’t want to… because despite my better judgment I can’t help but have feelings for you.” The jittery anxiety buzzing in your stomach only worsens at the smile which curves on Clark’s face. It's so soft it nearly undoes you, not the kind of smile meant to charm a crowd, but a relief of being trusted with a small glimpse of what’s behind your armour. “I just need to take it slow, really slow.”

You’re sure that the insinuation that he’ll need to wait for you, exert a patience men in your life have previously punished you for asking, will drive him far away, like it has with potential suitors before. However, Clark’s smile doesn’t dim or tighten at the edges. If anything, it shines just a little bit brighter at your words.

“We can take however much time you need, I’ll be here. I know you’re going to be worth the wait.” The most precious thing anyone has is time, it’s fleeting, the existence we get on this earth, and yet no matter how valuable Clark Kent’s days are, he is content with spending an unascertained number of them holding out for you.

For a moment you let yourself imagine what could be, something which has forever seemed so impossible and out of reach, a future where someone stays without asking you to rush. It almost scares you more than the alternative, because if you trust him, truly believe his words, then you have to admit you want to see what it feels like to be worth the wait. To accept the fear of being hurt again for the possibility that this time things might work out.

As much as you don’t want to allow hope to settle in your heart, it creeps in anyway, soft, warm and insistent, like sunshine peaking through clouds on a stormy day.

Maybe this time you won’t be hurt. Perhaps you’ll finally find love and contentment with Clark Kent.

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[thatweirdo466]

request: fluff first date with jason and reader is also a streamer. 🤍

jason = orange

reader = pink

warnings: some swearing, fluff :)

date night

today was your first date with jason, someone you had met through social media. your first interaction had been simple—you had sent him a quick “hi,” on instagram not expecting much, but it had sparked a connection that led to this moment. he already knew of you, just as you knew of him, since both of you had a noticeable presence online.

after three weeks of talking back and forth, jason finally asked you out on a date. the moment you saw his message, your heart skipped a beat—but of course, you said yes. you had thought he was cute from the very beginning, ever since you first met him. there was something about the way he carried himself, effortlessly confident yet approachable, that had drawn you in. now, with the anticipation of finally seeing him in person, excitement buzzed in your chest, making the wait for your date feel even longer.

you were in the final stages of getting ready to see jason, carefully finishing up your eye makeup as you leaned closer to the mirror. with a steady hand, you blended the last bit of eyeshadow, making sure everything looked just right. the excitement in your chest was undeniable, but there was also a flutter of nerves—after all, this was your first date with him.

as soon as you were satisfied with your makeup, you reached for your outfit, opting for something warm and cozy. the crisp 55-degree air in LA was enough to make you shiver, so you chose a soft knit sweater that hugged you just right and a pair of comfortable jeans. slipping on your favorite jacket, you gave yourself one last glance in the mirror, making sure you looked effortlessly put together.

jason had mentioned wanting to take you to The Grove, the outdoor mall that always felt alive with its glowing lights, buzzing crowds, and cozy atmosphere. the thought of strolling through the open-air plaza with him, maybe stopping for warm drinks or browsing through stores together, sent a thrill through you. taking a deep breath, you grabbed your bag, ready to step out the door and see where the night would take you.

he picked you up at 7:30, sending a simple here text as he waited outside your house. you were scrolling through instagram when your phone buzzed, and the moment you saw his message, a wave of nerves rushed through you. taking a deep breath, you pushed yourself up from the couch, smoothing down your sweater as you made your way to the front door.

pulling it open, the cool night air greeted you, along with the sight of jason’s car parked just outside. through the window, you could see him already looking at you, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched you lock the door behind you.

before you could even reach the car, he was stepping out, moving toward you with that easy confidence of his, arms open in greeting. the moment you were close enough, he pulled you into a hug, his warmth instantly comforting against the chilly air.

“hey!” he said, his voice carrying a familiar excitement.

you hugged him back, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you—fresh, slightly woody, and undeniably him.

“hi, jay!” you murmured, pulling away just enough to look up at him.

as you stepped back, your eyes flickered over his outfit, and you couldn’t help but smile. he was wearing a knit sweater almost identical to yours, the unintentional coordination making your heart flutter.

he noticed too, grinning as he took a quick glance at your outfit. “guess we match,” he joked before his gaze softened. “you look beautiful, by the way.”

heat crept up your cheeks at his words, but before you could even think of what to say, he was already opening the passenger door for you, making sure you were settled before heading to the driver’s side.

getting into the car, you fastened your seatbelt before glancing over at jason, a small smile playing on your lips.

“you also don’t look bad yourself,” you teased, your voice light with amusement.

a quiet giggle slipped out, and he grinned, his dimples showing as he shook his head.

“thank you, thank you,” he said playfully, his eyes flickering to yours for a moment before he gently closed your door.

you watched through the window as he walked around the front of the car, his movements easy and confident. the cool night air fogged up the windshield slightly, but it didn’t stop you from noticing the way his sweater fit him just right, the sleeves slightly pushed up to reveal his wrists. he opened the driver’s side door, sliding in smoothly before adjusting his seat and placing both hands on the steering wheel.

turning his head toward you, he met your gaze with a soft smile. “ready to go?”

you nodded, your fingers fiddling lightly with the hem of your sweater. “yeah.”

with that, he started the car, the low hum of the engine filling the comfortable silence between you. the soft glow of streetlights flickered through the windows as he pulled onto the road, the city stretching out before you.

the drive was short, only about fifteen minutes, but the conversation flowed easily. at one point, he glanced at you between stops, his voice filled with genuine curiosity.

“so, how’s everything been going for you?” he asked, his tone warm. “with, you know… streaming and all that?”

you turned slightly in your seat, watching the way his fingers tapped absentmindedly against the wheel as he spoke. his interest felt sincere, not just small talk, and something about that made your stomach flutter just a little.

as the car slowed to a stop at a red light, jason suddenly gasped, his eyes widening like he had just unlocked a realization.

“oh shit, aren’t people gonna see us?” he blurted out, laughing a little, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel.

your stomach dropped for a second—not in a bad way, but in that oh my god, how did we not think of this way. you had completely forgotten that you two were both well-known, and now here you were, out together on a date where people could easily recognize you.

“oh my gosh, you’re right,” you said, covering your mouth as the reality hit you.

he glanced over at you, still grinning. “well… what do we do now?”

for a second, you sat there, thinking. then, out of nowhere, an idea popped into your head. it wasn’t a good idea, but it was definitely a funny one.

“okay, hear me out, jay,” you started, turning toward him with a mischievous look. “we go to party city and buy disguises.”

he blinked, processing your words before letting out a laugh, shaking his head. “whattt—”

“i’m serious, jason!” you insisted, smacking his arm lightly, causing him to laugh even more. “come on, think about it! wigs, sunglasses, fake mustaches… no one will know it’s us.”

he glanced at you, still grinning, but clearly not convinced. “you really think party city disguises are gonna make us unrecognizable?”

“well, yeah!” you said dramatically. “get a fake mustache and everything!”

he leaned back against his seat, exhaling like he was actually considering it. for a second, you weren’t sure if he would go along with your plan, but then he reached for his phone, pulling up the gps.

“fuck it,” he said, smirking as he tapped in the directions. “let’s go.”

without hesitation, he made a smooth u-turn, heading straight for party city, both of you already laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

after a short drive filled with laughter and jason occasionally shaking his head at the absurdity of your plan, you finally pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of party city. the glowing sign flickered above the entrance, casting a dull yellow light over the pavement. as he put the car in park, you both just sat there for a second, staring at the store in front of you.

“i can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” you mumbled, trying to hold back a laugh.

jason ran a hand through his hair, exhaling dramatically. “this is so stupid,” he said, but the amused smile on his face told you he was fully on board.

stepping out of the car, the cool night air hit you instantly, making you pull your sweater tighter around you. jason met you at the front of the car, shoving his hands into his pockets as he eyed the almost deserted store.

“at least no one’s here,” he pointed out.

you glanced at the glass doors, noticing only one or two employees inside, lazily organizing shelves. the store was closing in twenty minutes, which was more than enough time to grab your ridiculous disguises.

“perfect,” you grinned, nudging him toward the entrance. “come on, before they lock us out.”

pushing through the doors, the smell of cheap plastic and rubber masks filled the air. aisles of colorful wigs, costume accessories, and ridiculous props stretched out before you, making you even more excited. jason sighed beside you, shaking his head with an exaggerated look of regret.

“this is the dumbest thing i’ve ever done,” he muttered.

“oh, just wait,” you teased, grabbing his wrist and dragging him toward the disguise section.

you immediately made a beeline for the wig section, your eyes scanning the shelves lined with every color and style imaginable. next to them, rows of fake mustaches and oversized glasses sat neatly on display, making it even harder to take this whole thing seriously.

your fingers landed on a bright purple wig, the synthetic strands reflecting under the harsh store lights. pulling it off the shelf, you held it up to your head, adjusting it slightly before turning to jason with a playful smirk.

“looks good, no?” you teased, flipping the strands dramatically over your shoulder.

jason, who had been rummaging through a bin of accessories, looked up and immediately burst into laughter. shaking his head, he stepped closer, his eyes full of amusement.

“man, you look even cuter,” he chuckled, his dimples showing as he grinned at you.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips. as he continued searching, he grabbed a pair of ridiculously oversized sunglasses, sliding them onto his face as he examined himself in the tiny plastic mirror attached to the shelf.

“what do you think?” he asked, tilting his head.

“very mysterious,” you giggled.

he wasn’t done yet, though. reaching for a plain black beanie, he pulled it over his head, tucking all of his hair inside. with the sunglasses and beanie combo, he actually looked somewhat unrecognizable—though still undeniably him.

“okay, okay, we need one more thing,” you said, scanning the shelves. your eyes landed on a pack of disposable covid masks, and you grabbed them immediately. “just to make sure no one knows it’s us.”

jason snorted, taking one from the pack and slipping it onto his face. “at this point, we might as well just wear full-on halloween costumes.”

you laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed his wrist and led him toward the checkout. “nah, this is perfect. no one will suspect a thing.”

as you both walked toward the checkout, jason casually reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet without hesitation.

“i got it,” he said smoothly, already trying to hand his card to the cashier.

but you were faster, quickly stepping in front of him and holding up your own card with a stubborn look. “nope, i’m paying,” you insisted, flashing him a victorious grin.

he raised an eyebrow, amused but not entirely surprised. “really?”

“yes, really,” you nodded, inserting your card before he could argue further. “it was my idea, and i know you’re gonna try to pay for everything at the grove, so just let me have this one.”

he sighed dramatically, shaking his head with a small smile. “fine, fine. thank you, though.”

the cashier handed you the bag, and you both headed back toward his car, the cool night air hitting your face as you stepped outside. jason walked ahead slightly, reaching the passenger side first. without a word, he pulled open the door for you, stepping aside with a small gesture for you to get in.

“such a gentleman,” you teased, sliding into the seat.

he smirked, shutting the door carefully before walking around to his side. you waited, watching as he climbed in, adjusting his beanie slightly before turning the key in the ignition.

as the car rumbled to life, he turned to you, his sunglasses still on despite it being dark outside.

“you ready?” he asked, the ridiculous combination of the oversized glasses and snug beanie making him look way too unserious.

you covered your mouth, trying to hold back your laughter, but it was no use. “jason, you look insane,” you giggled.

he grinned, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “perfect. they’ll never suspect a thing.”

shaking your head, you fastened your seatbelt and smiled. “yes, i’m ready.”

with that, he pulled out of the parking lot, both of you barely holding in your laughter as you set off toward the grove in your completely foolproof disguises.

as you arrive at the grove, the familiar glow of string lights and the soft hum of people walking along the outdoor mall fill the air. jason pulls into a parking spot, turning off the engine as you both sit there for a second, mentally preparing for the ridiculousness of what you’re about to do.

taking a deep breath, you grab the party city bag from the floor and pull out the bright purple wig, carefully removing it from the crinkled plastic packaging. the synthetic strands feel slightly stiff under your fingers, but you don’t care—you’re fully committed at this point.

you quickly gather your hair into a tight bun, making sure not a single strand sticks out before pulling the wig over your head. as you adjust it, smoothing it down and making sure it sits right, you catch jason watching you from the corner of your eye.

his expression is softer now, like he’s caught up in the way you concentrate, the way your fingers delicately fix the wig into place. for a moment, he says nothing, just observing you with the smallest smile playing at his lips.

snapping out of it, you grab one of the covid masks from the pack and hand it to him. “here, put this on,” you say, breaking his trance.

he blinks, then chuckles as he takes the mask, sliding it over his face. once it’s secured, he adjusts his beanie and sunglasses, making sure his disguise is complete.

you do the same, slipping on your own oversized glasses and pulling the mask up over your nose. finally, you turn to him, fully in disguise.

he tilts his head slightly, as if taking in the full effect. “so… are we finally ready?” he teases, his voice slightly muffled behind the mask.

you exhale dramatically, nodding. “yes, we’re ready.”

grinning, he unlocks the doors, and with one last glance at each other, you both step out of the car.

he waits for you at the front of the car, his hands tucked into his pockets as you walk toward him, the soft glow of the streetlights reflecting off his sunglasses. as you reach his side, he tilts his head slightly, his voice light with curiosity.

“so, what stores do you wanna stop by?”

you glance around, the lively atmosphere of the grove surrounding you. groups of friends and couples stroll past, their laughter mixing with the distant sound of live music. a few people throw glances in your direction, but you’re sure it’s just because you both look absolutely ridiculous with your faces fully covered—wig, sunglasses, masks, and all. there’s no way they actually know who you are.

shrugging, you take a slow step forward, your eyes scanning the rows of stores. before you can decide on anything, your gaze lands on a cute little ice cream shop, the warm glow from inside making it look extra inviting against the cool night air.

“oh, wait—do you wanna get some ice cream?” you ask, turning to jason.

he doesn’t hesitate. “hell yeah.”

grinning, you both head toward the shop, the scent of freshly made waffle cones hitting you the second you step inside. the glass display case is filled with rows of colorful flavors, each one looking better than the last. you scan the options for a moment before deciding to keep it simple.

“i think i’m just gonna get vanilla,” you say, stepping up to order.

jason hums, pretending to be deep in thought before pointing at one of the flavors. “chocolate on a cone,” he orders, then glances at the worker behind the counter. “oh, and can you add hot fudge on top?”

you shake your head with a smile as he pays, watching as the employee scoops up your ice cream. once they hand you both your cones, you step to the side, pulling down your mask just enough to take a bite.

“so,” jason starts, lifting his cone to his mouth, “think our disguises are holding up, or are we about to be exposed mid-bite?”

you laugh, glancing around. “nah, i think we’re good… for now.”

after paying, you glance around the shop, searching for a spot where you both could sit without drawing too much attention. your eyes land on a small table tucked into the corner, partially hidden from the rest of the store. perfect.

“let’s sit over there,” you say, nodding toward it.

jason follows you over, pulling out the chair opposite yours before sitting down. the moment you both get settled, he immediately starts devouring his ice cream like he hasn’t eaten in days. within seconds, his chocolate cone—with the hot fudge he insisted on—has practically disappeared.

you stare at him in disbelief. “jason, you inhaled that.”

he leans back, satisfied, before his eyes flicker to your cup, where you’ve barely made a dent in your vanilla ice cream. “can i try yours?”

you clutch the small cup instinctively. “no,” you say flatly. “i only got one scoop.”

he groans dramatically, but the teasing glint in his eyes tells you he’s not giving up that easily. “c’mon, just a little bite.”

you shake your head, taking another spoonful for yourself. “nope.”

he leans forward slightly. “please?”

you roll your eyes, sighing. “jason—”

“just one taste.”

“ugh, fine.” you hold up a warning finger. “but a little scoop, jason. i love this ice cream.”

he grins, already reaching out. “of course, of course.”

but then, just as you hand him the cup, he lets out a small laugh—the kind that instantly makes you suspicious.

narrowing your eyes, you tighten your grip on the cup. “jay, i’m serious. do not take a big scoop.”

he raises his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “i won’t, i promise.”

despite his reassurance, you hesitate for a second longer before finally handing it over, watching him very carefully as he takes the spoon.

he scoops up a small spoonful, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lifts it to his mouth. the moment he tastes it, he hums in approval, nodding dramatically.

“mmm, this lowkey gas,” he says, still savoring the flavor.

before you can react, he casually reaches for another scoop.

“jason!” you exclaim, watching in horror as he shamelessly takes another bite.

he barely looks guilty as he chews, his mouth full of ice cream. “sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, struggling to talk through the cold. “it’s just so good.”

you groan, shaking your head. “my gosh.”

reaching over, you snatch your cup back before he can steal another bite. he chuckles, holding his hands up in fake innocence while you glare at him, protecting what little ice cream you have left.

it doesn’t take long for you to finish, since there wasn’t much to begin with, and as soon as you’re done, you both pull your masks back on. standing up from the table, you push your chair in while jason does the same, and together, you step out of the shop and back into the cool night air.

“where to next?” you ask, looking up at him.

he adjusts his sunglasses and beanie, glancing around before nodding toward a store up ahead. “zara. i need some new jeans.”

“ooh, shopping time?” you tease, nudging him playfully as you start walking toward the store.

he grins. “yup. help me pick out some good ones.”

laughing, you fall into step beside him, making your way toward zara, still feeling the lingering sweetness of vanilla ice cream on your tongue

as you step into zara, the bright overhead lights illuminate rows of neatly folded clothes and racks filled with the latest styles. the store hums with quiet chatter and distant music playing through the speakers. jason walks ahead, focused, his eyes scanning through the men’s section as he searches for the perfect pair of black baggy jeans.

after flipping through a few options, he finally pulls out a pair and holds them up against his waist, tilting his head slightly. “what do you think of these?”

you glance at the jeans, nodding. “they look good, but you should probably try them on before you buy.”

he considers your words before nodding in agreement. “mkay, follow me.”

without hesitation, he reaches out, taking your hand in his as he leads you toward the dressing rooms. his grip is warm and casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and for a second, you feel a small flutter in your chest.

once you reach the fitting area, he lets go and steps toward one of the stalls, pulling the curtain aside. before stepping in, he turns back to you with a small smirk. “wait here, i’ll be right out.”

you glance around and spot a small chair outside the fitting rooms, so you take a seat, crossing your legs as you wait. a few moments pass before you hear the curtain slide open.

jason steps out, striking an exaggerated pose—one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the doorway—as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“so?” he grins. “what’s the verdict?”

you giggle at his sudden pose, shaking your head at how dramatic he’s being. “wowww, you look amazing, jay!” you whisper-shout, exaggerating your reaction just to play along.

he grins, clearly amused by your enthusiasm, and lets out a small laugh. “nah, thank you, thank you,” he says, doing a little bow before turning back toward the dressing room.

you watch as he disappears behind the curtain again, changing back into his original outfit. while waiting, you glance around the store, absentmindedly kicking your feet against the floor.

a few moments later, he steps out, jeans draped over his arm. “alright, let’s go so i can pay for these.”

before you can stand up on your own, he reaches his hand out toward you, offering to help you up. you hesitate for a second, then place your hand in his, letting him pull you to your feet. his grip is firm yet gentle, and the effortless way he helps you up makes your heart race just a little.

acting as if nothing happened, he starts walking toward the register, and you follow closely behind, still feeling the lingering warmth of his touch.

after jason pays, you both step out of zara, the cool night air greeting you as you walk back into the lively crowd of the grove. without hesitation, you turn toward sephora, tugging lightly on jason’s sleeve as you lead the way.

“c’mon, i need some new skincare,” you say, weaving through the crowd.

he follows closely behind, hands in his pockets, his steps slightly hesitant as if he’s being dragged into completely unfamiliar territory—which, to be fair, he is.

the moment you step into sephora, the scent of perfumes and skincare products fills the air, shelves lined with neatly displayed bottles and colorful packaging. jason looks around, visibly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of products in every direction.

“this place is crazy,” he mutters, eyes scanning the walls.

you, on the other hand, move through the aisles like it’s second nature, effortlessly navigating through the sections. jason trails behind you, confused but obedient, following you like a lost puppy.

suddenly, your eyes widen as you spot something on the shelf.

“ooh, i’ve been looking everywhere for this!” you exclaim, immediately grabbing it and holding it close, already set on buying it.

jason leans in slightly, squinting at the bottle in your hands. his confused expression is obvious, even with the mask covering half his face.

“the fuck is this…?” he asks, tilting his head.

you laugh, shaking your head at his cluelessness. “it’s a serum, jay.”

he raises an eyebrow. “a serum for what?”

“my skin,” you say matter-of-factly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

he stares at you for a second before sighing dramatically. “man, i don’t know anything about this stuff.”

after paying, you and jason step out of sephora, the night air crisp against your skin. the once-busy pathways of the grove are now quieter, with fewer people lingering around. you both continue strolling aimlessly, passing by storefronts glowing under the dimming lights, successfully going unnoticed despite your disguises.

it feels nice—just walking together, talking, and laughing without the weight of being recognized. jason occasionally nudges you playfully or makes some sarcastic remark about the over-the-top luxury displays, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be unimpressed.

after about an hour, you notice employees locking up, flipping signs to “closed,” and dimming the store lights. you sigh, realizing it’s probably time to head out.

“guess that’s our cue,” you say, looking up at jason.

he nods, stretching a little before adjusting his mask. “yeah, before we get kicked out.”

you both make your way back to the parking lot, walking side by side. as soon as you reach his car, you let out a relieved sigh, reaching up to finally pull off the wig.

“oh my god,” you groan, running your fingers through your hair, your scalp irritated from the tight fit.

jason watches, amused. “feels good to finally be free, huh?”

“you have no idea,” you mumble, massaging your head.

as you slide into the passenger seat, you toss the wig onto your lap, finally feeling like yourself again. jason gets in beside you, exhaling as he reaches up, pulling off his beanie and ruffling his hair, shaking it out.

“ugh, that was so uncomfortable,” he groans, tossing the beanie into the backseat before taking off his oversized sunglasses and setting them on the dashboard.

finally, he pulls down his mask, sighing dramatically. “fresh air,” he jokes, running a hand through his slightly messy hair.

you turn to him, studying his face now that it’s completely uncovered. his hair is a little flattened from the beanie, but it somehow makes him look even better—so effortlessly put together.

he catches you staring and smirks. “what?”

you shake your head quickly, looking away. “nothing.”

he chuckles, starting the car. “mmhmm, sure.”

rolling your eyes, you cross your arms, pretending to ignore the way your heart skips just a little when he glances at you before pulling out of the parking lot.

(not proofread!!)

WOW I POSTED AGAIN WHOS SURPRISED??

anywayssss no school tomorrow yayy, OKAY ANOTHER ADAPT FLUFF IS NEXT THEN RON AGAIN.

requests will be open s00n!!

[thatweirdo466]

request: LITERALLY THIS jason fluff where he takes you on a date on the beach

reader = pink

jason = orange

QUIET PLACES

warnings: fluff, secret relationship, soft kisses, secrecy, mentions of streaming/social media stress

jason pulled up to your house just after ending his stream, headlights dimmed, hood pulled low, hair messy from the headset. he honked once softly when you slid out the door, dressed in all black like him—hoodie up, leggings, sneakers tucked in a bag. the two of you had been careful for weeks, and tonight was no different. the quiet thrill of doing something private made your stomach flutter.

he opened the passenger door for you, and you slid in, buckling up quietly. he glanced at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you look like we’re about to pull off a heist,” he said.

“you’re literally dressed the same,” you replied, nudging him lightly.

he chuckled, turning the key and pulling out onto the street. the drive to the beach was quiet, the low hum of the engine filling the space. every now and then he’d glance at you and smile faintly, and you felt your chest warm.

when he parked near the less crowded part of the shoreline, the two of you carried the small cooler and blanket down toward the sand. the ocean stretched wide in front of you, waves rolling in soft and steady, a dark shimmer in the moonlight.

jason spread out the blanket, sitting cross-legged while you unpacked the fruit, water, and snacks he’d brought. you passed him a grape, and he popped it in his mouth, chewing slowly.

“you ever get tired of streaming?” you asked after a moment, just watching the water.

he shrugged, leaning back on his hands. “sometimes. i love it, obviously, but… it’s like half my life is in front of a screen. the chat, the comments, the expectation that i’m always performing.” he gave a small laugh. “don’t get me wrong, i love what i do, but it’s exhausting sometimes.”

you nodded, taking a sip of water. “yeah, i get that. school does that to me too—everything is deadlines and expectations. sometimes it feels like no one’s really seeing me, just what i can produce.”

“sounds familiar,” he said softly. “except for me, it’s everyone seeing everything. even when i don’t want them to.”

you looked at him then, curious. “you ever… wish you could just turn it all off?”

“all the time,” he admitted. “but that’s not really an option. plus, i’d miss this.” he nodded toward you, and your stomach twisted warm at the thought.

you smiled faintly. “yeah… i guess even with everything else, some things are worth it.”

he turned toward you then, leaning on one elbow. “like this,” he said quietly. “like right now. no one watching, no one judging. just… us.”

you shifted closer, feeling the tension of secrecy ease with him beside you. “i like it too. i just… don’t really like being on camera. or online. not me, not this side of me. and i definitely don’t want people knowing about… us, at least not right now.”

his eyes softened. “then we don’t tell them. we don’t stream it, we don’t post it. this is ours. private. i want that.”

the relief that flooded through you made your chest feel lighter. he reached out, fingers brushing yours, threading them together naturally. the warmth of his hand anchored you.

you both leaned back, eating fruit and talking in soft murmurs, drifting into easy topics. he asked about your classes, the workload, which subjects you loved and which ones drained you. you teased him about his late-night streaming habits, and he admitted which games actually frustrated him and which he enjoyed. there was laughter, soft nudges, and comfortable silences between sentences, all under the moonlight, waves washing the shore like a private soundtrack.

after a while, jason reached over, thumb brushing your knuckles. “i’m glad we do this. even if it’s sneaky, even if we’re hiding. i like it. us like this.”

you nodded, leaning your head against his shoulder. “me too. it feels… safe. like it’s just ours.”

he kissed the top of your head softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “good. because i want more nights like this.”

eventually, the air grew cooler, and you both packed up the blanket and the empty containers. jason drove toward a small ice cream shop on the way home, windows cracked just enough to let in the night air.

sitting in the parked car, you both unwrapped cones, careful not to drip too much on your hoodies. jason took a slow lick, glancing at you. “you’re way too careful with that first bite.”

“someone has to be,” you said, grinning. “you’re literally shoving the ice cream in your mouth.”

“i haven’t had ice cream in a while,” he said. “this shits so good.”

you laughed, knowing he was lying, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “jason i literally saw your location like a week ago at a ice cream spot with ron.”

he smirked, soft and quiet, and then took another bite. “no idea what you’re talking about.”

you rolled your eyes taking another lick from your cone.

you both ate in comfortable silence after that, occasionally nudging each other when someone got a drop of ice cream on their lip. the city lights reflected faintly off the dashboard, a soft glow on your faces.

when he finally pulled up outside your house, the night felt too short, but perfect. you leaned over, pressing a slow kiss to his lips, tasting ice cream and warmth. he held your hand a moment longer before letting you slip out, hood pulled up, heart still fluttering from the secret night and the quiet intimacy you’d shared.

(NOT PROOFREAD!)

omg hi hii, good news im moving back to online school in september! cannot wait lolll

don’t hate me for this but… how is jason still ‘with’ sakura after she showed interest to jawhn first and not jason?? like that amazes me… but if it brings in money go for it lol.

just had to put that out there because if a man did that to me he’s getting blocked and im never seeing or speaking about him again!

[thatweirdo466]

request: jason fluff with shy!reader

reader = pink

jason = orange

warnings: fluff + teasing

STILL SHY?

you’d been together for a year.

a whole year of late-night drives, blanket forts, video game trash talk, forehead kisses, and him sneaking into your bed just to fall asleep with your hand in his.

and still, you couldn’t help it.

every time he looked at you like that—head tilted, that lazy grin pulling at the corner of his lips, his eyes warm and locked on you like you were the only thing in the room—your heart felt like it was doing somersaults in your chest.

“yo,” he said from the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “why’re you looking at me like that?”

you instantly looked away, pretending to focus on your phone.

he smirked. “don’t go all shy on me now. we’ve been dating for a year, baby.”

you didn’t answer.

he walked over, standing in front of you on the couch. “you’re blushing.”

“am not.”

“you are,” he said, sounding so damn proud of himself.

he leaned down a little so his face was closer to yours, and that only made it worse.

“still gettin’ shy on me?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “after all this time?”

“you’re annoying,” you muttered, hiding your face in your sleeve.

he laughed, full and soft. “you love it.”

you did.

you felt the couch dip as he sat down next to you, grabbing your legs and pulling them across his lap like it was second nature. he rested a hand on your shin and the other on the back of the couch behind you, watching you with that same look—the one that always made your stomach twist up.

“you’re so damn cute when you’re nervous,” he said, brushing his thumb along your knee. “makes me feel like i still got it.”

you rolled your eyes. “as if you didn’t know you had it.”

he grinned. “but hearing it’s nice, you know?”

you huffed out a laugh. “fine. you got it.”

“damn right i do.”

he kissed your cheek, slow and warm, before dropping his head on your shoulder and mumbling, “don’t ever stop getting shy around me. i like it. means i still make you nervous.”

you nudged him with your elbow. “shut up.”

he smiled against your collarbone. “love you too.”

(NOT PROOFREAD!)

hopefully you like this one :), sorry its really short lol